Battle of the Archers: Prestige Worldwide

September 7, 2014: Team Hawkeye attempts to take down the Green Arrow

Ritzy Ballroom, New York

A Ritzy Ballroom in New York.



  • Martin Loach
  • Announcer
  • Samantha's Friend
  • Random Chick that Kate Apparently Knows

Mood Music:

New York City. For people interested in money, it's the place to go. Not everyone is rich, but for glitz, glam, and collections of people with way too much money? Yeah, it's the place. Kate came by the Triskelion to pick Barton up for practice, but while she was waiting, she managed to overhear some chatter about a new Robin Hood act. Rob from the rich, give to the poor. After chatting up the tech, she managed to come up with some thoughts of her own.

"C'mon, it'll be fun," she tells Barton as she drives toward the old, 1920's theater that's hosting the Art Deco Jewelry Ball. "Either you get to meet some women who possibly aren't hung up on some other guy, or you get to hang out with me, or this guy takes the bait and we get to take care of some guy who's giving archers a bad name. What's to lose?"


"Dignity," comes the reply. Barton brings a close-lipped smile up after that, though he's not complaining on the car ride there. "Do I look okay? Really. Tie on straight? I mean, trying to be casual here, but this," and he gestures with a sweeping hand at the fact he's wearing a rather nice suit, "this isn't me. But, gotta say," and Barton manages without a wolf-whistle anywhere in the tones, "You do clean up well."


"F. Made switch. Keep eyes on donation. Bug-eyed smiley face." Oliver actually writes out the words 'Bug-eyed smiley face' in the text message to his mysterious assistant rather than simply putting in an emoticon. It's one of his annoying habits, but probably pretty far down the list of worst offenders. "Srsly. It was very expensive. Multiple Dollar Signs." Again, he spells it out rather than simply using the symbol in his text message, but he had no problem abbreviating 'Seriously.'

Sliding the phone into the inside pocket of his coat, he glances casually at the case that he just pulled a very sneaky switcheroo on. Inside the case, an almost perfect replica of some actual Ancient Egyptian jewelry rests, while the Real Deal is in one of his other pockets.

"I see you're a fan of Hatshepsut's necklace, Mister Queen. Priceless artifact, you can't imagine the trouble I had acquiring it."

Oliver is approached by a large, corpulent man in an authentic 1920's suit. The man has held the event tonight in order to display some of the various treasures that he's accumulated with the wealth he earned trading oil futures.

"Absolutely, Marty. Hatshepsut was always my favorite character from Stargate."

'Marty' has no idea how to respond to this, and simply walks away.


"It's a fancy party, Barton, you're not really supposed to be casual," Kate smirks as she pulls up to the valet, leaning over to pull a bow and quiver out of the back seat. "And thanks," she adds, grin flashing. "I actually found this in a little vintage shop just down the street from this place Vorpal wanted to check out for the Titans mixer." Admittedly, the quiver doesn't really go with the slinky, dark blue silk, but hey, style choices. "Coat check," Kate says before her style choice can be questioned. "I'm really tired of wishing I hadn't left this thing in the trunk."

She passes the keys to the valet, then turns to take a look at Barton. "You can bring yours, too, if you want."

She actually does hand over the quiver at the coat check, along with a smile and an excuse about coming directly from archery practice, and do you have any idea how expensive that level of equipment is, you really can't just leave it in the car. Considering there are at least three small dogs also in the coat check? Not the strangest request of the evening.


"See, that's why I wear a sidearm, too," is whispered in a straight lean, his gaze never leaving forward. "I'm sure we can get a permit for you."

Maybe the arrows aren't the strangest check request, but the stickbow that he hands over might be. In a knit bow-sock. "Just trying to act casual.. not -be- casual," is whispered back, though for all intents and purposes, he's not doing a half-bad job at it. It's the deadpanned expression that helps. Once they're in, he's in, a drink is pulled from a passing tray, and a sip is taken. Perfect.

Into the mix, Barton whispers to Kate once more, "Hatshepsut wasn't in Stargate. Hathor was. Goddess of sex, drugs and rock and roll." So says the TV expert!


"My friend Samantha told me she watched you blow a couple million dollars at the craps table in Singapore last week. Does this mean you're too strapped to buy a girl a drink?" When you're a member of the wealthy elite, the world often seems to be a very small place. Oliver has no idea who the woman who has approached him is, and only vaguely remembers a Samantha, but you'd never know it by the way he gives her a half-hug and laughs airhead-ly at her joke.

"Well, you know, it was all for charity I think. It's just money, I can always make more of it." Oliver takes the opportunity to use the social camouflage he's been presented with, and escorts his new friend around the room toward the dance floor.

"But I don't buy drinks for women until after the third dance. Old-fashioned."


Kate Bishop eyes Barton at his whispered comment, smile quirking despite herself. "Yeah, I haven't watched that one yet," she admits. "You'll have to put it on the queue for next time." She starts to reach for a drink herself, scanning the area, before pausing. "Hey, is that Oliver Queen?" she asks, nudging Barton and tipping her chin toward the man on his way toward the dance floor. Right, Kate. Ask Clint if he recognizes the random rich guy. "Damn. I was supposed to try to bring Roy to one of these things where he'd show up."


"Ten glorious years of Stargate. Right culture, ancient Egyptian. But the Goa'uld used gods and goddesses, you see…" and Clint really could go on for hours regarding the naming conventions of a fictitious alien race.

It's when Kate points out Oliver Queen that the SHIELD agent gives his full, undivided attention towards the person in question. "The ball is in your court. Is it?" Fish. No ocean to be found for a hundred miles in any direction.

"Hey.. wait…" Now, Clint turns inward towards Kate, the action meant to stand in her path. "Harper? He's not your partner." Couldn't be any jealousy there, right? Nope. Professional courtesy all the way. "He's gonna have to wait."


Unlike the people who are here to ruin his fun, Oliver Queen fits in perfectly with the assembled crew of rich muckity mucks. He seems to know half of them, and he pretends to know the other half. He effortlessly flits in and out of groups, smiling for a few cameras, chatting up senators, giving drinks to elderly media tycoons, and generally livening up as much of the party as he can.

Samantha's friend is quickly abandoned at the bar, where she proceeds to try and hit on a much older man who wears a tie pin with a diamond the size of cherry.

The lights begin dimming, and a stunning blonde woman in a dress Greta Garbo might have rocked makes her way to a glass podium that's placed prominently in the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to blah blah blah…" She goes on for a while, extolling the virtues of the night's honored guest.

Oliver Queen is nowhere to be found, and Samantha's friend looks disappointed with her new prey.


"Seriously? I need to find you a blonde before I'm allowed to go talk to someone for a friend?" Kate arches a brow at Barton with a warning sort of look, starting to cross her arms over her chest just as the lights go down. "Aww, man," she mutters, making a face. "I was kind of hoping we'd be too late for the speeches."

Kate fits in here well enough. In fact, as she's muttering, a young woman comes by with a smile. "Katie, is that you? Omigosh, it's been, like, five years or something, right? Since Susan's wedding? Oh, hey, I didn't realize you were here with someone," she says with a smug smile, looking Barton up and down with a predatory expression. "Where'd you find him?"


"Working, Katie," Barton reminds, and there's a hint of a smirk that rises. It's true. Socialite Miss Katherine Bishop more than fits in with the well heeled, the moneyed kids that have nothing better to do with their cash than throw it at something and hope that some of it sticks.

Not so much Clinton Francis Barton, born and bred 'nobody'. Certainly not one of the 'beautiful people'. Still, doesn't stop him from putting on an attempt. Much like royalty, one is born into it and breathes the entire culture; it's hard to mimic something that comes as second nature to another. Which is exactly why Clint isn't mingling and mixing.

Talk about a cover being blown?

The speeches almost, -almost- make his eyes glaze over but for the girl that comes to gush at Katie. The 'look over' gives him the opportunity to offer something of a half smile, addig, "Yeah. I call everytime he says the word 'I'," and raises his champagne flute. Drinking challenge; but he obviously doesn't forget the reason they're there.

"Okay… lost the mark."


"Blah blah blah… you'll give me a hand, and help me welcome to the stage Mr. Martin Loach!" The crowd errupts with applause. Some cheer. Some clap. Some clink champagne glasses. A couple even do that thing where you put your fingers in your mouth to whistle louder. Some sort of secret trick to that, most likely.

Oliver's friend from the beginning of the evening makes his way up to the podium with a bit of difficulty. He's no spring chicken, and he's in pretty dire need of a salad. But when you're a mega billionaire, things like combovers and obesity don't really get in the way of your fun.

"Thank you, M├Ądchen, for the kind words. I promise, I didn't pay her to say any of that…" The people in the crowd laugh.

"… blah blah blah which is why I'd like to present my latest business venture, and offer you all the opportunity to get in on the ground floor. If you'll cue the video, Simon, and let these fine folks get their first look at Prestige…."

There's suddenly a blinding flash, and a deafening bang. People scream, most of them fall down, even some of the ones who were seated.

An arrow of a particularly bright verdant hue flies through the air and anchors itself to the brick wall behind Mr. Loach. Attached to the arrow is a thin metal cable, down which a green-clad figure rapidly ziplines, landing just in front of the night's honored speaker.


"Hi, Jenny," Kate smiles politely to the other woman. "This is my friend, Clint. He's, ah. He's sort of my archery coach. Really world class." That was probably nicer than she needed to be, given the circumstances, but hey, that's what you do at these sorts of things. She smirks at the drinking challenge, starting to shake her head, just as the lights go out.

"Found the mark," she murmurs to Barton, slipping back at her friend from before starts shrieking. Coat check!


Clint smiles tightly, "Sort of."

There is little time to be spent to get equipment, and Barton remains behind while Kate gathers her things. It's why he brought the bow, and she, just her arrows. He's much better at improvised weapons than she- for the time being.


It's the flash of light, and the *bang* of noise that sends the archer to turn his back on the grenade, his mouth slightly open; not as if his hearing will get much worse for it. It's instinct that he's moving to protect Kate just in case it's a fragmentation grenade. It's not, thank goodness.

Still, it means that Hawkeye doesn't get the opportunity to deal with that grapple-line arrow; there are things (obviously) that can be done to counter it once it's gripped. He, of all people, would know.


With his hood pulled down, and his back away from the crowd, only one man in the room can get much of a look at the Green Arrow's face. That man is currently too terrified to notice much beyond the white teeth that are exposed with a vicious snarl.

Mysteriously, the feeds from all of the cameras in the room have been cut, and nobody's phone seems to be working. It's very unlikely that the flashbang did this to the equipment.

With all of the people screaming and trying to regain their senses after the flashbang, much of Green Arrow's dramatic entrance would have been wasted on a disoriented crowd. But he seems to have anticipated this. A deep, booming, obviously electronically-altered voice projects over the loudspeakers, at high enough decibelage that nobody can avoid hearing it.

"Martin Loach. You have failed us all."

The presentation that Loach was about to play begins, showing up on multiple screens placed strategically around the large ballroom. But as the video begins, it's obvious that this isn't the presentation for his newest business venture. Instead, it's a slideshow of dead bodies.


Kate dives into the coat check room, rummaging quickly for the quiver and the pair of bows. "It's a good thing I don't actually date," she mutters under her breath. "Or I'd be starting to resent these party interruptions." Her ears are still ringing a bit from the flash bang, and there are still spots in front of her eyes as she slips back out into the chaos of the ball room.

"So, uh." She offers a bow out to Barton, keeping everything low. "Did you have a plan for this? Because I didn't actually have a whole plan for this."


Barton keeps low now, and as his sight begins to return to him, so does Kate with bow in hand. It's strung effortlessly, and nocking an arrow, moves to take advantage of the fact that the outline of the man in question has his back turned to the audience.

Never turn your back to the audience when trying to make a point! Ever! One or two of them might have a bow.

"High ground, Katie," Barton instructs. There's got to be a second floor, or barring that, somewhere she can get a batter vantage.

"Take out the projector."

Barton doesn't have a plan either; not that he'll admit it.

"I'm a little disappointed myself," Barton calls out. "I almost got a phone number!"


The slideshow of images continues. All of them are unsettling, but some are truly horrific. Men, women, and children in varying stages of decomposition. Most seem to have been killed with gunshot wounds, some have clearly been tortured to death.

The booming voice continues to broadcast over the speakers. "Look at them, Loach! These are the faces of your victims. Or at least the ones who still have faces." Some of them do not. "People who have been murdered by security contractors that protect your company's interests."

The man begins stammering, a cold sweat covering his balding forehead. "N-no! I've never… nobody has ever…"

Seemingly unaware of the developments behind him, or of the threat he has his back to, Green Arrow grabs the man by his collar and shakes him a few times. "Your thirst for wealth has destabilized entire regions. You exploit conflicts where you can find them, and create new conflicts where there are none. You are responsible for every single one of these deaths, and countless more, whether you gave the order for their execution or not!"


"On it," Kate nods to Clint, taking a few arrows from the quiver along with her own bow before she starts toward the stairs to the balcony, following the path of the line the outlaw rode down. It's a few quick steps, made easier once she kicks off her heels - she loses more shoes that way - until she's at the railing.

"Hey!" she calls down, sighting down an arrow. "You want to do an expose, call Clark Kent at the Daily Planet."

Apparently the man didn't catch what Barton was saying, so in a way, he still has something of a surprise. With a weighted tip on the arrow, a blunt that will still deliver something of a painful blow, he draws back to full and lets go, aiming for center of mass, back. It'll hurt whatever it is that it hits; just not kill. Boy, will there be a bruise!

"Now that I've got your attention…!" Barton begins again as he pulls a second arrow from his quiver, setting it upon the rest, nocking it against the string. "… I do, right?"


With his hands still on the collar of the corpulent old man, Green Arrow's head snaps in the direction of the woman who interrupted what looked like it was shaping up to be a very fine rant. Very little of his face aside from his nose and chin are visible, captured in profile. "There's no need to call any newspaper. All indicators to the contrary…" He looks around. "… this isn't really the Roaring Twenties. Here in the future, all I had to do was leak my information to a few choice websites, which should be happening…" He glances at his arm, where a watch would be if he were actually wearing one. "… right about now. What about it, Marty? How do you think your company's stock will fare when the people of the world get a look at what a gallon of gas really costs?"

He seems to be gradually attempting to angle himself away from the bow-wielding woman, getting into position to use his hostage as a shield. However, this just makes him an easier target for Hawkeye Sr. He hears the telltale whistle of an incoming arrow far too late to do anything other than flinch. A bit of leather and kevlar weave is no match for the blunt trauma of a makeshift stun arrow. He releases his hold on the man, who immediately begins staggering backward, clutching at his chest.

Green Arrow's back is arched as he is hit, and he begins to stumble forward. Rather than attempt to stop his fall, he goes with it, using the momentum from his fall to roll behind the podium. As he does so, he grabs the folding bow from its place on his belt and with a deft snap of his arm makes the bow 'pop out' to its full size.


"Armed!" Kate calls back to Barton as the Arrow produces a bow. "Side note, really need one of those." Those being the collapsible bow, of course. Hers is something of a beast, but it's already nocked and drawn as the Arrow goes over the edge of the stage. She aims for the hand with the bow, releasing her own arrow with a smooth breath. Much as she might like to dive into the chaos below, she keeps her place in the balcony, all the better to keep tabs on the situation.


First shot is always free. First rule in, well… sniping. If the first shot fails to kill or incapacitate, then there's a problem. But, the first shot wasn't meant to either kill or take him out. No way would Barton take such a public killing shot, one. And two, no need for lethal force.

With the arrow landing exactly how he wants it to, Barton's on the move, taking a dive-roll to get behind an hors d'oevres table and knock it down to use it as brief if not partially successful cover. He is ever mindful, of course, to move such that one of the two have a clear shot at Ollie's back at any one time.

Having a stick bow is a great deal different than having his fold out bow. This is a touch more noticable, but he knows it. Has worked with it, trained with it… and its sight picture is ingrained.

"Good! Now you're listening!" is called out from his spot. "This isn't the way to get your point across!" Neither is this, but I can't pick 'em all the time.

"How 'bout we go outside and discuss this like men."


The Green Arrow is already rolling again, and now he's in the middle of a crowd of panicking people. His presence all but ensures that they'll be cleared out in no time, but for now they're running all over the place like jackalopes. His sudden maneuvering causes Hawkeye Jr's arrow to miss it's mark, travelling instead right between the bow and its string.

As he leaps back up to his feet, a sudden cloud of thick green smoke begins emanating from beneath Green Arrow. Lying on the ground behind him is one of his smoke bomb arrows, which is rapidly obscuring him from sight. However, the smoke doesn't appear to be affecting his gogglemask.

"That's a little bit sexist of you, don't you think?" If this had been said in Oliver Queen's normal voice, it might have simply been funny. But with the Deep Booming Voice Filter applied, and all of his dialogue broadcast over the speakers at very high volume, it sounds as if an accusatory demon is shouting damning proof of sexism at Hawkeye Sr.

Two arrows are simultaneously released from Green Arrow's bow. The arrows travel in the general direction of both Clint and Kate, but they both appear to be a foot or two off of their mark.


The herds of disturbed rich people are seriously interfering with Kate's shots, probably more than the smoke. She could shoot blind, but not if she's going to hit someone whose only crime- Well, they probably all have plenty of crimes, but none that really merit being shot. "I'm willing to handle it like girls if you want," she calls down to the mystery archer, an arrow nocked and ready as she searches for an opportunity to shoot.


And this is why Barton's got a little makeshift spot to call his own. He's not necessarily protected by weapons, but at least he won't get crowded out by panicking herds of the idle rich.

"Sexist? Me? You have no idea… but—"

Hawkeye isn't stupid. A plucked shot of two arrows coming means that the archer in question isn't going for accuracy. He's got-

"Area fire!" is called out in warning before the archer moves from his spot at a dead sprint, leaping over his table, under another.. and making a slide under a row of chairs, his pull on his own bow decidedly curtailed by the fact that chairs are in the way. It's not an easy shot; shooting on his back, sideways, but it's not something he hasn't done so many times before.

Breakaway tracker, aiming for the meat of the calf. The shaft should come away, and that little tracker should imbed as niiiiice as you please.

"I don't want to handle it like girls. It becomes a slap fight and ends up with going out for ice cream and bitching about boys."


The arrows that Green Arrow fired seemingly blindly hit their intended targets. Sure, they missed both of the Hawkeyes by a foot or two, hitting solid objects near them instead. But as soon as they impact they explode with a blinding flash and a deafening bang. Double flashbang.

Over near the podium, Mister Loach continues to clutch at his chest. His expression gets more and more panicked as no aid arrives. He attempts to get words out, but only manages to produce a few grunts before falling forward and landing on his face in a heap of blubber and period clothing. All the signs of heart attack are there, and he'll likely die very soon without medical attention. Whether or not this was Green Arrow's plan all along is of course open to interpretation.

Green Arrow already has three more arrows nocked before his flashbangs explode, and he releases these into three strategic, but safe, locations right before his calf gets pierced. The arrows embed in pieces of mortuary, and the cannisters attached to them begin to emit a steady stream of clear gas. The people who were panicking are now getting lungs and eyes full of tear gas, which turns the mob even more brutal as everyone races for the exits.

"Sonuva-" Green Arrow's voice feed is suddenly cut from the speakers, muting out whatever else he had to say about the recent turn of events. As the tear gas floods the room, he places a small mask over his nose and mouth. Apparently the goggles protect his eyes sufficiently.

Masked partially by smoke, and his escape covered by tear gas, he fires another arrow up through the building's skylight. Leaving the arrow in his calf where it is for now, he is quickly pulled upward by his handy grapple arrow, speeding up, up and away.


Down side of the balcony: Not a whole lot of cover. Kate ducks down as the second flash bang goes off, wincing. "Hate those things!" Which is shouted a good deal more loudly than necessary, given the damage that's been done to her ears tonight. It looks like all she grabbed were plain, pointy arrows, though, which means she's a little short on interesting ammo to send after the fleeing archer. Still, despite the disorientation, she takes one last shot toward the grappling line, trying to sever it, before she has to retreat. Tear gas does not work well with her mascara.


Barton gets a lung-full and eyes full of the gas which sends him into a coughing fit. The double flashbang is just icing on that cake… and the chances are good he'll have to take the suit to the dry-cleaners before returning it. Just hope there aren't any holes!

The falling down of the host of the evening does get Barton's attention, and he's ending up crawling towards the man, full in the knowledge that Ollie is fast pulling a disappearing trick. Let him go…

They'll do a history track to see where it is that the vigilante stops to try and pull the tracker. It's designed for the shafting to fall off, but the bit of tech should embed quite nicely into some meat.

Pulling out his cell and coughing into the back of his hand, his fingers start to press the keys, 9-1-1.

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