1965-10-12 - Gun Sale Gone Bad
Summary: Blowing their cover means that Steve and Tigra have to take on one of the weird weapons slowly filtering into New York City. It's all fun and games until someone gets shot! Or rather, a motorcycle does.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
tigra steve-rogers 

"Hold on!" Steve shouts over the rush of wind and the gunning of the motorcycle's engine. It roars and rubber skids as he pulls out into New York traffic like a total lunatic, heedless of his own safety. Somewhere, Bucky is wondering why he suddenly has acid reflux. Hopefully Tigra's got a firm hold about his torso as they begin to weave through stopped cars after the black sedan attempting to cut through the side street.

Inside the sedan, three gentlemen all in a panic and one rustling around under the seat to pull out a gun — one of those guns, in fact, unearthly-metallic by sheen and with a series of venom-green domes along its barrel. This one shoots what appear to at first be paintballs, but with some painfully-effective corrosive reactions on organic and inorganic material alike. A gun-sale busted by the Captain and tigress is turning into a car chase! A window is rolled down and the guy wearing the black stocking cap aims at the motorcycle — thump! The gun fires and a miss. Behind the wake of the motorcycle, the cement bubbles. Steve crouches low over the handlebars and simply revs the cycle faster. "Jump on the roof?!" he calls out as suggestion to Tigra behind him, eyes on the sedan.

Tigra's got a firm hold on Cap as they race along, her tail streaming behind them like a tiger striped banner. "Public works ain't gonna like that!" she says, glancing backwards at where the cement is bubbling. As the cycle revs and they close the gap, she hops up, balancing on the balls of her feet, hands holding firmly to Cap's waist. "You better not be setting me up for a hot tin roof joke," she warns him, watching the movements of the car. She tenses, and then springs across the distance as easily as a cat leaping onto a dresser and slams home her finger-claws into the roof for purchase. "Tickets, please!"

|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 10

|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 11

Steve reflexively looks up as Tigra's shadow passes over him and he laughs even as she sticks her landing on the sedan's roof.

"I wouldn't dare!" he shouts back. In the car, the driver cusses and the guy with the weapon cranes his head to stare wild-eyed at the tigress now joy-riding atop their car.

"Shit, boss, there's a cat-lady on the roof!" he calls. The sedan begins to jerk wildly to the left and right, nearly fishtailing at the current speed of travel and absolutely traveling into the opposite lane once or twice. Horns blare and Steve flinches to see the collisions barely averted. The gun-toting goon hides away a little farther into the car, but still aims at him again. Thump-thump! A crank on his part barely keeps Steve from being spattered with the acidic orbs and he opens the throttle more yet on the motorcycle, now aggressively closing in on the sedan. Goon number two rolls down the opposite window and that's a huge trench knife gleaming now! With a snarl, he aims at Tigra and the blade flashes!

Yeah, he probably wouldn't dare. He's too classy for that. On the other hand, Tigra would've dared, if applicable. "You say that like it's a bad thing!" she yells at the mook. She braces herself and gives the rear window a kick, but isn't able to get a good angle on it, causing only a few cracks. Another kick and it starts to star. She looks up just in time to see Number Two with his knife, and at this range barely has time to react. Like a gymnast doing a routine on a pommel horse, she kicks out her legs to the side, pivoting around her hands, getting her torso out of the way of the knife. She carries the motion through, aiming a solid kick to the side of his head.

|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 6

|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 1

The trench-knife slams into the hood of the car where Tigra's body used to be, at least a third of the way into the metal. Guy shouldn't have put that much force into his swing, whoops. Her feet make a solid impact against his skull and his face bounces off the small section of metal between back window and gas door. He goes limp, immediately concussed beyond use with his upper torso hanging from the window.

Steve on the other hand? The goon with the gun squints and shoots again, thump! He's not hit, no, but the front tire of his bike? The Captain's eyes grow wide even as the fine spray begins eating away at the rubber. At fifty miles an hour, the result is impressive. The tire explodes with a tremendous sound and the frame of the motorcycle impacts the pavement beneath him. Boy, that's an abrupt stop — and Steve's not wearing a helmet. He tries to dismount in a leap from the bike even as momentum throws him forwards. The road beneath him is not kind. He tucks his head and tries to roll with it until he can get his shield on his back between himself and the pavement. Once he does, he slides like an inverted turtle for another two dozen feet before coming to a stop. With a wince, he ignores road-rashed hands and shoulder-blades as he tries to scramble to his feet. The sedan roars onwards, taking the next corner sharply enough to make the car's tires lift.

Tigra smiles toothily. That was a very satisfying thump. The grin fades almost immediately as she sees the muck hit Cap's tire, foreseeing what's likely to—owch, yep, there it went. "Alright, now I'm mad," she growls at the guys in the car, and tries to take advantage of the too-fast turn, kicking up and hauling back in an awkward attempt to increase the car's angular momentum in the turn, trying to get it to roll.

|ROLL| Tigra +rolls 1d20 for: 12

The yank on Tigra's part is enough to make the car continue along on the precarious balance of wheel vs rim for a good number of feet yet. Unconscious goon has no idea his face is merely a foot from the road traveling at fifty-plus miles an hour. Gun-toting goon squeals as he slides back into the car, the seatbelt being the only thing to keep him from sliding down the leather length of the backseat. The driver cranks hard on the wheel to try and get the car to slam flat down to the pavement once more. A hard shudder vibrates through the vehicle and it does, jouncing the interior mechanics enough to make it miss a cycle of engine. A stutter and it slows even as the driver tries to get it running again in a panic.

Around the corner barrels Steve in a dead-sprint, honing in on that car like an avenging guard dog, his jaw set and shield in-hand. He's got an abrasion on forehead that can be seen and roughened knuckles, but no one's stopping him now. A throw of the shield at the cracked back window and KERSMASH — it travels clean through the front window to boot. Multiple yelps can be heard from within the car.

The tigress tenses as the car tilts, bracing herself if she'll need to leap away from a tipping car. Nope, not this time, she realizes, with that strange mix of disappointment and relief that comes when you deliberately try to do something reckless and fail. Or perhaps succeed is a better word in that context. If one tries to do something reckless and manages to not do so, and remain safe, is that a failure, or a success? Or any of us successes? Why do such thoughts go through the mind at times like this, while clinging to the roof of a car full of mooks heavily armed with bizarre weaponry while hoping a super-soldier will be catching up soon? Who knows. That's just life for you.

Hearing the engine stutter and feeling the car starting to slow, Tigra pivots on her hands again, kicking her legs upwards to a brief handstand. She holds it as she sees the famous shield come hurtling through the air, and through the window, and then kicks forward and down, driving her feet first through a window at the yelping crooks within.

|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 17

|ROLL| Tigra +rolls 1d20 for: 17

The shield travels on and bounces off the vertical height of a street-light, angling back for Steve to catch in his mid-air leap. Be jealous, border collies in your Frisbee competitions, this man is a medalist at retrieving his own metal half-dome. He watches as Tigra performs her incredible feat of athleticism and disappears into the confines of the vehicle. It's still stuttering at a far more comfortable speed now and he's able to approach it at a glancing sprint. One angled punch, two angled punch — that's both tires down on one side of the car to disable it in the middle of the road. Touche, bike-wrecking assholes!

The gun-toting goon immediately yelps when Tigra enters the interior of the sedan and swings the gun around to aim the butt of it at her head! The driver's fumbling around to try and pull his small perfectly-normal side-arm from its holster, but adrenaline hampers even as it aids — his shaking hands make it difficult to do! Plus, now Steve's glaring at him from the front of the car in his readied stance before it, blocking the way if the man tries to bullrush him with the mostly-handicapped vehicle.

Once inside the car, Tigra gives a loud snarl to try to intimidate the occupants. Even for a big car, there's still not a lot of room for fighting, but this is where a cat has a definite advantage over a human. Twisting about like she was made out of rubber, or her tail made out of springs, she's able to get leverage the goon can't, and goes for his gunhand with one hand, while driving her other elbow into his face.


|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 6

|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 19

Boy, the unconscious goon is missing out on all this fun! The gun-toting goon is practically hyper-ventilating now. Tigra's snarl hit on the lizard half of his brain and while he's not wetting himself, he's turned into something primal in return. The elbow flies and knocks him in the cheek, in turn bouncing his head off the interior of the car. The gun will need to be fought over, given it's got a strap crisscrossing his body and his death grip on it isn't going away, even if his eyes are almost crossing now.

"Put down the gun! NOW!" Steve's commanding voice can easily be heard as he approaches the sedan, shield upheld defensively, as he sees the driver continue to fumble around. The man, coolest of all cats in the car (with the exception being Tigra, seeing as she's the current queen on-site), manages to get the Ruger out and raise it at the Captain. BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!!! Four shots fired off.

The goon fights against Tigra, rocked by her elbow attack but still having a grip on the gun. She squeezes with her hand on his, hard, trying to make it -hurt- and get him to release the gun. Meanwhile, she hauls back with her other arm and give him a proper punch. The sound of the gun going off in such close quarters and such proximity gets a mrrowl of borderline distress and briefly disorients her.

All four shots bounce off the shield as Steve crouches behind it reflexively. The dull, metallic sounds of impact echo around the street. Staring pedestrians duck and run, knowing the sound of gunfire easily enough. Poor New Yorkers.

He and everyone in the car hears the sound Tigra makes and that's enough to truly bring up the fighting blood in him. Nobody hurts his teammates. The guy in the driver's seat has enough time to make a whimper of preparation before the Captain reaches in and yanks him through the broken front window of the sedan, heedless of steering wheel and dashboard. No smart words from Steve, just a quick tap to the face with his shield and the guy crumples once dropped to the street.

The gun-toting goon screams as he feels finger-bones crack beneath Tigra's grip and relinquishes his hold on the gun. Now it's a matter of separating him from the chest-strap around his body — which may be difficult given how he's now kicking and flailing in close quarters. A solid punch, however, teaches him to knock that off. He slumps to the seat in the vehicle, whalloped cold.

Tigra gives herself a brief shake to reboot her brain, to use the vernacular of a later time, grateful that she never lost her grip on the gun toting thug. The punch hits harder than intended, and the grip does more damage than intended, but the result is not to be argued with. Breathing a touch heavily, she slashes out with her claws, slicing up his clothes and the strap of the gun, then taking it away from him when he stops resistance. Still a bit shaken, but beginning to recover, she slips over the man to pop open the door and step out. On seeing the job Cap did with the driver, she offers him a grateful smile.

Panting from his efforts and controlling his temper, Steve looks up at the sound of the car door opening. Oh, good, it's the tigress and not one of the goons. He nods back before glancing over his shoulder. A local cop car pulls up with a squeal of sirens and tires and both officers pile out, their own guns raised and aimed at the heroes.

"NYPD, drop the — oh, wait, no! Stand down, it's Cap and the tigress," he shouts at his partner, who's just as quick to holster his weapon. The second officer turns around and quickly jogs over to the next two arriving patrol cars to relay that information. Steve walks over to Tigra and puts out his free hand, intending to collect the weapon from her. "You okay?" he asks, looking over her body without a trace of lechery in him.

On hearing the piercing squeal of sirens, Tigra holds her hands out away from her body, the gun held by the barrel, and clearly not ready to be fired. When they stand down, she relaxes, and when Cap approaches, she offers him the weapon. "Yeah, I think so," she answers what is probably the only red-blooded American male to look at her so purely platonically. She wiggles a finger in an ear dramatically. "These guys are sensitive, and the gun going off like that, well, if I don't expect it, can be a little overwhelming." Now his turn for a once over. "Looks like you got a little scratched up, yourself. Should we put out a call to Captain Iodine?"

It doesn't matter what the cops say about the weird gun, it's Steve's gun now. He takes it and gets to tying a hard, quick knot in the slashed shoulder-strap, all the better to sling it across his own body. This one's going back to SHIELD for proper testing in a confined, laboratory experience.

He frowns at Tigra to hear that she was momentarily in trouble, but he's just being the worry-wart. He can tell she's fine in the end. Upon her question, he splits a wane grin and touches at his forehead as if just realizing that it twinges there. A wince. "I can abide by a little sting. Hopefully the headache will go away in a bit. No wonder they advise helmets." He nods to the officers stepping past them. The goons in the car and outside on the pavement are collected up, handcuffed and read their rights if conscious; otherwise, toted away and into a nearby ambulance having just arrived. Steve gives them all a hard look. He's not amused or impressed by the antics of the last half-hour. "I'll be fine, Miss Tigra," he adds, glancing back to her with a far more friendly expression.

Even as he frowns, she's beginning to stand more easily, clearly recovered and relaxing from the experience. Tigra watches the goons, knowing the cops can handle them but ready to help if they get uppity, or pull out any other strange weaponry. "Yeah, I'm sure you've been through worse," she responds easily. "And come on, Cap, you can drop the 'miss.' Miss Tigra makes it sound like I'm teaching elementary school."

Those wheat-gold brows lift even as Steve laughs softly, giving a little shrug. He knows he's being proper and antiquated in his mannerisms, things hard-forgotten even in the current time.

"Steve then, if I'm not allowed to call you 'miss'. I'm not in the red-white-and-blues, so you can't call me Captain," he jokes lightly. One of the officers stands nearby as if to think to take a description of events from the heroes, but is also out of immediate hearing range and not inclined to immediately interrupt, given how he's listening to his radio now about another disturbance a few blocks away. No doubt someone's called in SHIELD by now. "I can't see you teaching kids. Corralling kittens, sure, but not kids. And that's not a hot roof joke," he points out with accompanying finger and small smirk.

"Steve," she agrees with a nod. Though frankly if she wants to call him Cap, she will. No, the rules aren't fair, but that's cats and women for you. She lifts an amused eyebrow. "Yeah, I can't see me as much of a teacher, either. Can't see me with kittens either, for that matter." She snorts amusement at the absence of the hot roof joke.

"Yeah, I figure it'd be a little like herding cats," the Captain comments blithely as he turns to check on the status of the goons. All squared away now, with one of them on their way to the hospital — probably the unconscious guy whose head bounced off the outside of the car. That trench-knife is still hanging out there, buried firmly in the top of it. The officer intending to interview them has wandered off, probably aware that SHIELD's going to do the job and keep their answers to themselves as is. A sigh from Steve and he looks back to her. "All's well that ends well, I guess. I would've been in trouble without your help. Good job, m'am." Yep, he just m'am'd the tigress even as he holds out his hand for her to shake, grinning at her.

Tigra got him to drop the 'miss,' She'll leave ma'am for another day. With a matching grin she takes his hand in a friendly grip. "You would've been fine with out me," she counters. "It just would have taken longer to take care of all of them. Glad I could be here to help, though." The grin widens a little bit. "It was fun."

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