Character Assassination

October 10, 2014: Splat is a young man with an altered physiology, gravity powers, and sentient blood stolen from a shady laboratory. Emma Frost is an unscrupulous businesswoman who once paid a shady laboratory a whole lot of money to develop a form of sentient blood; together, they— ruin an otherwise peaceful night, mostly.

New York City, The Bronx, A Questionable Neighborhood



  • Some gangbanger

Mood Music:

Splat runs up and down the skyline of the Bronx. He's wearing his fully charged armor today, ready and looking for trouble, but he doesn't really have advanced communications equipment, only an old WWII era milspec radio. The superhero thing seemed like a good idea, but finding crime in a city this chocked full of heroes was…harder than he'd thought.

He nearly thought he spotted a mugger at one point, but it turned out only to be a whiney teenager. Well. That sucked. He reached around to a small pack and took out a sandwich. Time for a break.


"It's really a matter of focusing on the details that matter, darling…"

Emma Frost is reclined at her big, expensive desk in her big, expensively appointed office; she has a cellphone pressed to her ear with one hand and a long, white cigarette holder delicately grasped in the other. "Never mind friendship, how long you've known him— he's proven his loyalties, hasn't he? And after all of the opportunities you've given him…"

The man on the other end of the phone runs one of New York's countless drug crews, and the subordinate she's speaking of is a dealer whose feelings of discontent she picked up on and exploited some weeks ago— not that he'll be much of anything, soon. In truth, the dealer could have been anyone in her contact's organization; he certainly wasn't anyone to her, just a step on the path to a greater end. She's in need of muscle, but asking Javi to lend her some - or simply utilizing the Club's own private army - wouldn't be appropriate, at least not yet; convincing him that her enemy is also his is the safest bet, and may even save her from having to return the favor down the line.

"But you shouldn't be too hard on him; I do believe he may have been pushed to it. I've heard the most indecent rumours of a new operator moving into the city, muscling into whatever territory he pleases and taking his pick of talent in the process. They say that it's all because of his lead enforcer: a rather strapping young man with the most marvelous orange skin. Without him, well— who knows what might come of this upstart, hm?"


Tracking the target, the terrifying young 'enforcer' was mostly a matter of canvassing the city at random, interrogating and intimidating the dregs of the city for scraps of information— many of which were useless, if not downright misleading. Gradually, though, Javi's men were able to cobble together enough clues regarding the young man's movements that one of them is in the Bronx as Splat works his way across the rooftops, even if his presence near the hero's patrol path is still a matter of luck more than solid investigation.

Regardless of the circumstances, though, the spotter makes a call as soon as Splat is spotted, and within minutes, cars begin streaming into the area. Two of them are full of guns and Javi's men, and are winding their way through the streets as the spotter tries to guide them to the hero's route. The third - a big, white, and prohibitively expensive number with a uniformed driver - pulls over a short ways into the borough.

Not long after Splat begins enjoying his sandwich, one of the roving cars - an older American model with pitch black windows - pulls up across the street from his building and lingers for a few seconds before the rear window begins to roll down. The barrel of an assault rifle emerges, and with no further warning, gunfire breaks the relative silence of the evening and lights up the night sky.

Several blocks away, in the back of her parked car, Emma Frost's eyes nearly shut as she tries to focus her senses on the distant, violent urges she's feeling as the gangsters take their shot; soon enough, she's managed to find a comfortable spot in an out of the way corner of the shooter's psyche from which to enjoy the show.

Splat drops the sandwich and swears, "WHAT THE HELL?!" as the hail of bullets begin on him. With his armor, bullets don't do a lot,e ven assault rifles but it doesn't cover everything and he can still feel the sting as suddenly three of them cause blood marks on his hands and another next to his face. "Assholes!" He shows and is about to reverse the gravity in front of him to create an impromptu shield….frack that…he switch his perspective of gravity and takes out his gun, aiming himself and unleashing a Griv Grenade right under one of the two cars regular sedans, vs the one with the assault rifle, reversing the gravity.

"Got the motherfucker!" the guy driving the shooter's car cheers. He hits the gas and starts to peel off as something falls from on top of the building, causing the shooter to squint up— first at the odd movement, and then at the hero's still-standing figure.

"Uh," he begins as he squeezes off another couple of rounds, both of which are liable to go wild thanks to the jarring movement. "Yo, he's still— " The driver does a quick take towards the building, then slams on the brakes with widening eyes.

"— aaah, shit!" "Come on, man!" exclaim the shooter and the man in the backseat beside him. As soon as the car stops, the other man in back starts trying to wriggle out of the window, gun in all; apparently, one gun isn't enough to do the job. The original shooter squints through his scope, draws a bead on Splat and sets his finger on the trigger.

Neither of them notice the grenade bouncing and rolling towards the car, and neither do the drive or the third passenger; before anymore shots can be fired, the bomb goes off beneath them.

"What was that noi— " the guy working his way out of the window begins to exclaim before stopping himself when he notices that the car is moving again— straight up.

"— oooh— shiiiiit— !"

The other car is working its way around Splat's building from the other side, content to concentrate on getting into position— until the driver rounds a corner and notices the first car lifting off of the ground, at which point he, too, slams on the brakes. More bullets spray the rooftop, but they, too, are erratic since the formerly speeding vehicle they're coming from is still rolling to a stop.

Splat will fly up and rescue them, probably…eventually. They've got two or three minutes before they run out of oxygen anyway. That's forever in combat. Usually. He looks at the other car and this time begins to charge. Though his armor is unnaturally light, its mass is that of a titan, so the world still shakes as he moves. He picks up a nearby metal lid and puts it between himself and the car as the shots go off. He technically has enough griv for another car or two but has no idea how many there are….this time he is going to handle them more personally….he leaps up into the air, trying to land with increased weight and gravity on the hood of the second car.

The one shooter facing Splat's building manages to hold off on panicking long enough to send a few more erratic bullets Splat's way before the young man is out of sight, while the one hanging from the window is— well, he's still hanging, but now there's quite a bit of flailing to go with it. The gun falls out of his hands a few dozen feet up and breaks apart on the ground, which is just as well because he wasn't going to be using it any time soon.

The driver and the guy in the passenger side are mostly just teetering on the edge of freaking out; their reputations demand that they bear this unexpected obstacle with iron will and stony visages, but the fact that they might be headed for a one way ticket into the atmosphere has them clutching the frame of the car and carefully avoiding eye contact so as not to let each other see the terror in their eyes.

"Perhaps I should have told them a little more about him…" Emma breezily ponders aloud as she swims in the shooter's fearful thoughts. "Ah, well; I'm certain they'll figure it all out eventually…"

A few blocks away, Splat lands squarely on the second car, flattening its front end and lifting the rear of it a few feet into the air; unlike the other car, though, the back wheels slam back down to Earth after a terrible moment of lingering up there. The guy in the passenger seat managed to get his handgun aimed at the windshield when he noticed the young vigilante falling towards them, and as the glass explodes into deadly shards showering the car's interior, he manages to squeeze off a few shots on sheer, desperate instinct.

Too bad about that lid, though; this close, he might've managed to score a hit even without the benefit of being able to aim, otherwise.

Splat's armor is tough but at the least, a bullet that close would HURT and bruise him. He's not Kryptonian. He is vaguely keeping an eye on the car to see if one of the chuckleheads is desperate enough to leap out in which case he'll shoot them to weightlessness, but so far, they're just riding the car to doomtown. Just fine with him for now. He reaches down and breaks the glass of the car, and punches the jackass in the passenger side in the face (or attempts to) and looks at the driver, "Wanna leave buddy or should I help you embrace your inner earth mother for about 8 hours? I can't imagine what being glued to the ground in a place like this might tempt folk to do…"

"Curious," the White Queen exhales as her perception shifts to one of the men in the backseat of the second car in time to see Splat atop its mangled hood. Coming into this, she had an idea of what to expect from the young man - she was funding the facility he took his powers from, after all - but even she hadn't been entirely briefed on what he was capable of now. "Well," she continues as she absently brushes a few locks of hair behind an ear. "If nothing else: their sacrifices won't have been in vain; this has been most enlightening."

The inside of a car careening into the sky is not the safest place to be, but the alternatives aren't any better; falling back to Earth in the car - if, that is, it does fall, and doesn't just continue endlessly into orbit - is, at least, a safer bet than falling out of it, in the same way that wearing a helmet while jumping a stadium full of flaming school buses on a motorcycle is safer than doing so without one.

The passenger can't do much when Splat swings at him but get punched in the face, then slump down in his seat afterwards with blood streaming freely from his nose. Since the driver is still unarmed, the best response he can muster for Splat - after swallowing the lump in his throat - is a defiant, "F-fuck you, man!" He has to force himself to make eye contact with the vigilante instead of flinching away from the punch he's expecting.

One of the men in back - perhaps bolstered by the driver's bravado - forces himself to hold his hands still long enough to level a pistol on Splat and squeeze off a shot. Much more than that in such a cramped space would be unlikely even if they weren't rattled; the shotgun and assault rifle stashed back there with them are unlikely to be of a ton of help with two friendlies between them and their target.

Splat if anything keeps his word and fires a two round burst pretty quickly at Tweedle and Tweedle Dum increasing their gravity. Not enough to KILL Them but enough that they're not gonna be walking away so much as crawling if even that much. Who knows what interesting things might find them here? (assuming he hits and doesn't have to just pound in their faces) he then 'falls' toward the floating car. He might leave them pinned thirty feet up on the empire state building, the possibilities intrigue him.

The two brave/foolhardy thugs find themselves dragged inexorably into a tangled pile on the floor of the backseat when Splat cranks up the gravity around them; that puts a stop to their gunfire in a hurry. The driver can't do a whole lot about Splat floating away from him, and thanks to the increased effect of gravity in the rear of the car, he's having a hard time getting the vehicle to actually move at any reasonable speed. It's like trying to tow a trailer full of— well, anything, really; it isn't exactly built for power.

Emma, meanwhile, has seen enough; a little shudder rolls over her body as she disengages from the tempestuous melange of fear and outrage boiling in one of the gravity-snared men's mind. After giving herself a moment to readjust her perceptions to what's immediately around her, she calls, "Driver," to the uniformed man in the front seat while retrieving her phone and dialing.

Javi's men were good for demonstrating Splat's capabilities, but clearly, she's going to need professional assistance if she's going to have any hope of bringing him and his precious blood - the development of which cost her a rather galling amount of money in under the table funding - to heel.

"Yes, officer?" she begins as her car drives away to leave the gangsters to whatever fate Splat himself, or any opportunistic rivals/police officers happen to devise for them. "I realize that this may be a touch unusual, but I would like to report the misuse of my intellectual property by a posthuman individual. I'll be by shortly to discuss the details in person; it would be simply wonderful if you could find an interview space for us that doesn't scream despair and frenetic desperation quite so loudly, though. I would hate to be uncomfortable while we're discussing my options for justice…"

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