July 23, 2014: Three people come together for their own reasons to fulfill the requirements of a contract.

Gotham Harbor

One of the many working docks on Gotham Harbor



  • Frank, sick dockworker

Mood Music:

  • None

Gotham harbour seems perpetually dark; lights flicker and buzz before popping out, enfolding their little bit of real estate into shadow. Rows and rows of stacked containers line the docks and further out, closer to the road, warehouses that contain the true brains of the operation sit. Corner lights shine, and cameras in various states of operation record in grainy video the day to days of the area.

Crane operators work from their high towers through the night, the rumble of machinery echoes off the water of the harbour and the steel walls of the ships in port. All the activity of the area is focussed there, with each container pulled off and settled on a rusted, oil-spitting truck in order to bring it to its ultimate storage area where it waits for its next phase of travel for its ultimate destination.

There is one container in a sea of many that is rather desireable; to some, anyway. It's not remarkable in markings, nor does it seem to stand out in the manifests. It's from Europe, sailed on a transport ship flying under the flag of Norway, and all the paperwork is in order. There is no untoward reason for it to be in such a port as Gotham's other than the fact that it's stated destination -is- somewhere in Jersey.


The contract from the anonymous source states that a shipment of tech equipment (manifest says that it's circuit- and controlboards) is due in and is rostered for being taken off ship by mid-late shift. The container has to be located, and some of the crates within must be moved to another container that is bound for New Mexico that has been lifted onto a semi and is within hours of departing the port.

Price for the contract is $50,000.


In the life of a reporter, leads can take you far. They can guide you to places you wouldn't expect, to meeting people from all walks of life, and to travel great distances, as our intrepid reporter has. Clark Kent may lead another life, but in his day job, he is a mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet. And a lead has taken him to Gotham Harbour. Gone are the glasses and suit that he would ordinary wear, replaced by a black woollen cap, the kind one might fine a dock worker to wear, black leather jacket, blue jeans, and a dark shirt underneath. He sports a pair of gloves, concealing his figure prints, and sturdy brown steel toed boots. There probably isn't much that can harm him, but there's plenty of things that look like they could. And so he pretends to search for the shipment of tech, not for the money, but to meet the one paying the contract. In truth, he's been scanning each crate, looking for the weapons. But just because he can see through the crates doesn't make it easy to identify a lone shipment of weapons in this steel jungle, he might as well be looking for a needle in a haystack. Actually, that's not too hard for him, as the metal or bone can easily be identified, but that's not the case here.


Jack Russell is following a similar lead, one torn from the quivering lips of a low-level thug in New York City. A thug with connections to some very bad people. People Jack hates.

Enmeshed among the maze of shipping containers, with little time to find the cargo in question, Jack Russell has made the decision to conduct his investigation in the guise of his alter-ego: The Werewolf by Night. In this form, resembling a classic monster-movie werewolf, he moves more quickly, and surprisingly quiet for a creature of his size and stature. He's also most comfortable hunting as the werewolf, which is what this is, after all. A hunt.

Perched on one of the many identical containers dotting the harbour, the werewolf presses his form flat against the cold metal. Nostrils flared, he takes in the scents around him, trying to separate the foul, inorganic ones from those that belong to the living.


Trucks rumble through the vast canyons, headlights reflecting off the metal of the containers stacked 2 and 3 high in areas. There's a life to the docks, but at night, while there are fewer workers, there is an intensity that isn't there during the day. Lights flicker, lights flare and when an area is done with, lights are shut down.

One of the many Norsk container ships is docked, the four cranes for unloading the ship are currently on display. It takes a steady hand 45 seconds from start to finish, that is, from grabbing the cargo to loading it on a flatbed. Hundreds of containers were packed on this ship and they are just a few from finishing the job.

Somewhere is the one. The proverbial needle in a haystack.

Directions are yelled out from the dock, men with flashlights light the way for the calvalcade of trucks.

"We've got another ship coming in in an hour. This one has to be done by then!"

"It will!"

"Time is money! No getting backed up!


'What was that', Clark thinks to himself. He pauses for a moment, ignoring the churn of the machinery, the stomps of the dock workers, the noises of the night, to focus in on a Werewolf? Some kind of anthropomorphic canine creature anyway. He can hear the breathing, the movements, the pitter patter of its not so little feet against the metal, and then he looks for it, scanning in on the creature. It's no threat, at least, doesn't seem to be one. For a moment, he'll stop his investigation, watching the whatever it is. After a while, he'll resume his searching.

At one point, a dock worker comes across him, and he has to quickly hide behind a crate, leaping up with a single bound to find a better hiding place. A flashlight is shorn in his direction, and he grips the back of the crate, keeping to the shadow. When it finally passes, he breathes a sigh of relief. Better to go unnoticed than to come up with a phony explanation. That's more Lois' style. He's just not that good of a liar.


Needle in a haystack sure is right. One -could- always try their luck and go in blind, though where this woman is concerned she happens to know her odds of finding the right container there.

3 in 2,577, in fact.

The high tech features of the albino's armor makes her a ghost to the surveillance cameras, momentary glitches or blackouts that simply fail to catch her passing through within their glass eyes. Domino completely avoids all of the containers and instead focuses on the main office, they always keep electronic records of the shipping manifests. All she has to do is avoid any of the people in the area then have herself a little sitdown at one of the terminals to scrounge up the information she needs.

Why roll the dice when she can go straight to a win?


The sound of heavy machinery tearing through the dark dock thunders in Jack Russell's sensitive ears, nearly drowning out the chatter of men. Nearly, but not quite. Not much time left! Where are the men he fully expected to make a move on the crates? Where was the prey?

With a graceful leap from his perch, the Werewolf by Night moves closer to the unloading, steering clear of the many beams of light swerving, guiding. He lands with a thud on top of another container, flattening himself against its top. From here, his large canine eyes pick out the individuals in the crowd, and he waits for one to stray from the herd. Maybe for an unauthorized smoke break.


It's true. It's a needle in a haystack game, and there are multiple modes of approach, just as there are multiple people who have taken the contract. This, unbeknownst to them, is truly a test. Run by whom, who knows and really, does it matter? The trick is to take Package A and deliver it to Box B. How?

That's up to them.

Other shadowed figures do walk the containers. Clark manages to hide in the shadows, but barely. That light does flicker, but it's wielded by a man who really doesn't want to be there. He's sick, his kid is sick.. and all he can think about is laying down in a bed.

Jack.. there is someone following him. To those heightened senses, it's probably a little obvious that someone moves as he does, in his direction rather than away from it. But only for a moment… and as the search begins for that lone gazelle, poor Frank.


"Jesus Christ, Frank. What the hell?"

"Hey.. I tried to call in sick."

"Yeah, when a Norsk was coming in back to back? Not f-ing likely."

Frank has to make his rounds, and dutifully (with a lot of cursing), he moves off once again.

Domino is managing quite well to make her way towards the offices. They're further back, away from the hustle and bustle of dockside, which is where most of the commotion is. The offices are mostly dark, but for the light of one room, two, as dock supervisors check their lists, print out forms for the shipping instructions, and the manifests for customs.


Even knowing that there's a Werewolf up there, Clark decides it's the best way to find the crate in question. That, and it'll help him avoid any guards or dock workers. So he climbs, or pretends to climb up the mid tier crate he's standing on, and find himself on the top. He moves as silently as he can, which is pretty quiet. He's still breathing, out of habit rather than need, and he does brush up against the metal as he climbs. But the weight isn't there. He's faking it by floating with his hands pressed against the metal as if he needed to pull himself up. When he does get up there, he goes into a crouch, worried that thing, that Werewolf, might attack him on sight. But fortunately, it seems to be some distance away. Perhaps it won't notice him and let him scan with his x-ray vision for the crate in question.


One of the nice things about Summer are all of those people that leave the windows open during the evening hours to claim some of the cool breeze that only comes out once the sun has departed for the night. Getting inside of the building is a no-brainer, Domino unrolls herself from the ceiling and lightly drops right inside. It's an adjacent office to the ones that have lights on, either left open for a cross breeze inside or because someone forgot about it.

Getting to one of the active terminals? Tranq dart. Specialty ammo designed to operate through a sidearm, manually cycled after each shot, that's pushed by nothing more than the primer. Short range, but quiet. And effective. So long as she retrieves the dart afterward it'll look like the target simply fell asleep behind the desk.



Movement behind him, somewhere in the shadows. Jack Russell's massive head swings in a tight arc and he scans the area behind him for trouble. Someone - or something - is there, alright. Nothing immediately in sight, though, and looking for it will only eat up precious time. Still, better safe than…*Ka-CHOO!*

The sneeze tears his attention away from the Other, and the faint sense of sickness invades his nostrils. Yes, poor Frank. The weak one in the herd. It's that man who steals the attention of the werewolf for the time being, so much so that he fails to notice the Clark climbing to the top of the crates.

With Frank on the move, Jack Russell follows. Normally, he would stretch out the hunt a bit, but with time running short, he waits until the dockworker is out of sight of the others before descending on him, dropping from above to seize the man in his paws, one of which is meant to cover the man's mouth and bottle up all the screaming.


Question is, what is the crate in question? What does it contain? Weapons? Actually computer equipment? The only way is on that manifest; the dock map has everything, every detail, every shipping container marked.

Domino gets the drop on the site union manager who is kicked back, keeping an eye and making sure that every container gets to its appointed spot. Nothing worse than having something out of order. There's a spot for China, a spot for Norway, a spot for America…


There is that question, if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a noise? Well… this union steward does. He pulls in a breath, a hissed sound, and -then- he falls limply from his chair.

*sniffle*sniffle* Sudafed. Damn… why didn't I bring the damned Sudafed?

Frank's got his flashlight out, looking at the containers, mentally counting each of them to be sure that the places open ARE indeed open for the last half-dozen. As he moves towards the darker, shadowy sections, suddenly there's a weight upon him, fuzzy paws, claws, and an attempt is made to scream as the flashlight drops from the man's hand onto the concrete ground.

Not a sound escapes.


With the container to still locate, Clark's ear's notice something. A flashlight hit the concrete, rolled, and stopped when it hit a container. In this noise, it's the kind of thing that could easily be missed. But then, he's not like other men. It may blow his cover if he's not careful, but he moves, quickly and silently, leaping forward into a flight. He bounds over three containers, landing softly on a fourth, where he can see the Werewolf and Frank. In the darkness of the night, a light beams from behind him, presumably originating in some huge piece of machinery, but whatever the source, it lights up the back of him, casting a great shadow over his features. He speaks with authority and calmly, piercing the background noise of electronics, other dock workers, and machinery. "Let," there is a pause, a fist clenches, "him," another pause, his chest seems to puff out all heroically, as some kind of nocturnal bird flies in the background, "go."


"Those late night shifts can be a real bitch, huh."

Domino steps over the downed guy and neatly plucks the spent dart out of his neck before pulling the keyboard closer. She's got maybe ten minutes to work with, the payload on those darts is deliberately quite low. Proper stealth runs are when no one ever knows she's there. It's not nearly as fun as capping everyone with suppressed weapons, granted, but for a meager fifty grand she's not about to dive into the heavy wetwork. It's a simple item relocation. Nothin' to it.

Nothin' to searching through the manifests, either. A little knowledge of what she's after and a little grace from Lady Luck and she's got time to spare, slipping back out with a quietly voiced "Enjoy the break, kiddo."

Fortunately for her she's not around where the werewolf and superhero are at play, not only would it be an undesired distraction but she has a particular need to keep this quiet. Gotham doesn't take too kindly to mutants running about, particularly not ones with a record as colorful as hers. That's part of what makes this job so darned fun, though!

With her information gathered she slips back out to the docks proper and starts zeroing in on her mark. Nice and easy, now.


Perhaps the werewolf could learn a thing or two from Domino about the art of subtlety. It might come in handy on operations like this one.

With Frank firmly grasped, Jack Russell breathes hot and heavy onto the nape of his prey's neck. He doesn't make a move to harm the man, instead opening his jaws to…speak. This he is unable to do, though, with arrival of the man Rusell assumes is the one he sensed moments ago.

Turning his wolfen head skyward, the werewolf bears his blood-red eyes on Clark. "Get down from there." His voice escapes him with a rumble and a growl. "Before they all come running."


The flying thing? It's a blip, as it were. Movement always catches an eye, and radio traffic begins. "Carl.. you're on the move toward ADC-23, right?"

"Yeah. Have something going to… Ar-kansas. Pick-up is 7 am. Then, one more from you all and home early."

"Damn.. okay."

The foreman on the docks scratches his head, looking from his list back to where he'd seen the shadows that sort of looked like the top of a truck, and back. With a shrug and a resetting of his hardhat, he turns about and gets back to work.

Domino's got her intel. The manifest number now corresponds with a site spot, and according to the dock location, it's second in a pile of three. There are a couple of 'watchmen' taking stock and marking containers for shipping, but they do move off, flashlights a-blazing their positions.

CBB-24. Row C, Column B, 2nd container in Section 24.

Frank can feel the tension in the wolfman's hands, and as he speaks to someone else.. he starts to shake, trying to get loose from the grasp that holds him. Particular when he hears the voice of someone who sounds as if he's there to help? It'd be great if you let me go!


As Domino approaches the container, Clark leaps down, still wearing his 'disguise' of a black woollen cap, black leather jacket, blue jeans, and so forth. He's not wearing glasses, nor has he done his hair the way he usually looks as Superman. For now, he's someone else, or at least pretending to be. He lands safely on the ground beside the Werewolf, making this cover some kind of a mutant. Whatever he is, he's got skill or strength, possibly both. The Werewolf seems to be acting with civility, even as he holds a guard the way he does. Guessing that the creature has heightened hearing, Clark speaks in a barely audible whisper, "Why are you holding that man if not to… harm him?" Don't worry Frank, help is here, but he wants to know what's going on before he acts. Domino probably has a clear shot at the container with them distracting each other.


It sure is helpful that everyone that works here is using a flashlight to let everyone know exactly where they are! Domino keeps it simple, going high would make her easier to spot and her footsteps more difficult to hide. Down on the same level as the dock workers it's less a fight and more a technical ballet. One steps aside and she slips on past. Another turns a corner and she turns a second right behind.

Between her own skill and her X-Gene they just happen to be somewhere else, or be looking somewhere else, as she comes near. Checking a phone. Tying a shoe. Picking at some rust on one of the containers. Spooked by a bat. (Very dangerous around these parts.)

And..bwaah..? Okay, -there's- two people that do not belong here. But you know what? They also appear to be keeping one another occupied. They also haven't noticed her. A thin smirk crosses ebony-stained lips, let those two work out their own issues. She's going to use that organic distraction to sneak right on past and reach the container a little ways beyond.

No one's here, nobody heard a thing.


A deep, throaty growl escapes Jack Russell upon Clark's landing near him. His grip on Frank tightens. Be a good little man and quit squirming.

Though Frank is in his possession, the werewolf's gaze is fixed on the newcomer and his senses are primed to pick up the approaching footsteps he half expects to hear any moment. His muscles are ready for flight.

The growl subsides as he opens his maw to speak once more. What he does say - the contents of the crate he's looking for, followed by a sharp, "Where is it?" - is clearly meant not only for Frank, but as an answer to Clark's question. He loosens his grip over Frank's mouth, allowing the trembling figure to speak.


It's remarkable, the fact that people use flashlights in the dark and aren't armed as a matter of course for their job. It's not every day that someone(s) infiltrate, so there are really no safeguards in place on the off chance it actually -does- happen. After all, who the hell would be interested in shipping containers in Jersey?

As a result, Domino's trip to the container is reasonably successful. All that's left is to get inside (it's about 10 feet up and locked), and some of the contents moved to another container that is currently on a trailer ready for hook-up.

Frank wriggles some more in the hold, and breaks his mouth free (is allowed to), gasping for breath. (Stuffy sinusses!) "I got a kid home.. I got a kid.." is repeated before he can actually gain a better understanding for what it is that is being asked of him.

"What the hell.." he begins. "That stuff.. that's just bound for Holmdel's labs. Nothin' but.." Oh… where is it. "I.. I don't know. The damn yard is filled with stuff. Let me check.. okay? I'll.. I'll check it for ya."


Ordinarily, Clark Kent would have heard Domino. With his ears, there's little that gets past him, but she had to be a mutant with a psionic probability field. Magic users and psionics, they really get him good. Oblivious to the few sounds she creates, he instead focuses his attention on the Werewolf, and Frank, letting her pass by him unnoticed. Perhaps the Werewolf will have better luck.

Locking eyes with the much larger and hairier creature, Clark waits. Either the Werewolf will overstep his hand, claw in any event, or Frank will spill what he knows. And Clark's money has Frank spilling, but having little to spill. How would he know what's in each and every crate, let alone how to find it without going back to the computer. 'So, the Werewolf is after the crate too. I thought as much' Clark thinks to himself, just in case anyone's listening to those thoughts. Psionics, can't live with them, can't escape them.


As Frank cowers and squirms, Clark steps forward, slowly so as not to arouse any suspicion, "Perhaps I should talk with…" reading a nametag, "Frank, while you, my friend, take a step back. It won't do either of us any good if you bite his head off." Yes, he's playing good cop. Hopefully the Werewolf will catch on. Just how large is a Werewolf's brain anyway?


With those other people nearby Dom's not counting on having all the time in the world to do this. Besides, there's the -other- container the goods need to get to. If she wanted to be really careful she'd pick the lock so it could be reset later. She doesn't have this kind of time.

Another piece of her arsenal this evening looks like an oversized claw shear, quite similar in shape to the scissors used to trim pet claws. In this case the 'claw' is a hardened steel shackle and the 'cut' comes from a power source that melts through metal on contact. It's good for a couple of uses per charge but it doesn't give off light or sound, not until the inevitable *ping!* of the shackle finally giving way.

It's also a bit slower than shooting it clear, exploding it clear, or vaporizing it altogether. Middle-ground toy, really. One that will leave evidence. And create odors as it melts through the steel.

Fortunately for Clark, Dom is no psychic. Beyond a probability field, one which she largely can't even control, she's just another soldier of fortune.


This werewolf's brain is plenty big, and wasn't expecting to get even the information he just did, but he was hoping for it. Hoping the guys on the docks would be clued in to the more precious cargo they would be handling. Hoping for the best.

Hesitating, Jack Russell goes over his options, but not for long. Soon, that crate will be headed to it's final destination. Soon, someone will come looking for Frank. Probably. So, he let's the man go, but not without first leaning in close to remind Frank to, "Think of those kids of yours."

The werewolf takes a step back to see how this all plays out, clenching and unclenching his massive hands in tense anticipation.


With a creak and a groan, the lock breaks and comes free of its housing. It's ready to be opened, and should it be, the thing is packed with crates. On three of them, there's a mark that is referenced in the contract… a Norse rune of some sort. Not that it's strange as the shipment all came from Europe on a ship flying a Norwegian flag! They're not in the easiest position to move, but neither is it impossible, should one really -want- to move them.

Frank.. poor sick Frank takes a step, two, three steps back before he turns to run.


Clark rolls his eyes when poor, sick Frank runs. Better to see him run to freedom than to suffer anything more. And besides, he could swear he heard something, and he knows he could smell something. He's not sure what it is, something burning, perhaps a chemical cutter of some kind. It takes him a moment to work it out in his mind, but when he does, he begins to track it down like a bloodhound. He looks to the Werewolf, and heads towards the source, hoping that Jack ignores Frank the way he is.

He'll leap up and onto a crate, scanning with his x-ray vision towards the source of that smell, and follow it, arriving shortly after Domino got it open, probably giving her enough time to wander in and find what she's after. "That's mine," he intones. He wants to follow this lead back to the source, though the more of his powers he gives out, the harder it's going to be to still claim that Clark was able to track this down. The troubles of a secret identity.


That idle grin which Domino had worn quickly fades away once she gets the cargo container open. "Setback." Even she's not willing to play her odds with borrowing a forklift. Alright..change of plans. She knows where the goods are. They're large enough that no one else is going to sneak them out of here without her knowing about it. ..Unless they teleport, or some crap. There is no way in hell that she's lugging these three crates around the docks and she's not about to shoehorn them all into the trunk of her BMW, which means it's time to find the truck with the other container and bring it closer.

At least that's the plan she has in mind before Clark shows up, giving her just enough of a warning to back out of that shipping container and point a handgun at the guy. "Don't see your name on it. By my count that means the first one here wins. Hint: It isn't you."

On the upside, secret identities mean that she has no idea who she's pulling a gun on.


The werewolf snarls as Frank turns to run, and it takes a great deal of self control not to chase after him. Not to pursue his prey like his instincts urge him to. In that moment of taming the beast, Clark makes his dash for the crate, leaving Jack Russell standing in the dark.

But Clark's aren't the only heightened senses on the dock tonight. The werewolf, too, catches a whiff of smoldering metal and picks up the gentle *ping* of a lock undone. He's got all he'll get of the sniffling Frank, something vital, even. Now, it's on to the next stage.

With a huff, the werewolf bounds off in the same direction as Clark, taking the low road this time, weaving in and out of the maze of crates with inhuman speed.


Off in the distance, trucks rumble as they take containers to their spots, readying them for pickup. Trailers, too, are being hooked up by their respective drivers, getting their loads ready for their trips. Jersey bound, Pennsylvania, Arkansas, and New Mexico. That truck, in the contract, is -the- one.


Clark considers the situation. "You're not going to shoot me. You may have a silencer on that gun, but you don't know who I am, or what I can do. If you miss, the guards will hear that noise. The ricochet will see to that. Let's say you do kill me. From where I'm standing, I'll fall on the ground. The guards might hear that, and eventually a patrol will find my body. You don't have time for that. You have three crates to move. And there's still one thing you failed to consider." He pauses, standing there, timing it, waiting for the Werewolf to appear, and says, "him."


It isn't long before the Werewolf by Night reaches the container in question. From the ground, his gaze lifts and finds the crate, doors wide open. Inside he picks up the heat signatures of two individuals, only one of which he can guess to. The other is a mystery. Legs bent, he prepares for the climb.

It doesn't take long. His form was meant for this, and his mind was bent on the hunt. For the contents of the crate, and now for the man who let his earlier prey slip through his claws. At the mouth of the crate, he lets out a snarl that echoes through the contained space like a minor explosion.


Here Domino smirks back up at the guy, slowly canting her head to one side as though that might somehow improve her sight picture. "Well listen to you, nice to see someone's got a backbone around this place. I don't miss, I've never met a ricochet I didn't like, and I'm more than willing to take my chances."

Failed to consider? Now what could he possibly be—


Oh, -fudge.-

It might be hard to tell with the minimal ambient light but it -is- possible for an albino to look that much more pale. "Nice to see this place doesn't discriminate against Hellhounds…" she slowly adds.

Growling, not so subtle. Second container up. She's not enjoying feeling cornered, either. A ten minute goodnight - heck, a ten -second- goodnight would let her get out of here. All she has to do shoot..the thing that just growled at her…

The smaller woman turns and takes her shot, very very quickly.


As the dart begins to sail through the air, Clark calmly reaches into his right jacket pocket, withdrawing a short, cylindrical object. He raises it up, pointing it at Domino. With practiced flick of his thumb, he sends the white and green breath mint up and into the air, aiming to land in the Werewolf's, hopefully still open maw.

Meanwhile, the dart has ventured a little further. Clark can see it clearly. There's no telling what's in it, a tranquilizer, poison, it could be anything. Regardless of what the Werewolf looks like, so far, he hasn't done anything but scare poor Frank. So he burns it, with his eyes, sending a narrow beam to superheat and dissolve it before it reaches the target. "Like I said, that's mine."


That one dart is kind of the focal point for Domino's sudden escape plan. It's kinda supposed to ..y'know. Hit. The target. At some point in its very brief lifespan. Now when she turns to leap she's going to have a very much conscious wolfman within very close proximity to try and get past. So, things could stand to be a little better for her about now.

This is going to eat up some time. No, she's not going to warn them that the delivery truck is gearing up to leave the yard. She's not playing this game -with- these two, not yet. Given how things seem to be going, however…


*Plop*. The tiny object gingerly finds its home on the hot, wet surface of the werewolf's tongue, sending off of a surprisingly refreshing burst of mint. The wolf shuts his jaws with a *CLAP*. His brow furrows in the dark. It was the last thing he was expecting until whatever was shot off at him gets toasted. Neat trick.

Jack Russell blinks his large, red eyes, turning between Clark and the mystery woman. With a snort, he says, "Where's the cargo? We don't have time this." His words come out gruff and canine, but at least his breath smells just a hint better.


With Domino trying to escape, Clark takes a moment to examine the crates, curious at just what he's helping to deliver. Satisfied that it's technology, not weaponry, he gambles, taking the chance that it doesn't come back to haunt him. It's a big gamble, but if he wants to track this back to the source, he'll have to let them have what they want. Deciding to play the diplomat, he offers, "Here's the deal. We deliver these crates, on time, and together. We split the reward." He doesn't want the money, but doesn't want to give away who he is. "No one gets hurt, we all get something. Is that agreeable to the pair of you?"


Pause. Domino glances from one to the other (That's the first minty fresh werewolf I've ever come across.) The pay isn't that great. Not for one, less between three. In her eyes she also did the 'hard' work of finding this container in the first place. That she'd give up two-thirds of what should be -her- payment—

"You guys are on lifting detail. I've got a truck to catch."

So..that's probably a 'sure, let's do this together.' So long as she can get away from the two. Then get to a nearby forklift.

Then use the forklift to topple yet another shipping container so that it falls in front of the truck's path before it can make a clean break. Should buy the other two enough time to move the containers, if they're going to play along. Otherwise it's just likely to make a very large mess and make a heck of a lot of noise. Either way, still fun!


So it's going to be a joint effort tonight. That's fine with Jack Russell, though he wishes he knew his "partners" a little better. Still, if they were so bad, this might have gone down differently.

"Be quick about it," he tells Domino, stepping aside to let her do her thing. His massive frame has to crouch in the shipping container, and when he turns to Clark, his hunched-over frame makes him look even more demonic. He bares his teeth and asks, "Are you as strong as you look, or are you actually gonna be able to help me?" His words, along with coming out in that raspy tone, emerge slowly and with perceived effort. No matter the answer, the Werewolf by Night starts hauling.


Lifting detail, that's fine by Clark. He's already given away a few powers, so why not one more. They don't know he's Superman, and they definitely have no idea he's Clark Kent, so he thinks he's relatively safe. With Domino out to get the truck, he turns to the big guy, "I can hold my own." The breath mint was a huge improvement. Why didn't he think of that sooner. Moving to one of the crates, he picks it up as if it was made of polystyrene, and, trying to play the part, mutters, "I'm not getting paid enough for this." Though how good of an actor can he be? It probably sounded a little… off.

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