January 17, 2015: Fracture and the U.S Agent have a very brief encounter.

Sandy Hook

<Location Description>



  • A dead cop

Mood Music:

It was a slow night in Gotham on the police end, that was until they receieved word about a man being abducted from the building of a 'rival' company by a woman wearing all black, a description that fit the woman in the videos. White mask.. long brown hair…

Which would bring Veruca to this point in time. Intercept the report. Her hackers were already infultrating the systems at Gotham PD, erasing any news of the reports that may have been called in and reached..

Emergency hotliners dialed.. corrupted, lives attempted upon.. but a low do-gooder who is currently driving towards his house to drop off a package to his wife.

She perches herself upon the roof of the building, sniper rifle adjusted as she keeps an eye upon the flag that tests the wind without her guessing. Dialing in here and there, seeing the car rip and turn the corner and..

A quick rise.. and.. *POP*

The car begins to swerve as the man slumps over the wheel, veering left and right.. and eventually crashing into a tree which ejects the body and sends it sailing from the glass of the windshield to meet bark and wood.

If he did survive that headshot? He wasn't going to survive /that/.

U.S. Agent had received the call about Veruca being spotted and, at first, had presumed the same as the cops - she'd slipped up, made a mistake. But something smelled wrong to Walker - it was too easy and she was too good. At best, it was a trap to lure in cops to the slaughter - at worst, it was a distraction.

Calling in some favors from Defense, he got a quick satellite scan of Gotham, configured to locate human figures intersecting with rooftops and cross-sectioned with the city plan. The figure on top of this building hadn't been exactly identifiable - except that it was unidentifiable. Not a Bat or a Cat, and the gun it was setting up didn't look like a playtoy.

Walker didn't arrive in time to stop the shot, though, the car crash scattering glass below just as he reaches the rooftop opposite Veruca. But, hard as it might seem, he's not here to save lives. He's here to capture an enemy. "911 - Emergency services needed in Old Town, car crash and gunfire. Possible fatality. Suspect still in the area."

And then he leaps, leaps high and long, longer than any human muscle could possibly leap until he lands in a roll on the same rooftop as the killer. "Federal Agent, lay down your arms!"

Satisfaction. Looking at the carnage and wreckage below, Three more women slink from the shadows and immediately takes the car. Files were snatched, badges, hats, guns and whatever else that was picked up off of the man and the wreckage were taken and sent /home/.

The real Veruca however, spotted the man across the way, her brows furrowing behind the white mask, her eyes rolling for a split second as the sniper rifle was taken, aimed.. adjusted and..

He jumps. She did /not/ expect that.

The rifle was discarded almost easily, her hands lifting into the air, a smile given behind the mask as her hands reach up to lace fingers behind her head. "I surrender." She utters, Russian accent, for once.. thick.
U.S. Agent has read enough of the bitch's dossier to know it's not going to be that easy. Ego he does have, but he's under no illusion that just showing up is enough to make a killer of this caliber lay down arms. He unslings his shield with one hand and draws his pistol with the other, aiming it directly at the center of her chest.

"Sure you do. Show it, then. Kick the rifle away, then drop on your belly with your hands behind your back. And stay there. Then I'm gonna cuff you. You make a move, a twitch, a fuckin' wiggle of a fuckin' finger that I don't like, I put a half dozen bullets in your tight little ass."

The last he speaks in fluent Russian «Are we clear, comrade bimbo?»

"Kick the rifle you say?" Veruca had a choice. No, she had many outs. She could leave by way of swan dive with a quickly created portal that would lay her into the bed, though.. there would be a chance that she'd upset her fella. She could also take off running and risk the shots to the back, bleed to death and die.. or..


They don't know about the powerful legs she possesses.

So with a rear back of her foot, she kicks the rifle with all intents to sail towards the costumed man with all the power those legs could muster, following through with a lean and a reach back towards daggers that line her back and a quick toss to aim towards the gun and the wrist that holds it.


U.S. Agent had anticipated as much, rather figuring that an invitation to kick an item as an invitation to assault, unless the target were truly acquiescent. This target likely wouldn't be quieted until she was dead, although he'd do his best to take her in alive. Not because he cared if she lived or died, but because he didn't want to deal with the paperwork or the whining or the hand-wringing that would inevitably come - not to mention the pointy-eared interferer who would likely show up on his doorstep.

He shifts quickly, using his shield to deflect the daggers flung towards his wrist, and the rifle hits his shoulder hard. What might be remarkable is that it's the rifle that breaks on the impact, not the man, pieces of the loading chamber splintering apart against his chain-mail as he goes low and springs, firing two bullets low while swinging his shield high to try and catch her coming and going.

He was fast.

And at close quarters? So was she.

But not fast enough. Whilst she made a habit of dodging bullets, she didn't dodge one. One ripping through the skin of her shoulder as she dips and dodges to the side to rise up and..


She was hit with a shield, that bounced her back into a flip that landed her upon the tips of her boots and sent her sliding towards the edge. She doesn't fall, but remains at a half crouch, fingers pressed upon the ground as she smiles beneath her mask.

She doesn't wait, he has a gun and he's ready to fire, so she moves quick, flinging dagger after dagger from her crouched run, her foot hitting a puddle of melted snow and..

She's gone.

U.S. Agent takes one of the daggers, feeling it graze along his arm as he turns, spilling a bit of blood as he whips around to give chase, just in time to see him vanish. The sweep of his body brought the shield around to swat the other daggers away, but he could already tell she was gone.

"God dammit," he snarls and he brings his shield down in rage, the impact shattering brick and sending up a cloud of dust, shaking the whole building.

Without anyone to take it out on, he looks down over the ledge and leaps, landing on his feet with a powerful thud as he decides to see if there's anything salvageable in the wreckage of the car. Maybe the identity of the victim can at least provide some clues.

There was practically nothing left. Practically.

The women ransacked the car, leaving nothing behind but the registration of the vehicle to the GCPD. Of course, the registration could be tracked back to whom had the car that night, the keys providing with a number of the vehicle, the lieutenant would be able to match the key with the person who signed out the car.

The mans face was practically busted, the inside of the car bloodied with brain matter and else.. the front end of the car nearly catching fire and steaming against the chill of the wind that bites back into it.

Footprints were in the slush, degrading almost fast, all the same size and type of shoe.

And in the darkness? The distance? High above the roof of where the agent once stood? Was the masked woman, leaning down with elbows upon the rooftop, bottom swaying left and right as an unknown tune played within her head.

U.S. Agent would have it all confiscated, for all the good it did. He didn't like having a good man murdered on his watch - if this was a good man, which he didn't know yet. If he was a cop, then he didn't need any incentive to make the cops hunt her harder - cop killers never got mercy.

Walker, for his part, knows his bit is done, for the moment. Better or worse, he's not a detective. He'll rely on those under his commands to draw answers from the physical remains. In the meantime, he'd remember to shoot first next time and let the living and dying sort itself out.

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