Turf Wars

Summary:
January 30th, 2015: Some late night strollers are engulfed in a turf war battle in Gotham.

//Bowery - Gotham //
The Bowery is the sibling of Park Row. Both once rather upscale districts
that have fallen to squalor and destitution. Around the time the Sprang Act
came in to affect the Bowery was a first to be approached; this institute a
whole new architectural design for the area which turned the Bowery in to a
squat blocky looking area with buildings that could belong on a military
base.

The residential areas are terraced row house style complexes made of mostly
brownstone where as the commercial sections tend to focus more on their
display groundside than topside. This is no longer the case with the decline
in Bowery's growth many of the sector remains covered in unfinished
structures that stopped being constructed or condemned buildings housing the
homeless.

With the Sprang Act not allowing more lively tower level displays the Bowery
actually took the 09' cataclysm quite well as the buildings are all quite
structurally sound (those that had been completed) except for a long it's
streets.
Streetside opened up a whole new development, with the roads being broken,
fragmented, opened and destroyed businesses had to improvise and turn the
Bowery itself in to a street spanning marketplace that also delves in to the
underground, half constructed buildings may open up in to underground caverns
that have been gutted for raves, black markets, chop shops, fighting pits,
living quarters and so forth.


Characters

NPCs

  • NPCs by Lunair

Mood Music:
[*<http://insert.video.or.music.link.here>]


It's night time. A time people once loved and dreaded, long before lights. Now, winter brings with it snow, cold and the tranquility of 'too damn cold to do shit'. Crime always seems to fall in the winter. Is it due to summer being more tolerable…? Nevertheless, the street lights offer stark, white light amidst a sharp, black night sky dotted with stars and a full moon. They say the moon drives people to madness, bringing out the wolves and spirits. Tonight, there is no wind and the air is still, sprinkled with soft, powderlike snowflakes.
Amidst the cracked, uneven streets men slowly trickle out to do business. Even a few women, some part of the transaction themselves. The atmosphere becomes thick with foreboding. Normally, vices are plied quietly, each gang or mafia respecting the other's territory out of a desire to avoid a common enemy - the authorities. But young blood runs hot, and a few men in suits warily watch a few in trenchcoats. Those would be a subset of the Italian Mafia warily eyeing some Triads.

It was a long, long day inside of the Tin Roof Club. Melody remained in the server room, the demands to make that place her home was met and most filtered in and out to randomly take over as she caught herself a breather atop of the roof. But these times weren't any of those times, no. She was inside, tinkering and fussing with a server that didn't run as hot as it should, only to find that Keith, in all of his bodyguarding glory, managed to unplug the symmetrical line it was connected to. Even though that particular server didn't cater to anything special but Melody's own needs? It still pissed her right off.
But, once everything was settled? She set to watching the streets surrounding the area of East End. Bundled up within her chair with a bag of popcorn.. okay, large bag.. on hand.

While not normally one for late night strolls, Talia al'Ghul was completing a sale of a building in the neighborhood for the more charitable branches of Trutina to use as a…well, whatever it is that the charitable branch of Trutina does. Still dressed in sensible work heels, a nice business suit and a long wool coat, 'Miranda Tate' has a firm grip on her purse as well as a one of her gloved hands stuck into her pocket. She's certainly over dressed for the neighborhood, but she also has the criminal second senses from growing up as the Demon's Daughter.
While her eyes remain focused on the road, the rest of her senses are heightened. She knows that a well dressed woman in heels is easily a target in a neighborhood like this. Unfortunately for anyone who may try to mess with her, appearances are certainly deceiving.

Melody isn't the only one who's been hanging out on the roof. Kwabena has spend a fair majority of the evening perched in the shadows of the Tin Roof's highest point, garbed in black jeans and a black leather jacket. Occasionally, plumes of cigarette smoke join that of the exhaust continually spat out into the cold air by the club's heating vents. He's been accompanied by hot coffee; occasionally spiked with Jameson of course; but otherwise, the Ghanaian seems content to let things unfold.
There is, of course, a reason for his interest in both the Italians and the Triads. Both were involved with Richard Dackleman's little operation some few months ago, and by little, we mean global. Dackleman is gone, and the smooth has dried up; perhaps it's out of a sense of boredom, but Kwabena hasn't given up on his attempts to locate the crime lord and bring him down, no matter how far away he's run.

Gotham is hardly ever on Ozymandias' patrols unless he really is press against the clock for information, and this just happens to be one of those times. The luxury of owning several transportation companies allows him access to a variety of different vehicles for surveillance. Ozymandias is sitting inside his own truck fitting for surveillance.
He is busy moving the camera at the different alleys as he sips on a cup of coffee. Ozymandias frowns and says, "This looks like a bad lead."

Well, Melody may have plenty to watch. An addict, whose story is written in a family's sorrows, stolen goods and laced with heroin, shuffles up to a dealer. Cash exchanged, yes, just a bit - it'll keep the cravings at bay. Ah, just one more. He soon vanishes down into a crag, another soul in the cracks. The little microcosms that grow and fall away are impressive, if one wishes to people watch. But there is a tension beyond the furtive glances, goods exchanged, smiling women beckoning. It grows, palpably like the thumping of an anxious pulse.

More besuited men appear out of a building, trying to look jovial and together. Meanwhile, seeming to quietly mirror the men across the street, more guys in trenchcoats emerge. Some even wear their own suits and one looks like he escaped from a bad drama manga in a duster coat.
They pay the people around them no mind, although one of the Italian guys sighs and moves towards Talia. "Miss, you really shouldn't be out at night…" He offers, in a paternal voice. He's going to try to nudge her along.
They remain unaware of those gathered and watching. And a rude gesture sets off a spark. "Fucking -" One of the Italians hisses and throws something. A flashbang. The Triads scatter, some stunned by the flashbang. Weapons are out now. "Goddamit!" Cursing rises up like steam from a sewer.

The bag was set upon Melody's knees as she watches. Drugs. It brought back familiar sensations long past but she was able to push them down with a heavy handful of cheddar coated and crunchy goodness by way of Sunshine's Delectable Caramel Cheddar Booty Crunch, imported from some hack Buddy Squirrel place in Metropolis. It hit the spot well, washed down with a one liter of Pepsi, diet.. which is laughable at best.
And then it starts, the mingling of the crowds and something thrown, her head jerking back at the suddeness of the display, her hand lifting to pry and toy with the lines that only she could see which brings the cameras to move, zoom, focus.
She knew that eventually everything was going to go tits up, nothing stayed peaceful for long. The Alley Cats weren't mobile even though they took up spots amongst the rooftops armed like brick shit houses waiting for orders. Sin City. Laying in wait.
"Guys. This is Rant. Don't move an inch. Eyes only." That would burst through the comms of the members employed by The Woman. For if they touch Tin Roof?
War.

As the man moves toward her, Talia gives him an imperiously raised eyebrow. "Perhaps not and yet here we are." Her voice is an impeccable British accent with a mix of something perhaps Middle Eastern. That is to say, not native Gotham. A hand grips tighter on her purse, the other moving for the switchblade she keeps in her pocket for protection. Guns are harder to hide and easier to be arrested for: a well known business woman having a knife for protection, however, is easily spun.
Already primed for an attack, Talia uses the flashbang in order to meld into the background as best she can. While most eyes are diverted toward the sudden explosion of light and sound, she uses the opportunity in an attempt to get out of the line of fire.

"What if I have to take piss?"
Kwabena's English is still pretty rusty, but his singular wit remains intact. He's certainly not employed by The Woman, nor is he particularly interested in protecting their turf. He does, however, fancy the Tin Roof and quite a few of its occupants. Stepping just a bit, his dark face emerges from shadow so that he can get a better view. "I see some few, could use a good squirt, and I been drinking dis… dis Irish Coffee shit all night."
Yeah, he might be just a little intoxicated.
Either way, he ducks back into the shadow and reaches for the sniper rifle at his feet with one hand, then exchanges the Irish Coffee in his other for a silencer.

It only takes a single spark to turn a puddle of fuel into an inferno worthy of Dante. And that's all that it took here. Tensions between ethnicities, rival gangs and mafias flare up and now is no exception. Most of the Triad standing outside were caught off-guard by the flash bang, as were several of the Italians. "You dipshit," The thrower is gibsmacked as guns and blades come out.
The man who was trying to nudge Talia along looks at her, lifting an eyebrow. "Look, lady—" And he's cut off by the flash bang. He mumbles something about not having time for this shit and pulls a couple of hand guns to join his comrades. They seem more hellbent on wrecking one another than the Tin Roof club or anything around them. A man barreling at a mobster with a katana gets cut down, but the gunman is cut down in turn by a thrown weapon to the throat. Someone gets the idea to throw a grenade at a car. One of the fighters or someone being an ass and taking advantage of anarchy? Who knows? Whatever the case, it is on like Donkey Kong now.

"Then go pee! I don't control your bladder!" Melody was all giggles, the African was all drunk, fun times.
"But I was talking to them, not you. You do what you want." She meant it really, he could do what he pleased and she'd be none the happier, but the others? That was Catwoman's bag.
Speaking of bag, the popcorn was set down as she leans forward, a slight frown drawn upon her features as the screen was focused on, the blankets thrown off of her and shoes quickly slipped on.
"Shift. You got this?" She wouldn't dare use the real name over the comms. "Something came up." She kept that interface open, able to hear and listen in while on the move without a device.

"Oh you have to be kidding me," Talia groans under her breath as the street she was walking on turns into a crazy amount of fire and flash bangs. Now she wishes she weren't under the cover of her normal business woman persona and had some form of weapon other than a knife on her. Then again, she is an al'Ghul. She doesn't need a gun to be deadly, after all. If the sale of the building she put in an appearance here is to go through, she should most likely see what it is that is going down here. Keeping to the shadows, she watches as the others panic, gather, and fight. She'll figure out her moves once she finds out what is actually happening here.

"Something came up?" answers Kwabena, frowning. "De fuck does dat mean?" The words come while his feet carry him across to the other side of the roof. The sniper rifle is tossed over the alley below and onto the rooftop next door, and then, the man vaults himself over the alley and lands upon the rooftop next door in a puff of smoke and falling clothing.
The man who rises isn't 'Kwabena', but 'Shift', clad in the gunmetal gray that transforms when he does. The rifle is snatched up, and he strides across the roof until he's standing there in plain view of everything that's going on below. The light of a street lamp illuminates him as he puts one boot onto the lip and aims the rifle down below.
He's aiming for the Italians.
The rifle sounds its silenced pops, spraying bullets that are surprisingly accurate given the mild intoxication he should be feeling. Thing is, the mutant body need a lot of energy to pull off its transformation acts, which means, as soon as he transformed to smoke and back, Shift started to sober up. Quickly.

"Bogie on the move!" She calls out, avoiding leaving out the front and sneaking out the back way. Hopefully away from the rioting few. "Call you later!" And then she goes dark.

Ozymandias's van cameras were not facing towards the alleyway, when the flash bang went off, but the flash bang did not light up the night long enough for Ozymandias to center his cameras on the source. He puts his cup of coffee down and pulls his mask up. He quickly presses a button and all the surveillance equipment is folded up inside the van, so the inside of the van again appears empty.
After a quick check to see if anyone is looking, and hearing the bullets start to fire, Ozymandias appears quickly outside of the van. Ozymandias goes after the first two people he sees which happened to be Triad. He hits the first member in the middle of his spine with a flying knee in the hopes of breaking his spine. Ozymandias jumps in the air and quickly wraps his legs around the next member's next and trapping his arm too, by the time they both hit the street, Ozymandias has already pushed down on his head enough that the triangle choke is perfectly sunk in.

Happily for Talia, one of the down Italians gets knocked aside and loses his handguns which skid across the sidewalk towards her. Isn't it nice when fate works out like that? Granted, the mafioso might not be so thrilled about it as he departs from this life into whatever awaits him. The Italians seem to have the edge here, but the Triads aren't giving up good territory that easily. More of them spill out, a couple with Uzis.
One of the Italians is summarily picked off by shift, his companions looking a bit confused, "They got more?" They're looking around from behind the cover of a nearby car.
Meanwhile, the Triad have to deal with being outgunned, outmanned and suddenly there's a guy who gets his back broken (not Bane style - but Gotham's chiropractors and physical therapists must make a /mint/). He crumples, and should he survive, well. The Triad near him has only a moment to contemplate the error of his ways as he hits the cement, chokin and fading out.
« More! » One of the tattooed Triads hisses, pointing at Ozymandias and going after him with a katana and an uzi in hand.
For those trying to assess the situation, why something like this has broken out - this is pretty good territory for dealing, the ever profitable pit fight clubs and quiet arms deals. To lose it is to lose part of a foothold in an already densely packed city. The tensions had been running a bit high since the disasters brought a lot of heroes and attention around, and sometimes it only takes one gesture, one snapped nerve…

As the guns slide toward Talia in a well fated episode, the businesswoman quickly picks one up. Who needs to guns when one will do? Watching the movements of the Triads, Talia sheds her coat and her purse, depositing them in a a shadowy corner to come back to once this is all over.
Eyeing the scene, she glances at the nearest Triad. With a quick gesture, she snags an arm, attempting to pulling one of the mobsters toward her, a gun pointed at a very lethal area. "What," she hisses softly, attempting to do so outside of the major fighting zone. "Is going on here exactly?"

"Don't get killed again," quips Shift in response before Melody goes dark. Between rounds, he murmurs under his breath some oath in his native Dangme. Another few rounds are dispatched toward the Italians. Shift has a reason to keep the Triad strong. Doesn't mean he likes them, either.
A few more words are growled in an annoyed Ghanaian tongue. These goons have clearly eaten a few too many meatballs. He pauses in firing, pulls the mask up to cover his face, then leans out over the precipice.
"Hey ass fucks!" he shouts from the rooftop, so clearly visible as he is, with the rifle aimed right across the way toward those Italians. "Fiah in de hole!"

The rifle tilts, and a spray of bullets heads for the fuel tank of the very car those Italians are using for cover. Now, we all know what happens when hot rounds strike a volatile substance, and this is exactly why a smirk has appeared on the exposed half of Shift's face.
After the guy fades out from the triangle choke, Ozymandias sees the Triad coming towards him, and the mobster under rheir cars hiding from the gunshots. As Ozymandias performs an effortless back flip to get back on his feet and create a little bit more distance from him and the charging triad member, it seems that one of his ideas is the same as Shift. He throws a concussive bomb underneath the cars of the mobsters, and throws some knockout gas bomb at the direction of the Triad members. He realizes this strategy only allows him to defend the oncoming attack from the uzi and katana wielding Triad. He reaches back for his shield as he winks at the Triad member, "Make it count."

Both sides seem to be taking it pretty hard. Nevertheless, the Triad was about to throw his weapon when his arm gets snagged and he's pulled towards her. There is something to be said for surprise as he blinks at her. A lady!? "What? Fighting. They lost their nerve. We cannot share the same place, it's bad for business," The Triad man peers at her intently. He's going to try to squirm away. She wouldn't shoot him, right?
The Italians are being picked off by Shift. The two near the car stare at him, blinking. Fire in the— oh shit. They might be fans of Mythbusters, but their car soon goes up and they're knocked back, burned and badly injured. A few more are knocked off their feet. There's cursing in a flavorful smorgasbord of languages from all sides. One of the Italians turns an automatic rifle on Shift and unloads at him. The others seem busy, disoriented.
The Triad get knocked around like so many pinballs in turn, mirroring the Italians in their general confusion. Who is where?! A few get affected by gases, wobbling. The Triad member glowering at him grunts and comes in hard and fast, swinging his blade at Ozymandias' throat. Men are falling, dead, injured, stunned or gassed. By now, even the most jaded of Gotham citizens have likely called the cops. But in this neighborhood? It's going to be at least half an hour.

Oh, she very much would shoot him and not lose a minute of sleep over it. Talia keeps the gun trained on her caught fish. "Who lost whose nerve? This is a contested area, you're saying?" Having a building in an mafia war zone could be good for business. Trying to bring up the neighborhood - not giving up on the city, etc. etc.
The squirming makes no difference, the woman has strong hands. "This is just a turf war? Or is there something else involved here?"

Silver eyes sparkle in a literal sense when the glow of flaming fuel washes over Shift's face. He stops shooting for a moment, if only to gauge the outcome. Oddly, he doesn't move an inch when the Italian turns that automatic rifle on him. The bullets spray him, the aim is good, but each one passes through the little tunnel of swirling smoke that forms upon impact, leaving him unscathed. That oughta freak the guy out a little.
Discarding the rifle, Shift pushes forward and leaps from the rooftop with a heavy thrust. His momentum only carries forward so much, before he goes into a swan dive down five stories and into the pavement, right in the middle of it all. Upon impact, his body bursts into tendrils of swirling black smoke, which rush toward the mobster's feet. Soon, the Italian is surrounded by the stuff, thick tendrils swirling about in a violent manner. Two tendrils go into his nose, a bigger one down his throat, until the man's lungs are filled to the brim with gaseous, mutant biomatter.
Lets see if the meta can freak out the bastards enough to run away.

An exasperated sigh escapes his lips as he witnesses that the Triad decided to use the katana instead of trying to shoot him with his uzi. He forgoes the shield, because eventhough the Triad member is closing fast, Ozymandias reflexes and speed are faster. He closes the distance between him and the attacker as he brings his knees into the guy's groin several times. He uses his right hand to disarm him of his uzi.
The Triad with his arm being held knows that, too. "Er. Not sure? They threw a flashbang at us. And yes, yes. Thanking that the Russians are not jumping in on this," He squirms. His english is decent enough, but there's definitely some struggles. "Just turfwar and assholes," He admits, looking dolefully at Talia. Unfortunately, one of his fallen friends' bodies at his feet and he squeals, then passes out. Really, not the most stoic gangster around.

Weirdly, the Italians seems surprised by Shift. And between the beating they're taking, some dust guy causing chaos and everything, the Italians are going to cut their losses and retreat. Neither side seems keen on dealing with it when the cops come by or losing further men. It would seem some older men calling out for both sides from the buildings. The terms 'dumbass', 'stupid fuckers' and other colorful terms are sprinkled like profane jimmies on a sundae. No one wants to rile the overbosses and they're starting to slink away to lick their wounds. A few on each side work to drag away the intact bodies as they can.
There's a brief pause and a collective wince. Being nailed in the groin several times is something that both sides can agree really, really sucks. The uzi is surrendered easily enough, and the battle is winding to wound down. They're retreating.

As Talia pries the mobster for information, she is intently listening while at the same time attempting to make sure she keeps out of the katana-ing as well as the shots and the other fights. This is no place for Miranda Tate, after all. She'd like to avoid scandals and press in this manner as much as she can. And so, when the man faints at her feet, she lets him drop with a roll of her eyes. "Amateur," she snorts.
As she still is wearing her gloves, there is no worry of prints. And as such, she drops the gun by the hand of the mobster she purloined for the short period of time she was able to get information out of him. Retrieving her purse and her jacket from their safe keeping, she straightens and keeps an eye out at the others before moving as soundlessly down an alleyway as she possibly can. Best to say she knew about this sort of thing in the papers than end up in the papers herself.

As soon as the Italian is choked out, Shift pulls his gaseous hands out if the mobster's face holes and reforms. He turns from side to side, watching as the warring parties back down with an expression of satisfaction. Low to the pavement he crouches, then leaps into the air, transforming back into smoke the moment his boots leave the ground. Upward goes the smoke, higher and higher until it becomes invisible in the night sky.

Ozymandias decides to make his escape too. He calls on his secure comlink that make it seem like he calling from his office, "Dispatcher, this is Morien. I just saw that one of our missing trucks GPS just ping a few times from Gotham. Can you call the police and tell them we might have found our missing truck, and give them the last known location?"
Ozymandias begins to make his way across the rooftops, "Tell them to be quick, and please be careful when retrieving the truck. You know Gotham can be such a dangerous place."
Riling up the cops and such is bad news for all gangs and mafias, so there's always a quiet truce not to Do It. The passed out Triad guy gets dragged away with a heavy sigh at some point after the fight. The Italians aren't going to follow Shift or even try. They are done for now. The dispatcher will respond easily to Ozymandias. The police will be called, but likely - they were called the moment the explosions started. Shootings are one thing, but…


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