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Lunch time. Well, almost a hour late, but better late than never. Is there ever a 'late' at a place that runs 24/7? The streets outside Mario's are bustling, both with mechanical and foot traffic, as people skitter about their ways, returning to work or taking time for their own breaks. The work day is no where near finished, as some people do, infact, put in overtime on Saturdays.
Claiming one of the tables by a wall and showcase window is an older man with wisps of grey in his dark hair, and a silver-pepper beard. Dressed in black, his jacket lays over the back of his chair, exposing his formed arms, marked with a mixture of scars and the tell-tale hint of some military symbol peeking out from the cuff of his tee's sleeve. Before him is a plate with two large slices of pepperoni, and a half empty glass of fizzy Coke. After each patient bite, and sip, his dark eyes move about the shop, outside toward the street, and then back again.
*
New York City as a whole might happen to smell like ass, though every once in a while it's possible to find a 'sweet spot' where the air is curiously fresh, or laced with something strong and pleasant enough to overpower the underlying notes of ..everything else. Standing within fairly close proximity of Mario's offers just such a reprieve from the usual assault on the olfactories, even from across the street (and within a calculated down-wind area.)
With the good comes the bad, as not everyone is nearby with the intent on grabbing a late lunch. Outside, across the street and partway down the block sits a black and dark blue coupe. Inside is just one lady, completely dwarfed by the American machine despite it, too, being relatively dwarfed by its full-sized sedan brethren. Large sunglasses help to conceal some, but not all, of the black spot around her left eye. The rest of the world endlessly comes and goes around her but inside of that coupe..she waits.
*
Parked short distance down the street from that black and blue coupe is the easily recognizable shape of a black hardtop '63 Impala, while Madrox sits in the driver's seat, watching ahead, waiting for Domino to make her move. He's here for backup, not to run the show. He needs no disguise, sunglasses or otherwise, and cranes his neck around to look at his face in the rearview mirror; a bit of food between his teeth is unceremoniously picked out, before he gives himself a smile in reflection. Damn, Jamie, you are one handsome fellow. No wonder the ladies are all tripping over themselves to get to you. Oh wat, they're not…
*
ROLL: Domino +rolls 1d10 for a result of: 6
*
ROLL: Madrox +rolls 1d10 for a result of: 6
*
Who really knew what the pair were waiting for. This was Brooklyn, however, and all signs pointed to a near by location as the very heart of the F.o.H.; but that was for another day. Down a small alley that runs between Mario's and the business next to it, are a few shifty looking figure moving what appear to be massive bags from one location to another. They march, back and forth, going to and fro, ducking into cover and out again, each time carrying the same 'shape' over their shoulders.
Inside the pizzeria, the aged man continues eating his modest meal, and finishes off his glass of soda, allowing a few chunks of ice to fall into his mouth, only to crush them away between his teeth. Another glance around, he watches as a pair of men speak to one another, one behind, and one infront, of the main counter. Moving from his seat, he reaches for his jacket and slips it over his arms and shrugs it into place. As he approaches the pair, he say something, which is silent to those on the outside, but the pair react with wide eyes and surprise. The man behind the counter bolts, as the one before it finds his head palmed, and then cracking into the bartop. Watching the body slide down, the man in black strides to the shop door and flips the sign from 'Open' to 'Sorry, We're Closed'.
*
'Today's weather report calls for more grey skies and—'
A white hand wrapped in a fingerless black glove irritatedly swipes out toward the radio and flicks it off before returning to its former idle rest beneath the lady's chin. Domino shifts slightly and releases a long breath, giving the mirrors yet another quick glancing over before returning her attention toward the pizzeria. Being out on the hunt is a dangerous move, these days there is a powerful force combing the city in search of her. The problem with going to ground is that it's -Boring As Hell.-
Besides, she has a handful of Madrii on her side. Having another handful of eyes on her side is never a bad thing!
Just who or what is she waiting for isn't easily answered. Before it has a chance to show up the sign on the eatery is flipped over, prompting a muttered curse to slip out with her next breath. This..isn't how the op is supposed to play out. The others fighting around, that's going to scare her mark off before she can catch them.
A loose hand quickly forms a fist and smacks down upon the wheel before she climbs out into the cold.
Then she retrieves a short Ithaca pump-action shotgun from beneath the car's rear bumper, shaking the mud and grime off of the side while setting a brisk pace toward Mario's.
Another pedestrian recoils at the sight and blurts out "Oh, Lord!" while scrambling to backpedal away from the strange pigment-less lady.
"He's gone AWOL today, take a number." A quick glance toward the Impala has Dom jerking her head onward. Look alive, Madrox! There's more people in need of a good ass-kicking!
*
It's merely by a stroke of luck that Madrox happens to not be admiring his ruggedly handsome features in the mirror when Domino gives him the signal. Moments later, four Madri pour of the Impala, moving swiftly to match Domino's pace and step alongside her. "Shit never goes to plan does it," one of them murmurs to the black-and-white lady, as he reaches inside his jacket to take hold of the handgun concealed within. "Hoping for a minimal body count, or do we just not care any more?"
*
"Nope," Domino flatly agrees with Madrox as the five march down the sidewalk. "You're talkin' to the wrong lady if you're worried about murder. Just leave the old guy for now."
Oh look. The door's locked. Guess she'll just have to turn around now and—
*SMASH!*
Shattered plate glass rains down upon the tiled floor as a hand reaches inside and almost politely disengages the lock, sweeping aside so much debris as the albino steps inside with shotgun in hand.
"Anyone here seen a Michael Garrett?" she calls out over the existing fight.
Go on, throw something at her! Let's make this -fun.-
*
The four Madri rush in after Domino makes short work of the door, each drawing handguns from inside their jackets, and looking for threatening targets. They won't shoot until someone actually becomes a danger to themselves, or to Domino, but duplicated weapons or not, the bullets will still do plenty of damage to the soft squishy innards of commonplace human thugs. They move more fully into the building, spreading out to cover more ground, and start looking for the man they've come to find.
*
As the door swings and crashes against the side wall, the group of mutants are greeted with the heavenly smell of classic Italian food. On the floor is a slumped over man gone ragdoll, his face stained crimson, and nose broken in a number of places, swollen and deep shades of violet. There's a paper bag left behind on the counter, slices open, cleanly, and showing what appears to be nothing more than flour, but the texture is all wrong. Corn starch, perhaps? Baking soda?
Something clatters in kitchen, a heavy, metallic 'tong' before rampant curses in Italian start flying. There's a scuffle happening, that much is apparent to the ears of anyone who's ever been in a brawl before. But that name, the one Domino calls out, seems to pause the action. A couple crashes later and the older man who had been enjoying a few slices of pie exits from the kitchen area. His face is decorated in a free splatter of blood and a busted upper cheek.
"Christ. Can't you read. Shop's closed. Come back later." He gruffs before disapearing back into the kitchen once more.
*
Mmm, smells like pizza and outlawed substances… The fight's already shifted into the back, a detail which quickly leaves Dom's shoulders hanging slightly as the disappointment becomes all the more tangible.
"I really -hate- not being invited to these moments," she asides to one of the Madrox Men. "It's just so rude when I have to invite myself."
When the one guy, the older guy she wanted to keep alive for a moment longer than the others, shows up she looks his way with a canted head and one of her brows gently hooked upward. She's staring at the man like he's about to impart the secrets of the universe to her.
What she gets isn't quite so interesting.
After he's disappeared she levels the cut-down shotgun like a large pointing stick, jabbing at the air in his direction. Her decision is quick and simple: "-That- one."
After declaring this she storms right after him into the kitchen, intent on grappling him with the side of the shotgun wrapped around the front of his neck. If this means smacking him upside the noggin a few times with the same shotgun, well so much the better for her! It shouldn't be too difficult. He's distracted, right? And old. And not born of a secret Government biological weapon program. Hell, this should be -easy.-
*
It's never easy. One of the Madri lean over to check the vital signs of the man sprawled out before them; he's not going to fix the man up by any means, but good to know who's still breathing. "Well, if they sent out invites it wouldn't be as nice a surprise," he murmurs in reply to Domino's complaint. The group of mutants heads on in through the building, toward the kitchen. He does, of course, take Domino's cryptic motion and statement about Frank to mean that he should be a primary target. Handguns held at the ready, once the Madri are through the doors, they look to aim at the man indicated, spreading out around the entrance.
*
A pass into the kitchen would welcome the pair into a varitable war zone. Shots were barking out now, sending bullets into kitchen equiptment, and slurring up with yells and curses, now made louder without the barrier of another room. A set of double doors is left wide open, showing the path that was made for the transport of the bags that the mutants saw earlier. One truck is by the loading bay, as the other is across the street. The bags being lifted look identical to one another with the exception of a letter of the brand name marked with a different hue of ink.
Domino would hear something familiar to her, the softened 'pew' of a silenced firearm being fired from behind cover. On man rocks back with a bullet to the face, as another spins from behind his own cover, having been hit in the knee, and then two to center mass, all in quick succession. The show of 'reinforcements' by way of the albino and the dupes causes the goons to pause in confusion. Taking this moment, the older man sprints from behind his cover, leveling a few more shots before grabbing a blocky cheese grater from a hook, and swinging it at a man's face, digging it into his cheek and pulling until it pulls free, leaving behind grooves. His firearms levels toward Neena and the Madri in turn.
"I don't have time for this. If you're with them, your funeral. If you're not, stay the hell out of my way." He growls.
*
Well, this is ugly. "Mop up the simpletons, I don't want to get caught by some idiot with poor trigger discipline," Domino tells one of the armed Madrii.
Now, then… This other man is really trying her patience. The shooting of everyone else back here gives her a valid reason to proceed with some degree of caution, safer to a point but with the downside of giving The Mark time to set himself up for the initial threat. By the time Frank's pointing a gun at her one more of the goons is curled up on the floor clinging to a stump of a wrist, a nasty trail of blood leading back up to a countertop where a large pie cutter had been used to remove the man's hand which has been left lying there still clinging to another weapon. The cutter itself, however, appears to be missing.
So..the chances of her being with these guys is likely pretty slim.
"So sorry to interrupt your schedule, but go to Hell."
The missing Blade of Dismemberment had been thrown across the room a moment ago, further disrupting the natural order of the kitchen. As if timed to the second a glass container full of spices slips that last fraction of an inch off of a counter and shatters across the floor, triggering the exact moment that she lashes out at Frank's gun with the grip end of her shotgun, held by the muzzle to extend her reach by more than a foot. Disarm, disorient, disable!
*
ROLL: Frank +rolls 1d10 for a result of: 9
*
One of the Madri gives a nod to Domino, and the quadruplets move to find cover, lest stray bullets make short work of their otherwise humanly fragile shells. There are no silencers on the handguns they're using, but at this point it doesn't so much matter, does it? Targets are chosen, and when opportunities present themselves, one Jamie or another pops up to let loose a few rounds toward the opposing thugs; Frank is, for the moment at least, left alone. Madrox will let Domino handle him, since they seem to have a good rapport going. "We're just looking for someone, man.. I don't give a fuck about whatever you've got going on here.. well, I don't appreciate you shootin' up my favourite pizza place, but.."
*
As the man with tracks across his cheek starts to crawl away, Frank grits his teeth Domino's way, his arm lowering to pump on more slug into the man's head to make him stay still. One boot goes forward only to see the blade come flying toward him. Slicing across his sleeve, he shows pale skin underneith, and a wash of red soon after. Then 'crash', bottles clatter and smash, spewing out a mixture of sauces and spices, some kicking up against Castle's face as his body had turned along with the force of the cut.
Sputtering and coughing, he snorts out through his nostrils and spits to the floor, the hammer of the butt sending his pistol flying sideways and smashing against his fingers. It's not long before he reaches out with his free hand, gripping at the albino's weapon of choice and uses to yank her forward. A step forward to close distance, he swings his head down, cracking his brow against the bridge of her nose.
"Looking for someone?" He questions with another rumble in his voice, a new pistol up and at the ready, "You found him." Most of the goons are gone, (gone as in dead or running away). The Madri have no issue taking any of them down, should they wish to. Stray rounds pepper into bags of white that rain across the floor, kicking up dust and clinging to the chilly air that sweeps in. In the distance, sirens can be heard.
*
It takes Domino a fraction of a second to realize that these aren't just random 'simpletons.' These guys have some bite to go with their bark. They just happen to be getting dropped so easily because the older guy knows what he's doing.
He's also built like a brick shithouse parked on top of a rocket booster.
She's already prepared to rush toward the guy as soon as he's disarmed. She isn't expecting him to catch her own weapon and -yank her closer in the same instant.- The resulting *Crack!* isn't exactly subtle but it sounds a helluva lot louder from where she's falling! There's blood aplenty, and another sliver of a degree and she'd have one very broken nose to boot.
The albino drops hard onto her backside, disoriented, blindly reaching out to the side for something solid she can use to pick herself up with.
Then another pistol drops neatly into her palm, as if magic. The gun from the severed hand, still twitching as it searches for its next set of orders which it will never receive.
Still on the floor her first shot easily clears Frank's imposing figure, panging off of a baking stone and catching another goon before he can get a shot at one of the Madroxes.
The next shot would have gone straight between Frank's eyes if not for the *Click!* of a dead chamber.
Pale blue eyes suddenly look a lot more concerned than a moment ago, staring over the sights of a useless pistol to a guy who has a pistol of his own already aimed right back at her.
This nervousness instantly breaks out into a cheeky, nervous grin. "Nice to meetcha," she says just as nonchalantly..as..she..can.
*
Jamie (and Jamie, Jamie, and Jamie) take care to make sure none of the goons make it out of the room. The ones that aren't keeping bullets warm with their bodies aren't allowed to flee, if it can be helped. Gunshots ring out from the guns in the hands of the Madri, putting to rest any notion that witnesses or survivors will be found. The last of the thugs dispensed with, the Madri emerge from their respective cover just as Domino finds herself out of ammo, handguns levelled at Frank; he had thought Domino could handle the man on her own, but he evidently has proved otherwise. "You couldn't handle one old man?" He says to the woman, cracking a grin at her expense.
*
ROLL: Madrox +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 27
*
The click doesn't even cause the old man to flench. It didn't fire, and the woman's now cheeky grin causes him to smirk, eyes still red from the substance that had shattered out of the spice jars. A gun aims at Domino before the dupes level the playing field. The comment digs a bit, his age was showing after all, and there was nothing to stop its flow. With a duck, and roll, his jacket's tails fluttering behind him, there's a sicking sound of something popping under flesh as his boot slams into the front of one Madri's knees, a bullet digging into his temple after the fact.
A worn mitt reaches for the collar of another, cluthing his head in the crook of his arm and dragging him back, heated muzzle pressing and sizzling against the temple of another Madri as Frank begins to back away. "Remember, kid. You gonna shoot, shoot. Don't talk." With the sirens growing louder, the older man continues taking counted steps backward before finally snuffing out a second Madri and making his get away.
*
"I didn't have my coffee," Domino flatly replies to Jamie's harassment, her faux-friendly demeanor vanishing in a heartbeat. Despite being at a disadvantage she doesn't drop the non-firing gun. She has her reasons.
One of them is so that she has something substantial to throw at Frank the moment that his attention is no longer focused upon her. The guy's attacking the Madrox dupes! Throw the gun she does, swearing anew as she throws her bleeding self behind the first piece of cover she can find.
Cover found and two Madri down she brings out her own matched semiautomatics, pistols which she knows go bang when she needs them to! A shot from each slams through the actions, putting two fresh holes into the doorframe which Frank had just disappeared through.
She should chase his ass down. Kneecap him as he runs. She can still do this..! There's no way that old bastard's going to sucker-punch her then walk away! This is just a minor—
-Fuck.- Sirens. Injured teammate. She can barely see clearly with the battering her face had endured. The single word of thought is made vocal a couple of times for good measure as she hauls herself to her feet, grimacing the entire way. "You good, Madrox..? We've gotta roll."
*
ROLL: Frank +rolls 1d10 for a result of: 6
*
Red washes through Madrox' vision as the first, and then second duplicates are met with a bullet. As their lives are snuffed out, their portion of his psyche is destroyed, and the collective consciousness is stretched and snapped. Both remaining fire their weapons wildly at Frank's departing form, but without focus his aim is sloppy, at best. The target escaped, Jamie falls to his knees on the floor, and the other remaining duplicate fades as he is re-absorbed. The two Madri-corpses are looked to, a look of dismay on his face. Can't leave bodies here to be identified.. but what happens when he re-absorbs a dead one? Eyes lift to Domino, as if looking for advice, but then reach out to touch each of the dead selves in turn, absorbing them one at a time, and slowly lifting back to his feet, wordlessly extracting himself from the pizerria, and back to the car.