1964-07-28 - Down With O'Connell
Summary: The Punisher sets up O'Connell's pub for a fall (with heroes inside)!
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
starfire francesca-castle jessica-jones steve-rogers Zhenya 

O'Connell's Pub. It was clearly the place to be if you're from the part of the neighborhood it resides in. Irish. All walks of Irish from what they considered the blacks, and the red blooded pure borns who had freckles upon their faces and easily burned skin. The floor itself was made of wood, but there was space enough to house tables. Space enough to house dartboards, space enough to even crack off a dance if you get drunk enough. The jukebox blasts something incredibly jazzy, but there was no one paying attention. For occasionally, for a pint, a man would stand up upon the table and speak about his prowess as if he were viking born or something else entirely.

Fists would pound upon the table, women would bring out the gruel for the men to eat. And yet, when a certain crowd comes in, the rowdiness would taper down and most people would behave, but it was clear that the bar owner had an 'in' with the local mob in the area, and the 'tenders were in on it.

And then there was Frankie.

Smooth and cool chick who occasionally stood up from her spot and chatted up a guy as she headed towards the back. No one would follow her, which was good, for when she came back there was another beer in hand and happy faces. There were times she'd be gone for minutes, sometimes for a half an hour, but it was clear with the amount she drank she was good and drunk.

And the right people were in the bar at the right time.

So hanging back, she listened. Watched. Waited.

This night? It was a fucking doozy. And it was going to go down in the history of the most fucked up shit she's ever pulled.

'Vanessa' is the sort of girl to make a man look twice. Partly because no girl walks that confidently into a place around this corner of the city unless she's got a hand on a gentleman carrying a big stick. She's rough around the edges from a slight lack of sleep, and probably something to do with the piercing, unfailing stare of her Norse in Dublin ancestors. The only goal right now is a place to sit, preferably somewhere tucked in the dark away from whatever passes for the noisiest source of sound. Probably nursing a hangover if those big sunglasses are anything to go by.

But first she has to get there. Liquid courage might help with that. "Shot o' Jameson, start with that," she grumbles as she halts at the bar in front of the publican. Fancy name, fancy title. He's the man with the alcoholic plan, so she gives him a bit of respect and slaps a crumpled bill on the countertop. "Then fried egg if you got any. Bloody hell."

She is the mob in the local area by proxy. Especially with the off the boat accent probably common to four generations of Irish in New York or Boston. They breed fast. Her mannerisms are tired and afflicted, probably by a headsplitting migraine best drank off.

Sitting in the corner with a dark beard and hair is Butch Keegan. His parents were immigrants and bootleggers from Boston, or at least that's his cover story. Butch Keegan is actually Steve Rogers in disguise. Torn jeans and a leather jacket complete his incognito look. With some good acting he's gone from All American posterboy to a guy you would head to the other side of the street to avoid.

Jessica Jones isn't disguised as shit. She sits at the bar with her leather jacket off, draped over the stool next to her. A mook had tried sitting next to her, got about three words into his patter before she flicked and arm and put him onto his keister on the floor. He'd thought to make more of it, but the bartender waved him off. Jessica isn't a regular, but most bartenders in the Five Boroughs know who Jessica Jones is.

She's not there undercover, she's not doing detective work, she's just craving Irish whiskey and enough of a crowd for her to blend in and not get noticed too much. Of course, trouble's going to show up because it always does. For the moment, though, whiskey and cigarettes and leave me the fuck alone is the order of the day.

Today seems to be the day for weird customers at O'Connell's Pub. Starfire has made the most token effort at a disguise, namely putting a sun dress over her 'normal' clothing and only hovering a few inches off the ground. The red hair at least looks normal but the orange skin less so.

The alien princess opens the door a little after Vanessa and cheerfully waves to everyone. "Good day to you friend bar tender. May I please try a glass of the dark beer beverage?" She helpfully points to a sign saying Guinness before digging around in a pocket for some coins.

Vanessa was quite the looker, according to Jimmie. Jimmie was the bartender who would host the most with the drinks that they desire. 'Awe'ri lass, comin up!' He spoke cheerily, cheerily which matches his near Santa Claus look if he had brownish red hair, and fingers beat to hell and back. Tickets were written, drinks were slid down, ticket slammed down upon the passing tray which housed a few more orders of beef stews and random meat pies that were cooked and housed in the back.

A cute little one saunters up towards Butch, one hand pressed down upon the table, hip cocked as if she created the dangerous lean with fingers that curled into an arch and a smile that just won't quit. "What can I get ya'?"

Jessica? Well. She was a special sort of animal. People pretty much just left her alone because they knew what was good for her. But the mob, not Vanessa, kept a keen eye on her, the leader of them.. (who currently shuttled himself into the corner seat of the bar to watch 'his' patrons), had a little itch for dark haired beauties.

And yet, Starfire's entrance was met with a collective silence. Brows began to lower, even as she cheerily came towards front and center ready to purchase some good.

'What the fuck?'
'Blimey muth-..'
'Is she floating?'

In fact, the bartender rudely stares at her, a frown slowly curling upon his lips. And then he says it.

"We don't serve ya' kin around 'ere.."

And perhaps, it was the distraction that Frankie needed, for once again she downs her brow with a slap of money and an empty bottle upon the table, gathers her coat.. and promptly leaves.

"And a pie, bless your soul." No mistaking that good smell. A glass of whiskey neat is what Vanessa gets. She palms it and mutters a curse under her breath. Good hearing won't help polish up a pig's arse. The hunt for somewhere out of the way is limited when there aren't many seats or stools, but damn her luck if she's doesn't find one. Mostly it's by glaring at the current occupant at a four-topper with not even a drink, reading a newspaper. "What in under fuck, man. Get a fucking stool." She shoos the offended patron without much care, flicking her hand along. "You're in a fucking pub. It ain't the bloody library. Blessed Mary, some idiots just don't get it."

Hail whiskey, full of glass, our need is with thee. Much as Vanessa prefers otherwise, she sits on the high chair and throws back the drink. No subtlety here; whiskey has nothing on vodka, but the burn is sweet. The only thing to destroy it might be the finish. She pops the glass down. And behind those big glasses, frosty eyes focus on the comings and goings, the friendly faces and the unfamiliar. Not her problem.

"Beer be fine," Butch replies. The skills he learned in helping to liberate France are really helping out Steve Rogers here. This place is, supposedly—if you believe his cop friends down at the precinct, a hive of all sorts of villainy. Especially with the mob, who Steve is especially interested in bringing to justice.

Jessica Jones throws her head back and takes another shot, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The commotion. She sweeps her dark hair back out of her face and gives a look at the bartender with bloodshot eyes.

"I was in here three weeks ago," she starts, taking a drag on her Camel, "And I watched you serve Rory O'Connell. Now I know Rory's got family and he's got connections and he shits potatoes and licks clovers just like all the rest of you funny talking motherfuckers," she says. "But he also likes to show his dingle to little girls at St. Mary's. Did a nice three year stint at Riker's for doin' more than showin'," she says.

"So if you can serve that kiddy-groping piece of Paddy garbage a pint with a smile on your face, I imagine you can give the floaty girl whatever fruity shit drink she's havin'. And we can all go back to havin' a nice old time with a smile on our faces. How 'bout that?"

Starfire tilts her head, then smiles. "Oh I'm sorry should I have ordered in Gaeilge?" she asks politely. "I did not mean to be rude." And she promptly switches to perfectly fluent Irish and repeats her earlier order. Despite the increasingly hostile looks Kori is getting there doesn't appear to be any concern or fear. "Is that better?"

"Oh I don't think this Guinness drink has any fruit in it," Kori explains earnestly to Jessica. "It is a type of beer or ale which is not served in other establishments. It was recommended to me by a new friend I made earlier today. He was going to buy me some to try, but then he had urgent business with his wife. I think she was upset regarding something… I do hope there has not been a death in the family."


This is where the shit starts to get hectic. Frankie immediately ditches her drunken demeanor by sheer force of will and 'work'. Plants were made before hand, a few yards of chains and padlocks which were soon wrapped around the front door of O'Connell's. Padlocked into place. Bam. More chains hitched up upon her shoulder as she spies a couple who happen to give her a side-eye. The little spitfire does nothing but opens her jacket. Inside, a pistol. Don't ask her what kind, only tell her to use it. (Cause the player don't know!)

With a whip and a yip they skip along as she heads into the dark alley, pack of cigarettes fished from her back pocket, one tossed up from the fleshy pack and match struck against the grain of the box. It was a moment of pure pleasure and being the only light.. well, not only light in the darkness. Well. Too bad she doesn't see it that way..


It was much hubbub. The waitress immediately popped up and served the handsome man with a twirl and a stick out of her tush, Butch probably would get a load of that, if he chose to pay attention, even as more tickets were slapped upon the tray, she head to the back without breaking a sweat. There were scores of yells from that direction, orders were being placed. Hard egg. Noodles. Fresh tray of peanuts. Bring more of that watered down shit to the front before Stan the Man gets angry! That sort of thing!

Vanessa was going to get her pie, and Jessica was going to get her lip.

"Wa' don'tcha unner stand, lass?" The fat fingered Jimmie points out towards Jessica. "Rory ain't got no ange skin! Rory only have a prollem with his dingleberry and I ain' havin' no bloody mutant fuck up ah bisness!"

There were little gripes, grumbles and groans. But the boss man? Still had affections for Jessica.

"Ahhh Shut your pie, Jimmie!" The boss man calls out. "Give the colored lass a drink! Less be happy 'er skin ain' ta color of shit or'n she piss tomato!"

To much of his dismay, Jimmie grabs a dirty glass and begins to fill it with the dark beer, which was left -way- on his side as a form of passive aggressiveness.

But the bar was getting a bit lively, for as the double doors to the kitchen remained sealed, it was clear that something in the back was burning.. and it -could- have been the pie..

Vanessa has a fork and goddamn she knows how to use it. Breaking the crust of the pie, she tucks in while the gravy still practically boils and the meat swims in its own savory goodness. A jab of the tines and her mouth is full, the better to stop talking about who diddles who in the wrong corner of town. Enough that her stormy frown and head swing to Jessica to mark what now? The only giveaway of her displeasure is how furiously she chews on her food with mechanical certainty to gobble it down. The face of hunger, for those who know how to look, while nursing that hangover or migraine. Whatever ails her isn't being fixed by ale or aliens. "Money's money. Stop actin' like she's Larry's cocktrough." Opinions given, she turns back to dining as a sterling example of good manners higher than those pissants making a fuss out of everything.

"I thank ya kindly," Butch says to the waitress and gives her a bit of a wink as she takes off. As soon as she turns, he swallows his grin. Steve focuses on as many conversations and as much information as possible. On the outside he just looks like a loner, which is good both for this place and for him.

Jessica Jones is getting ready to push up from her seat and throw knuckles to shut the racist pile of crap up, but realizes it just wouldn't be worth it. Yeah, she could probably fight 'em all, but that would be one (more) bar she couldn't come to drink. Plus her rep gets worse and other bartenders follow suit. She sinks back down when the boss calls 'em off anyway.

Starfire's speaking to her leaves her blinking and she blows smoke at the tangerine colored girl, "Sugar, I don't give a shit if your friend told you to slap your tits on the bar and make yourself a white Russian. Just drink your fuckin' drink and keep your feet on the floor, ain't no need to show off,' she says, taking yet another shot and wincing as it burns her throat.

"I'm gonna need another round and probably a cab. No subway tonight, I smelled enough piss when you served me my beer."

"Thank you very much," Starfire says to the bartender, reaching for her drink with another smile. "What is a white Russian? Another kind of drink to try?" She lands, frowns at the faintly sticky floor, and takes a sip of her pint. "While I am new to North America I do believe that particular means of ordering a drink seems… unusual. American humor perhaps?"

Among the prattle, everything seems to be looking up. Sort of.

What the patrons didn't know right then and there that all points of egress have been shackled down with chains and crowbars to make the doors stick. What most of them also didn't know is, that the kitchen was already set a blaze with molotov cocktails that were thrown into the window and a few of the workers were attempting to put out the flames.

It's too bad, the busty blond that had the beer dropped it upon the ground, the glass shattering to add fuel to the fire (well, not really, it was a watered down mess), and releases a blood wrenching scream that had hairs stand up upon their forearms!

Perhaps that scream is what Frankie was looking for, for the assault on O'Connell's starts.

The windows shatter; a cascade of glass falling to the floor, a brick thrown through first, and soon more cocktails. One by one, the cloth rips itself from the bottle neck, the lit flame soon spreading by birth of the liquid, catching the curtains at first, and soon an unlucky bystander who begins to scream and flail.

Maybe stop drop and roll wasn't apart of the lessons when they were young, for the body that was lit aflame begins to spread and create more chaos until the body itself falls to the ground in a burnt.. crispy.. heap.

Yep. O'Connell's is done. And everyone inside is officially trapped.

Vanessa's not a nice girl. Not with that connection to the mob and not with that foul mouth on her. What she is not is stupid. Smoke and the burning embers of a perfectly good pie insult her hopes for a nice night to nurse the hangover. She kicks the back of the chair with her boot to get some space and drops to the ground, and then that's when the music starts. A cacophonous serenade of crackling flame and breaking glass. She doesn't waste any time, pouncing on two of the Molotovs thrown in. Unlike the movies, they don't tend to explode or combust everything in a wide radius on contact. Really, she doesn't care to be caught in a flaming coffin. Not today.

The blonde swivels and flings the pair of bottles out through the shattered window whence they came. They go in rapid succession with a directness that oughta have the Yankees eyeing her up as a backup in their bullpen for those special games. The ones they gotta muck around with the Dodgers or some other team. (The player doesn't know baseball in 1964, okay?) Any more in the vicinity get the same treatment. New York can burn. Just not around a Black Widow, thank you.

The Dodgers moved in 1957. It's a sore spot for Steve Rogers (and a happy one for his player) but the Avenger isn't worried about baseball right now. He's much more concerned about trying to get everyone out of this bar. Do they deserve to be saved? That's not really his call. Steve reaches down under the table to flip it over onto its head to try and smother out some of the flames as he throws his chair right through the broken window. "This way!" he yells to anyone who will listen.

Jessica Jones moves herself quickly. She doesn't like these people. She doesn't like anyone. Doesn't mean she wants them to burn alive and certainly not while she's there to smell it.

She moves fast enough, grabbing her jacket and tossing it through the crashed open window Cap bashed apart - gotta save the leather, before throwing herself into the shattered pane, shoving broken glass aside and bracing it from any collapse that might come from the flames - and, in the process, creating a fireproofed passage for anyone wanting to get out without knocking a hole in the wall and flooding the place with fresh oxygen.

Hey, she did okay in physics in school.

"Get out, get out, move it, move it, haul tail, you drunken Irish fucks! Pretend there's a mouthy Protestant outside, c'mon!"

The first few molotovs fly through the windows just about the point Starfire is finishing her drink. "If anyone needs help getting out please shout," she offers calmly, reaching over the bar and lifting the bartender up and over with one hand. "Please make a prompt escape, I shall check everyone has got out from the back okay."

The flames don't seem to concern the orange skinned stranger, except perhaps for the damage they're causing her summer dress, and she flies into the kitchen area. Going clean through the door in search of other people in need of rescue.

Fire takes eagerly to the wood panels and the cheap curtains. Small blooms grow into a whole sheet of copper flame as the one or two homely touches for the bar blaze away. Screams from the kitchen find a cook stumbling out, accompanied by billowing grey smoke filthy with an oily reek. He can barely catch his breath, falling onto the busty blonde screaming hysterically.

Those with a little more sense or experience in trouble - read, ninety percent of the male clientele - make a hasty retreat through the path opened by Cap and Jessica. Some might consider beating the back of her skull in later. Right now they need to book it to fresh air before the place caves in. A pecking order is rapidly established, those near the front first and the ones catching up going through later.

The bartender has the wit to pull along two of the serving girls. Similar efforts follow, especially the hysterical screamer. They're none too gentle about it. Better bruised than a pretty corpse.

Vanessa does not bother risking life or limb for a chair, an alien drinking, or anything except the meat pies ruined. The third bottle she can snatch up without burning her fingers too badly goes right out the broken window. It might join the two already smoldering. Another hard kick punts one of the dropped beer glasses far away from her, a trail that will probably end up crackling away. That's good enough for her. Pulling her coat tighter, she dashes for the opening in the wall made by other people. Heroes tend to be defined by being very dead. "Who the piss wants to fucking burn down the fucking pub? Burnin' sods, waste of good drinks."

Jessica Jones grabs ahold of the old bossman when he starts scrambling his girdled ass up and over the edge of the windowsill. She takes him by the scruff and, satisfied she's saved the ones she can save, she dangles him from one arm. The orange skinned girl can probably save the rest, she's a supertype and Jessica's got a mighty curiosity all of a sudden.

"Who'd you piss off, hamhock?"

Steve is busy helping some of the bars seedier patrons out. Rather than stay in safety, though, he returns back into the bar to help more. That beard he has is sagging and he finally just rips it off and chucks it. Helping people is more important at this point.

"Bwuh!" shouts 'Hamhock' who will never live this down. "I haven't the faintest, who woul' ha' a problem with a man an' his bar? I serve drinks, I don't preach the gospel!" He tries not to kick around too much lest he end up flung back into the flames.

Although the doors back near the kitchen are chained shut it doesn't take much effort for Starfire to simply punch the whole door out so the kitchen staff can escape. Then she starts a more thorough search, even checking the basement keg storage area and the toilets on the off chance anyone didn't notice the building catch fire, and generally staying inside long past the point a normal firefighter would risk looking for people.

Jessica Jones rolls her eyes, "Yeah, you're a regular stand-up guy. Straight fucking businessman you, entrepeneur of the fucking year," she sighs. She literally tosses the guy over her shoulder, hoping he lands on his fat melon head.

She shoves her head back into the burning building, peering around and trying to make sure nobody else is left behind, "Hey, citrus! Get your scrawny behind out here before the building collapses!"

Steve's hair is bleeding black onto the side of his face. He can feel the temporary dye and its viscous quality on the side of the cheek, but he doesn't bother to slow down. One particularly big biker is having trouble and Steve easily reaches to grab the guy by the back belt loop and lifts him up and over the top to get out of the building.

It starts as a quiet click, something omnious in the dark in between the buildings as that cherry red cigarette flares to life with an inhale of breath. Apparently, watching the scene was amusing, but amusing in the sense that people were struggling, some were falling over the other, one person lost a shoe and a lady's boob was hanging out.

But no smile crosses Frankie's lips. If she were a feeling thing.. if she were an emotional being, she would have laughed.


Mayhem? Meet Chaos. For the gun fire that draws from the shadows aimed at everyone (well, all the bad one, bystanders.. sorry) with the attempt and intent to put down and kill. Yes. Frankie was going for the gold. No. Frankie probably will run before she's found out. You can't undo the bad tucked behind bars..

Straight out of the fire, Vanessa keeps going into the street. She has no intention for sticking around and rescuing anyone but her own hide. There isn't a need for her to lift another finger now that she can rub the soot off, finding a bit of wall to shelter under. Look at all those big damn heroes doing their jobs, anyways. New York trouble brings out the best of them and, well, she's plenty interested in seeing what might show up. Or who. The sonnets of falling bullets and firing guns she tips her head to. Maybe, maybe she'll hear the source. Maybe even think of tracking it.

"Please do not worry about me new friend! I could lift the entire roof if required," Starfire shouts from inside. "Before I leave I need to finish checking everywhere for other survivors." Even the token attempts at hiding her unusual nature are long gone now as Kori simply ploughs through any impediments to her search. Be they walls, doors, falling roof beams or raging infernos. Of course her summer dress has long since gone up in smoke to reveal silver and purple alien garments that are considerably more fireproof.

Jessica Jones snorts and shakes her head as Starfire continues to flit around inside the burning building. She says she's okay, Jessica ain't gonna wipe her nose for her, she's on her own.

Then the gunfire breaks out.

Jess grabs the nearest waitress, shifting her own bulletproof body into the line of fire and feeling a couple of rounds pound over her shoulderblades. Good thing she wasn't wearing her precious leather jacket.

"You better run, gunsel, or I'm gonna make you eat your own lead!" she shouts. Another perfectly good drunk, ruined by assholes with weapons. At least there weren't any god damn swords this time.

When the shots ring out Captain America dives behind a car, dragging the big biker with him. He is up on a knee, peering through the glass, trying to find the shooter and racking his brain for an idea as to what to use for a weapon. The shield seemed a little conspicuous. He left it at home.

It didn't matter, not anymore. There were a few flinches as she unloads and dumps upon the crowd. Jimmie managed to get clipped in the leg. Good. If she had patience, if she had time, she'd go for a headshot, quick. Clean. Easy. In fact, there was a thought, with people distracted, attempting to rescue the patrons, the dark lady could stalk out into the crowd of people. Unloading round.. after round.. after round.. until the barrel of the gun was a smoking red just like the end of her stog.

But the way that certain people moved within that crowd was suspect. Even though there was a little buzz within that made her knees burn and ache with the need to sit down to feed that fuel with more drink, she couldn't afford to take liberties. Blood lust was there, yes. But.. it was -not- all that serious.

Unless someone gets to the entire crew first? They'd probably live to see another day. (Here's to hoping smoke inhalation would get them.)

Both of the pistols soon click-clacked as she squeezes the trigger to be sure, dropping the guns upon the tops of her half opened bag, yanking the fabric open so that they could fall into as her hand swiftly zips it -up-.

Ain't no time like the present. It was time to go!

Gunshots do make for all kinds of trajectory issues. That guy fell and he probably didn't get shot from the sky, so follow the evidence back. The sound too. Vanessa keeps scouring the road and the usual places to find someone unleashing a couple clips and obviously not on the run doing it. She goes scrambling if any of the bricks start chipping near her. Vanessa's MO in this whole business is not be shot, thrilling.

With the building completely evacuated Starfire finally decides it's time to leave. The building was hardly a fortress before the fire damage and now it's practically made of paper. Still it wouldn't do for anyone to get hurt by the rubble so she carefully punches her hand through the wall and tears an alien sized exit, pulling the rubble into the building rather than scattering it out on the sidewalk. "I did not see any bodies alive or dead inside the building. Is everyone okay?" She enquires as she floats out onto the street. Still ever so slightly on fire. "I can fly anyone who is injured to the nearest hospital if it is safe to move them."


Someone had called the proper people during the mix-up, there were bodies almost everywhere. Some were shot, none of it lethal much to Frankie's dismay, but the damage was done and it was time to hunt. Soon enough, the streets were crowded with red and blues, blankets were handed out to those who were too traumatized to speak, police crews were directing traffic, witness accounts were tried.. written down, and not spared.

The ones that Starfire wasn't able to cart off remained behind with light burns, treated on scene and set home with salve and asprin. As for the heroes? Could there even be a little breadcrumb left behind as to who was the culprit of this nights fire?


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