1964-11-16 - Ticket to Ride
Summary: A carjacking in Chinatown.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
slade-wilson tigra lucian 

Why is anyone up at 6:08 AM in Chinatown? The sun didn't even bother. Let's hope the sun rising has nothing to do with its creator being outside to orchestrate its elevation over the eastern side of the horizon. The world would have been plunged into frozen apocalypse many times over, if that were the case, but oddly not today. The veritable Morningstar trods a well-worn path through the grey gloom, perfectly capable of deciding where to go. He's on a track to a large parking structure occupied by very few vehicles of any note. Some of the workers bound back home from overnight shifts need to get their Dodges and Fords out of the compound. Others may be living out of said cars, rather than pay the privilege of an apartment.
Presumably he doesn't need to drive like the hoi polloi. His calf length Russian blue coat trimmed in ostentatious gold braid may be the ultimate sign to come and mess with him, probably some forgettable clubber who took the wrong short cut through a side street rather than wait for the bus. Lucian keeps his hands in the coat pockets, turning to the entrance. There's not even a functioning wooden arm, the stubby piece of plywood serving in its place stopping no one but vampires.

Some people get up at 6 in the morning. Other people are still up, at 6 in the morning, and it should surprise no one that one such person is femme feline Figra. Er, Tigra. CHinatown's always an interesting place for her to meander through, and to patrol. Interesting sights, sounds, and smells. Some good, some bad. She's currently perched on a building across an alley from the parking garage, watching comings and goings, and her tail gives a small twitch at the sight well dressed man entering the garage.

There shouldn't be anyone paying attention to this place at this time of the morning. Which is why it makes for a decent storage space for… gear. The battered ford is not actually functional after Slade removed some pieces of the engine, so it is not even something that would get stolen. The backpack in the trunk has explosives, backup weapons and spy devices. It won't get used after all, since the operation ended being simpler Deathstroke had considered.
So the white-haired man came here at this unholy hour to retrieve the gear alone. The car, untraceable and useless, will rot here for good. He is dressed simply, and wearing a black coat. He moves quietly despite his size and the large, military issue backpack.

Some places are too still by morning; that forms a barrier, a defense against people wandering by. Others use the Venus fly trap method, hoping bystanders fall in when lured by pretty neon and inviting places to explore. The parking garage is squarely in the former camp. No one comes here without just cause. Sanctuary, shelter, vehicle, worse. Lucian doesn't belong as he cuts a smooth stride into the place, exuding a careless confidence certain to irritate anyone in the mercenary or criminal set. He doesn't bother sliding his hands from his pockets, moving into the stygian gloom that ought to be darker, filthier, uninviting around him. Damn man shifts in a way that doesn't quite permit the grime to get close, though as he walks through the empty spaces. Wedged up on the third floor corner, a pair of others are busily trying to do the opposite of Slade: store something, yes, but make a vehicle work. The big old '51 Mercury is an ugly boat large enough to double as a tug, at least, though not quite Panama Canal worthy. Their trussed driver is trying to squawk but a piece of duct tape over one's mouth makes that hard. Red cheeks puff out. A bruise is already forming over one eye. The glare he's throwing the two triad members is downright murderous, not that it will do him any good right now until he can get his hands free. The treatment matches how they're treating the lock on the trunk, jamming keys in, twisting back and forth until the sticky latch gives with a noisy groan.
That seems /perfectly/ innocuous, doesn't it? Don't mind the handsome devil — the only one, thank you — broaching the up ramp, disregarding most things. Well, mind the Ford. He tips his head for a moment, sweeping for signs of movement. "Hm. Not you today, I think."

Tigra's hearing is good, damned good, but from this far away, hearing muffled cries for help is beyond even her. SHe does tilt her head slightly at the sound of someone having an awkward time with a trunk. An all-nighter too tired to properly work a key? Someone not paying attention? None of the above? She has nothing to go on as she stands up and lazily stretches, but hey, she's curious. You knew that would be coming, right? She leaps across the alleyway, doing a lazy flip midair, and lands on the top of the garage with barely a thump. She disturbs a wino trying to get an early start on an all day buzz, flashes him a toothy grin and says, "Don't worry, you're just drunk," before descending into the parking garage.

Slade also has pretty acute senses, so the muffled squeaks and the struggles with the trunk lock warn him with plenty of time something suspicious is taking place. Still, he needs to walk past the 'trouble' to get out of the parking garage. He just adjusts his pace to make it quieter, sticking to the shadows. A glance at the scene and decades of experience give him a fair assessment of the situation. Triads at work. And sloppy at that. Not really his business.

T The open face of the garage makes it easy for Tigra to find a foothold, claw hold, whatever she needs. Also useful for emerging from the same open space, incidentally, should the need arise. The middle and upper storeys of the garage are linked by smelly, questionably safe stairwells no one really ought to investigate, unless Constantine on a run of bad luck. As far as the thugs on the upper third floor are concerned, the job ahead of them is an easy one. Lift their protesting captive into the trunk, tossing the squirming, unpleasant fellow inside. His efforts to inchworm over the chrome bumper are made a little harder when the thug brings down the heavy lid to the trunk twice, the resonating thunk enough to knock him senseless for a second. The squirming and muffled shouts can come later, as the skinny bruiser slams it shut.
The new driver is already working on the door, faster than the first one. Helps having keys, after all. Just the sort of thing that Lucian can detect without much difficulty; he's not listening so much as following a trail burned into the mind, an unerring compass to bad and wicked things. Takes one to know one. He smiles ever so lazily, a great cat on the prowl, once again ghosting past Slade. The actual cat woman up there, when he sees her, takes away the feline effect except as a lyric. Well. He mostly raises his eyebrows.
"Move!" hisses Mr. Trunk Thug, coming around to the passenger side.

It would be quicker to descend down the stairwells, but the echoes inside would make it hard for Tigra to pay attention to what's happening in the garage. Plus, well, she doesn't wear shoes, and there's a limit, you know. Instead, she'll drop down from one level to the another, dropping between cars easily. And then there's a thunk that doesn't sound right. Too…fleshy. Meaty. Now she's gone from mildly curious to attentive, and the hissed urgency comes clearly to her. She walks towards the car in question, her own eyebrows lifting at the sight of Mr Nice Coat ahead. Concerned citizen? Passer by? Participant?

Slade tenses briefly when Lucien passes by him. Never good to be seen in the scene of an ongoing crime. No one would believe he is here at this time in an honest business. And he is not.
The backpack hits the ground, and he pulls out helmet, which he dons quickly. It helps hide his face; it also identifies him as a mercenary killer the police would love to ask about a few deaths in a certain cemetery no long ago. He is heavily armed, too. But no armor, never a good thing.
Still, he is not trying to cause trouble, or help those in trouble. He merely hides and watches.

|ROLL| Lucian +rolls 1d20 for: 16

Honest business doesn't ever involve Lucian, except when it involves Lux, so hardly registers as a blip on the fate meter. He slouches in, finally drawing out his hands out of his pockets. Not at all armoured, him, or armed with anything other than a smile that could wreak havoc on the mind. And he simply stands dead center on the route down to the exit. Unless they fly that Mercury out the side of the building, the thugs aren't going to easily get past him without swerving across empty parking space outlined by yellow paint. Then they'd be violating the law so many times over.
They don't seem to mind this, headlights off, starting up the engine and reversing that lumbering ox of a car out of the space while the tied up man in the trunk kicks and does whatever he can to bump free. The jammed lock on the trunk could help, but if the lid lifts, what's he going to do? Peer out at Tigra? The hard headbutt that leaves his brow bleeding does just that.
"Just go!" yells the passenger, pulling out a gun. Sitting duck, if the guy gets out.

No more smiling from Tigra now. Things go from curious to clearly criminal and she dashes forward towards the rear of the Mercury. "Leaving so soon?" she asks. "We haven't even gotten acquainted yet!" She skids to a stop at the rear of the Mercury and crouches down. "Hang in there," she says to the trunk rider, whether he can understand or not, grabs hold of the bumper, and heaves, lifting the rear wheels off the ground, muscles dancing beneath her stripes.

Slade is not an impatient man, so he stays in the sidelines watching, single eye narrowing behind the helmet and the nervous, incompetent energy of the gangsters. And then becomes a grimace when both Lucian and Tigra move in. Super-heroes. Not that he has anything against them on principle. But they are on the way.
Calmly and without hurry, he pulls out a large semi-automatic, verifies the safety and slides towards the staircase. Chances no one gets shot tonight are going down quickly.

Tigra can outpace the drivers doing a cool twenty before they have to brake and corner. The car fishtails badly; the tires squeal. Poor tied up fellow gets knocked about as the trunk lid bobs alarmingly and the heavy chrome bumper makes for an excellent anchor when the back wheels are up. Suddenly momentum goes nowhere. What to do in the circumstances?
For the passenger thug, that means stick himself out the passenger window and try to shoot past the steel wall at Tigra, because he largely can. The driver has a much different take: unbuckle the seatbelt and duck, kicking out the door. The car can't go anywhere on two wheels and gunning the engine didn't do more than haul the catwoman along. He at least has cover from bullets this way.
A little less so Lucian, standing there casual as can be, in front of the car. "Ling Hong," he says. "Is this really how you want to end your days?"

Well she got their attention at least. Seeing the thug leaning out with a gun, Tigra flashes him a very toothy smile, then heaves more to lift the car a few more inches before simply letting it go to let it drop on is suspension and disrupt his aim at the least. She'll try to drop with it and roll into the trunk to help keep the trunk rider from getting bounced around.

It is like a trainwreck.
Slade watches from the distance, the dimly lit parking garage would hide details from a normal human, but not from him. There are still a few things the thugs could do to pull this out, but they are no longer thinking. Ling Hong and his friend are going to die or go to jail. He is sure.

|ROLL| Lucian +rolls 1d20 for: 12

|ROLL| Tigra +rolls 1d20 for: 20

Would that he could shoot her. Tigra is a big orange target. The passenger firing at her gets jerked about in the wiggling car and the gun jams, the rate of fire too much for the clip or the internal mechanisms. All said and done, he curses at the weapon and jams it in his pocket, deciding now is a great time to get away. The driver isn't taking chances, either, hitting ground and bolting. Best way is back the way he came, splitting attention.
Lucifer shakes his head and just sighs. "Amateurs."

Back out of the trunk she rolls, landing in a light crouch for only half a second before she leaps up onto the top of the Mercury, landing hands first. Arms flex and spring her into another leap over the front of the car, brushing against the low ceiling of the parking garage, landing and sliding smoothly into a run after the one who tried to shoot her. She gives a loud snarl to try to unnerve him and tries to tackle him. Roughly.

Someone said amateurs. Ah, the blond man. Too clean and bright to be a normal human. Too passive to be a vigilante. Strange and stranger. Still, he is right.
Most criminals are amateurs. Some would say %<u2018>cowardly and superstitious%<u2019> but amateurs covers for that neatly. The handgun goes back to the pocket. Only thing left is watch out for stray bullets. He really should leave.
But trainwrecks are fascinating.

Not much of a fair fight, a thug in great health versus a damn /cat/. She can outrun the best Olympic sprinters in the world, and he probably guesses she has claws. As he goes racing at a scramble for the side of the wall — better to jump! — Tigra will get a hand out, or a shoulder into his back. Oof. Down he goes.
The other man racing off won't get as far as he wants. Lucian shakes his head and slides his hand back into his pocket. He might look almost bored. But the waxing light is no friend to the driver, concentrating upon his shoes. Nothing to see there except they're now suddenly turned to ash, flames dancing on the skin. Enough to hurt and force an immediate drop to the ground, the man shrieking, clutching the soles.
It could be worse. The Morningstar could have burnt his soul.

When it comes to street fights, a fair fight is the worst fight, and Tigra takes full advantage of her, well, advantages, catching up to the thug easily and tackling him from behind, dropping him, hard. She flips him over as if he was nothing more than a child, and with the claws of one hand pressed against hsi throat, searches for his gun. "No funny business, Sparky," she tells him, before whipping head around at the sound of his companion shrieking in pain. "What the hell?"

Alright, and that is enough.
Super-cat lady he can handle, but the blond is some kind of very precise pyretic. So if they turn on him he would have to… About 70 ways of killing them cross his mind in a few seconds. None beats the %<u2018>no reason to do that%<u2019> that is his initial mindset. Slade slides back to the staircase and walks away quickly, his steps hard to catch over the sounds of fighting.

Lucian slouches, damn fine posture otherwise borne out under that fine coat. Maybe he took a little too much inspiration from the military cut and inspired braiding? All said and done, he looks vaguely amused and pleased by his efforts. How not? "Charming gentlemen, aren't they? That one's still armed, be careful."
Not that the man rolling around in howling pain and fear - probably both - will be shooting anything any time soon. His concerns lie elsewhere. And the one under Tigra's claws wets himself because those are pointy and eviscerating, scary things.

Didn't help that Tigra tensed her fingers a wee (heheh, wee) bit more than intended at the sound of the shriek. She retrieves this one's gun, wrinkles her nose at him, and then drags him inelegantly along towards the other thug and slouching gentleman. "What did you do?" she asks him, a little unnerved by the obvious trauma inflicted. "Oh, right," she amends quickly. "Watch these two?" she asks before hurrying to check on the victim in the trunk.

"Hopefully deterred them from kidnapping and a life of crime. Such a loss of potential," Lucian replies. He carefully crosses the distance to go towards the man with the wet pants, frowning at the scent of urine. Ugh, gross. The trail will be assaulting him for hours. He minds the pair as Tigra goes to release the trunk victim, who isn't a saint by any means. He bellows behind his tape gag.

"This is going to hurt," she tells him, before ripping the tape off quickly. Usually the best way to do that. Especially if you're not the one having the sticky thing removed, before helping him out of the trunk. "You certainly gave them a lot to think about. And scream about. Remind me to try to stay on your good side, Mr…?"

"Cao," hisses the fellow with his mouth suddenly bright red, cheeks redder than ever, and voice hoarse. He spits out a stream of built up slobber, unable to wipe his face clean until his hands and feet are free from the hogtie. Rope and cable do their job well.
Lucian chuckles softly to himself as he watches his two unfortunates from on high, staring at one thoughtfully. It doesn't help that the look of pure terror on the driver's face resonates a chord that the blond man would like, briefly, to ignore. "These two have a good deal to answer for," he adds. British accent and understatement apply liberally.

"Take it easy," Tigra says to the red-faced one, using claws and strength to free his hands and feet carefully. "Kidnapping, assault, who knows what else," she agrees with Lucian. "I'll carry them down to the street and then we can call the police and let them take it from here. Or I can call them, if you'd rather not be seen," she offers, understanding how that goes, having once had no veneer of respectability to protect her.

Lucian laughs a little. "Bad news for a business owner to be seen upsetting someone. I doubt fully they would take well to my interference. I'm already expecting reprisals. Especially from that fellow who left. He harbours a worrying trend for violence, so do be careful, ma'am."
Just that nonchalant, whereas the angry Chinese victim groans when he's released from his captivity. He rolls to his back, exhausted, puffing for air and cursing up a blue storm at the two. Though he knows better than to just attack.

Fellow who left? She frowns thoughtfully…ahha. There. A scent. Someone was in the area, but she never noticed him. Interesting. She'll know him if they meet again, though. "You too, sir," she bids Lucian with a friendly smile, one not intended to show off her teeth. "If you have problems, you can leave me a message with the Avengers." She'll haul the injured thug over her shoulder to carry down. The one who soiled himself, she ain't touching more than she has to. "Alright folks, let's get moving. Down to summon and wait for the police. Ahh, paperwork.

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