Father Death
Roleplaying Log: Father Death
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

An interrupted arms deal reveals a deceptively dangerous new foe. Featuring: An abridged history lesson for Ghost Spider.

Other Characters Referenced: Carolus Sinclair, Gwen Stacy
IC Date: October 03, 2019
IC Location: Hunts Point, the Bronx
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 04 Oct 2019 17:57
Rating & Warnings: PG, light violence.
Scene Soundtrack: [* ]
NPC & GM Credits: Gwen Stacy playing Father Death and Goons
Associated Plots

* OOC Time: Thu Oct 03 21:49:57 2019 *

* * *

NEW YORK

A parking garage in HUNTS POINT, the BRONX.

Hunts point is considered the worst neighborhood in New York. It's also home to one of the largest food distribution facilities in the world!

Right now, in a slightly garbage-smelly parking garage, two floors, with the first floor sparsely occupied with a number of dirty pickup trucks with a mixture of construction equipment and contractor detritus parked overnight.

It's dark. Really dark. Lit only by a set of headlamps, a hearse turns into the parking garage and starts crawling up the ramp to the second floor, where two dingy white panel vans are parked with two spaces between them and the rest of the lot is empty.

A few gentleman (in the delicate sense that they are men in sixteen coats, as is the custom of New York evenings, and in no other sense) meander about the panel vans in the dark, checking watches or their phones and adjust buldges under their coats periodically.

It's absolutely an arms deal. It is one hundred percent an arms deal. Or drugs, but probably arms.

A single man steps out of the hearse, broad shouldered and thick of neck - with close-cut blonde hair and a bit of blonde fuzz about his jagged slab-like chin, with a chip-dent cleft in his chin that only increased his face's severity. A pair of cold green eyes flashed in headlamp lights before the engine of the hearse cut.

Around the fore of his neck, visible under his dark brown greatcoat with a draw-belt that hung to either side of his waist, was a Roman collar.

"I trust you have that which I need to do God's work?" the hearse-priest asks the assembled goons, who look between each other, shrugging.

A single man, with a pageboy cap appears, from the sliding panel of one of the vans. "You really wanted some hot commodities. Buying these from the Vulture was a pretty penny, but it's all here. Some of those blue alien weapons, shaped charges, and as many RPGs as we could get our hands on."

The priest nods. "Good. Yes, these will send the unclean to meet Saint Peter for judgement."

* * *

It's a little past closing time for a local restaurant that Carolus is fond of for, among other things, its desserts. He emerges from the door with a cordial thanks-for-tolerating-how-close-I-cut it, a to-go bag tucked underneath his auxiliary left arm. Ordinarily this would be when he would start taking off for home, a quick flight towards Brooklyn. Ordinarily. Unfortunately he is keenly familiar with a number of things abnormal, and two of them waft across his setae and antennae with a clarity that denies him the ability to brush it off as Just Nothing.

The first thing is munitions. New York City isn't terribly keen on people carrying around a bunch of those.

The second is the bizarre scent of Chitauri weapons. They're extremely distinctive, especially when somebody is… for example… stacking a candy van full of them.

It's the second smell that aggravates Carolus more than the first.

He takes a moment to rip open the back of his hoodie and shirt to expose his wings, while raising the hood and drawing the strings tight to help conceal his face, antennae emerging comically from the top of the hood.

Not really bothering with subtlety, Carolus buzzes up towards the parking structure, pausing a few floors below where he SMELLS people to deposit both his doggy bag and cell phones. Then he continues his ascent, flitting over the railing and skimming the ceiling of the garage, coming to a halt on the backside of the vans.

"Father Mulcahey," Carolus says in a mock-surprised tone, "I thought you only bought /penicillin/ on the black market."

"Anybody who doesn't want a broken trigger finger should go home." He adds, dully.

* * *

The priest doesn't scowl so much as curl up his roof-corner nose as if beholding something beneath contempt, like a cockroach or rat.

"It is a sin to bear false witness. But one cannot expect the twisted seed of Satan to speak truly." The collared man retorts dryly, gesturing at Carolus as if to direct the assorted gangers to start shooting. Mostly they gawk.

"Anyone who wishes to support the…"

The gangers look to the priest, and then back to Carolus. One starts just buggering off, hoofing it down the ramp, and the priest brings a hand up to rub under his right eye. "I shall speak plainly for you, little lambs."

His left hand slides smoothly into his greatcoat, withdrawing an enormous handgun and firing it at Carolus with a quick BLAP - BLAP of two deafening gunblasts. His voice, shortly after, is a pious roar. "I AM NO FATHER MULCAHEY TO YOU, SINNER! TO YOU, I AM FATHER DEATH, SENT HERE BY THE GOD ALMIGHTY TO PURIFY YOUR SINFUL FORM! NOW SHOOT HIM, OR YOU WON'T GET PAID!"

With that, the rest of the gangbangers start fumbling with their coats to draw submachine guns and pistols forth to fill the air with a hail of gunfire, and one or two reach into the cargo of the vans to get more choice weapons. One whips out some sort of sonic disruptor, blasting apart reinforced concrete with a cone of solid sound, and another gets out a blue-beaming blaster on fully automatic that sprays down the building across the way - and the air Carolus inhabits - with coruscating beams of lethally energetic light.

* * *

Hovering in the air so that weapons fire will be drawn to the ceiling, Carolus has given himself more-or-less all the room he needs to work with to do exactly what he wants to. It is only by the light of headlights that this place is illuminating, and his own eyes are well-attuned to darkness. He /waits/ for the inevitable weapons fire so that when he evades it, it won't be in danger of going wide into surrounding buildings or along the street.

When at last it does come, he plunges forward in a burst of otherworldly speed that carries him at once to the hearse and its headlamps, kicking each of them out with a shattering of glass that plunges the garage into TRUE darkness.

Carolus also drops out of the sky at that exact moment, because he gets shot in the side with a ridiculously oversized revolver that only a guy like this would actually carry. This is /not/ the fight-ending injury one would expect it to be. But it still /hurts/, and catches him off-guard enough that he doesn't respond to it as stoically as he should. Not-coincidentally though, it also lets him just drop out of view of the murderous Chitauri weapons that are /much/ more legitimately threatening.

He slaps a hand over his own mouth to stifle his urge to swear like a sailor, scrambling along the ground in the darkness and taking a moment to touch a hand to the point of contact to make sure he's not bleeding out. Great. Got careless, let the serious goons get ahold of weapons that could actually cause problems.

A moment of silence follows, accompanied by a brief buzzing when Carolus propels himself along the disgusting garage floor to the underside of one of the vans. It's not hard to pick a target.

A quartet of arms appear from beneath the van, grabbing at the ankles and knees of the guy with the /beam blaster/ and dragging him underneath.

"What's scarier in today's world," his voice echoes out, "not getting paid here, or the potential hospital bill?"

* * *

Carolus has done this before - and his quick thinking and self-framing in the air saves thousands of dollars of property damage and almost certainly a few casualties.

The night lights up with gunfire and blue flashes of light as the goons run about, fire wildly, and fumble for flashlights as Atlas goes from 'Random Hoodie' to 'X-Man' to 'horror movie monster'.

In all of this, 'Father Death' takes care to pick his targets, but makes a soft 'tisking' noise as the lights are smashed out, and starts fumbling with his own greatcoat in the dark.

The beam blaster guy goes down hard and grunts (and mewls) as he gets disappeared like the gangers are fighting a xenomorph.

"SAVE MEEEE!" he cries, before getting face to face with Atlas with a broken wrist. "H-hey man, you already gave me a hospital bill—aaagh!"

His arm is twisted a bit more. "So I'm gonna have to go-ho-ho-hoooooooooo—" pained whimper. "-with the guy who'll definitely kill me if I don't at least try to kill you?"

From outside, not hearing the mewling whimpers, a voice calls out over the for-now ceased gunfire. "HEY! Actually, I've got really good health coverage!"

"Shut UP, Clarence!" another voice calls.

From under the truck there's a sticky 'thwuck!' and a sharp cry before a few more muffled whumps and a familiar female voice shouting a challenge.

"Hey! Do you guys know how LOUD this thing is? Sheesh, you're doing some serious percussion here! But as a rocker myself, I really have to question your style!" Ghost Spider announces, the sonic cannon - and the guy weilding it - covered in sticky webs and lashed to the ground.

Father Death no longer appears to be in the active fight - just scared goons with flashlights. He must not have gone far - and nobody else has run off.

* * *

"Chitauri weapon tax." Carolus snaps, uncharacteristically angrily for how light-hearted a remark it seems to be on the surface. He's /plenty/ tough enough to take most antipersonnel weapons, but even he's got to be careful about those. He releases the broken-wristed ganger and rolls out from underneath the van with the energy gun in hand, wings vibrating powerfully and raising him up to ceiling height again in a flash.

He knows he has back-up before she actually speaks up. Everybody has a particular scent, and Carolus has become familiar enough with Gwen's, not least of all because he'd made a point of 'memorizing' it to keep an eye on her if necessary. It hadn't been, but better safe than sorry.

There's a burst of light as Carolus levels the energy weapon at the hearse and puts a bolt of energy through its engine block. He repeats the process with both of the white panel vans.

"Ghost Spider. Nice save, I hate dealing with alien weapons. On account of, you know, the death thing." Carolus greets Gwen cordially, shouldering the chitauri weapon and keeping himself moving along the ceiling, antennae sweeping this way and that as he tries to lock down the location of FATHER DEATH.

He half-suspects a cloaking device or some sort of emergency teleporter.

"By the way. GOONS! Just so we're clear, this is the rule: You point super weapons at me, you get treated like a metahuman. You want to shoot at me, fine. You start shooting /Star Trek/ crap at me, you're a diet supervillain as far as I'm concerned. Speaking of—"

"Ghost Spider, ear to the ground, I don't know how tricky this guy is. He's probably been buying this stuff longer than this specific arms deal." He adds, worriedly.

* * *

"Oh, and 'shut up Clarence', guy— bad form, don't out other goons like that." Carolus chides, probably jokingly.

* * *

Gwen has a scent? Don't tell HER that! She'll try washing it off.
She'll scrub and scrub, too. Don't do that to a poor Ghost Spider.

Ghost-Spider unsticks from the cieling one limb at a time - both legs, then a hand and finally, swinging off of the rotational force to drop on another goon while spraying his heavy jacket down with webs from an extended wrist. "Hey, don't mention it. The death thing does suck, I hear!" Ghost Spider quips, as Carolus puts blue laserbolts through the engine block of both vans, and the hearse—

Explodes. And not in a controlled way, spraying shrapnel and bits of black hearse and flaming flinders every which way. Thick, choking smoke and the fraying rumble of spent fireworks goes off as well.

It's a complete mess, and shockingly bright besides. Gwen throws her hands up in front of her face and shies away from the explosion as the flare dies down, and a number of figures disappear into the night.

One of them may be Father Death, but perhaps he was consumed in the explosion.

The other half dozen goons, and both trucks full of explosives and the two scavenge-tech Chitauri chopjobs left behind, no evidence remains of their mysterious buyer, the face of hate…

FATHER DEATH!!!

Gwen coughs, sweeping away a few embers from her costume's hood. "What the heck, man, you've got laserguns and crazy whoevers-that-was? I didn't really get a good look!"

* * *

"Holy @$#&." Carolus zips backwards from the /exploding hearse/ that he expected to just sort of be ruined instead of bursting like a balloon filled with stolen supertech. Shrapnel peppers his form with enough force to draw blood here and there, shearing off one of his antennae about 3/4ths of the way down and absolutely saturating what he's wearing with holes. It's a good thing he /did/ leave his phones down below.

Coughing a couple of times, he drifts backwards farther out of the smoke, circling 'round to settle near Gwen. He's still got that laser gun at his shoulder. He shrugs, trading it down to his auxiliary right hand, "It isn't my gun. You got the guy with the obnoxious sonic cannon, and I got the guy with the energy rifle. I just kept the rifle because I wanted to…"

"… Well, I wanted to stop these vehicles from moving. I think /that/ guy had something in his hearse -besides- an engine." Who knows what it was. Somebody brainy will need to figure that out.

"Oh, uhh…"

Carolus pulls his hood down and scratches at his head, frowning at his truncated antennae, "He called himself Father Death. Better shot than I expected him to be. I think he's probably a Purifier, or some splinter group with a similar ideology. Like the KKK, but for mutants. I mean, he'd probably hate you, I guess."

* * *

Gwen is only lightly scorched and a bit dazed, mask-eyes in thin lines.

"Why do they drive exploding cars though. And what's a Kaykaykay?"

Pushing off the panel van she had grown attached to - literally - Ghost Spider's footsteps towards Carolus are slow and hesitating. "Hey, are you bleeding? I saw you take a bullet while I was swinging in, but I wanted to get the drop on that weird percussion gun. What kind of whackjob 'Father Death'? He can hate me all he wants - do you need me to call someone? Or are you going to be okay in a few hours, you never told me. I guess I never told you, either, but I also don't take bullets and keep going."

Gwen's voice hangs on hooks of genuine concern, but there's still a conscious goon or two so she's being extra cautious for him.

Well except being 'absolutely ignorant of what the KKK is in New York in 2019, but maybe she's an alien, the goons don't know.

* * *

"Short version: Murderous racists formed to informally enforce a social caste system on former slaves in this country. Did a lot of lynching that no one would convict anyone else of." Carolus explains, setting the laser gun aside on the hood of one of the vans and jerking his shirt up to check his side. He's quite /scratched up/, but there appears to be a depth at which things like shrapnel simply stop being able to penetrate, and it's not particularly deep.

The .50 round from the MegaRevolver is impacted against natural subdermal plating, dug in enough not to just fall away on its own but clearly not making /much/ progress. Carolus shuts his eyes a moment, raising one hand in a 'hold' on gesture, seizing the round, and jerking it loose.

A controlled, painful hiss follows, as does a bit of blood. But not a /lot/. The rest of the breakages in skin are free of shrapnel— it looks like an attack like that is just too designed to deal with strictly soft, squishy meat to get through.

He lowers his shirts and reclaims the energy rifle, "I'll need to clean up. Not going to offer full details in front of gangbangers dealing Chitauri tech, they already know my threshold more than I want them to. Nothing to be concerned about at the moment."

"That's not bravado, by the way. I'm extremely disenchanted with the amount of 'not asking for help' going on around me. On that subject, thank you very much, Ghost Spider."

* * *

"What the heck? How did they get away with that? How do people just look away from that?" Ghost Spider complains, following up with the few goons that Carolus had taken down, adding a few shots of web to them and kicking them onto their sides with an ungentle shove of a foot against their chests.

Carolus' bulletwound, however, gets a wide-eyed stare. "That hearse gave me the big heebie-jeebies right before it went off, and I managed to flip behind the truck, but you got — oh you're fine. Nice."

Gwen seems casual about this, but her body language - her sheer stress levels - betray her actual feelings. She's not used to people being as tough as Carolus. She's not used to people taking bad breaks and gettig back up to pick the pieces out themselves.

"Yeah, that's smart. Not wanting to spill in front of the criminals. Smart. Yep."

Her raised-then-levelled, faux-casual single fingergun is her attempt at rallying the situation. "Let's talk downstairs."

A squint of the spider-eyes is cast towards the various goons and hulled-out trucks. A second's pause for the flaming wreckage and flinders of Father Death's hearse.

"Yeah definitely actually anywhere else. Meet you upstairs."

With a running start, Ghost Spider leaps out of the second story of the parking garage, aims a wrist nearly vertical, and swings off to the roof of the nearby tenament, flying through the air and swiging with both legs out to propel herself with a smooth flip into the air and landing in a crouch.

Carolus can just fly, he'll be fine.

* * *

Carolus takes a moment to make certain nobody is bleeding out. He already knows he'd smell it if they /were/, but it's for his peace of mind more than anything else. He explains as he goes, "Complicated. Half the country was economically invested in the trans-atlantic slave trade, and didn't cede ending it until about a hundred and sixty years ago. When the issue was finally forced and the resisting states subdued, it was still impossible to bring them into full cultural compliance and the subject matter has been romanticized in those regions in the years since."

"Consequently, they mostly felt justified treating the freed slaves badly, and wouldn't allow each other to be prosecuted for abusing what they considered subhumans. Purifiers basically feel the same way about mutants, sometimes with a religious bent. This one called me a demon, and that's about par for the course."

He allows the conversation to ebb away with the decision to move it elsewhere. Making a detour to get his takeout bag and phones, the moth man arrives along the rooftops.

Carolus fishes a small box out of the bag, and passes it to Ghost Spider, "Here. Consider this an extra 'Thank you' for sparing me burst eardrums and rattled teeth."

It's a slice of cheesecake.

"But," he says, "I need to be getting home— ah. Right."

He gestures up and down at himself, "Subdermal plating. Bullets won't get through to the squishy bits unless they're something special, but big enough ones at close enough range can still be a problem, and all of them hurt. /That/ was a round meant for a bear. I'll cocoon up tonight. My antenna will regrow and my damaged skin will mend. It's fine, so don't worry about it. I'll just need to up my caloric intake dramatically for a few days."

He rises a little above the roof, "I'd like to catch up shortly. This 'fashion murder' stuff has started getting more twist-y, and… well…"

Carolus presses both sets of hands together in that characteristic awkward gesture of his, "I'll explain later. Half-explaining will cause problems. If you can be in the Bay Ridge area tomorrow afternoon, I would appreciate it."

He lifts off properly, waving as he goes, "See you, Spooky."

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