Closed RP Clubbed to Death

This RP is currently closed.

Quirbles

on smoke break, bother somebody else
Staff member


"MAKING AN IMPACT"
PITTSBURGH - "AUTEUR" NIGHTCLUB, DOWNTOWN

Ronald "Fat Ronnie" LeBlanc was not a particularly cautious fellow.

Khasman assumed this was owed to the fact that there was a consolidation of power in Pittsburgh, as of late, and he believed that his contacts afforded him some sort of protection. He was an associate of a gunrunning clan within the city-- a fixer of sorts that arranged deals and was the charismatic sort, despite not having any charisma to speak of; the sort of man who used money in the absence of charm. Khasman did not like this man. That often made it easier.

In the end, though, it was all the same, and relatively simple. He was given a photo, a description of where regular haunts, and a single word-- Convince, or Retire. LeBlanc was set to retire, tonight.

The club was a nice place, but he still preferred New York; there was less going on in Pittsburgh, which was as much of a blessing as it was a curse. There didn't seem to be any established capes in the city; heroes, sure, vigilantes, but not your spandex-wielding cocksuckers that'd save a train or bust a bank robbery. Things were still developing, slowly but surely, and the Pittsburgh branch of the Chechen mob found that they could not compete; not a single person in their ranks was powered, here. Ivan "Bloody Ninefingers" Dudayev had a reputation about him, sure, but it didn't quite matter to metahumans. They thought themselves above the rabble. They had disrespected the Kuyranash clan, and would understand the consequences now that he was here.

The lights were low. The dance floor was crowded. Khasman shouldered past the groups of patrons, underdressed and out of place; he found LeBlanc in a corner booth, lounging next to a woman at his side and another man across from him. He did not appear to notice Khasman, at first, but gave a skeptical glance over to the man as he approached.

"Can I help you?"

"You are Fat Ronnie, yes? Love name-- I am friend of, ah... Gregori's. You know?"

The skeptical look hardened. "Yeah? What's this about? The fuck are you coming here for--"

"I have message from him. For you." Khasman stepped closer. Ronnie's hand disappeared under the table-- likely to reach for a gun. A hand wrapped around his throat before he could pull a pistol out from the belt under his gut; Khasman drew even closer.

"Goodbye."

SHLLRRRKCK.

In an instant, LeBlanc's body spasmed; a faint choking sound fell from his jaw, blood trickling down the darkened luster of Khasman's arm and staining the purple collar of the body's suitcoat. He went limp a moment later; even in the darker ambience of Auteur's booths, overhead ambient light danced off of the spike's apex that'd cracked through the top of the man's skull. Khasman's gaze lingered on the man's shocked, vacant expression, his arm refined to a singular point that had effortlessly pierced through bone, flesh, and brain.

"RONNIE! FUCK-- MOTHERFUCKER-- !"

There was the familiar click and rattled metal of a raised gun; in an instant, Khasman's body reacted, flesh rippling with a faint glimmer into darkened, reflective mineral up the neck and along the side of his head. Two gunshots caught him in his shoulder and upper chest before he'd fully turned, spike ripping free from LeBlanc's skull with a wet tear before the point morphed into a long cutting edge. It swept down, catching the man in both hands at the wrist-- the gun falling to the table with a clatter alongside a severed hand. The other hung from tendon and cracked bone, blood jettisoned out onto the black table in a staccato rhythm as the poor bastard stared in shock at the sight of his own injury.

"F-FUCK-- HNNH-- GHH-HAHNHH!"

Khasman grabbed the man by the collar with his unmorphed hand and threw him onto the floor, head slamming against the railing that lined the second-floor catwalk above the dance floor; with a push and throw over the edge, the gunman's body plummeted a story or so onto the ground level of the club, landing with a grisly KRAK that bent his body like a discarded marionnette. Between the gunshots and the falling body, the patrons seemed to get the message; clamor ensued, and Khasman regarded the screams and fleeing innocents with a perturbed sense of calm. The diamond on his body rippled as the layer spread, covering his body fully in the event Ronnie had any friends; his work here was done, though, and it was time to leave. He made his way for the stairs, neck crackling as he rolled his shoulders.

Whoever LeBlanc worked for would get the message, he assumed.

 
Shit always went down at places like this. Get a lot of hot bodies together in a dark room, fill them with drugs, booze, and hormones, and you're bound to see sparks fly. As it was - she was partly here to enjoy herself, and partly here to keep an eye out for trouble. Trouble, luck would have it, seemed to be the modus operandi of her current date, a wannabe gangster by the name of Fat Ronnie. Still - he was pilling to pay her tab, and she was on -

Was this her fourth or fifth mimosa?

Didn't matter. It worked for the night, and if he decided to act like an ass, she'd be able to easily put him in his place. Made it easier on the heart to yoink his wallet when she dipped, too. She twirled a lock of his hair, looking out on the dancefloor, when she felt him tense. Her eyes snapped forward. Maybe he wasn't the trouble after all.

It was over fast. Ronnie didn't even react in time - he was dead. His friend raised gun, two shots, but the guy was a meta. Skin hard like rock. In a sweep, he was disarmed, slammed into a nearby railing, and tossed onto the dancefloor below. A mob hit? Siren stared, Ronnie's blood flecked across her cheek, as the assailant moved past her to leave.

What the fuck.

Slipping her thumb beneath the back of each stiletto in turn, she kicked off her shoes, keeping one in hand. She wiped away the blood with the sleeve of her dress as she rose and strode after the departing hitman. No hard feelings over Ronnie, but - guy like that had to be stopped.

"Hey, asshole. You just killed my date," she said, hefting the shoe at the back of his head.
 

A shoe hit the back of his head.

Given that his body was entirely coated in diamond, it didn't do much. The stiletto hit the back of his head with a dull clunk and clattered onto the ground, barely audible above the roiling hum of the club's music-- music that was now laced with the panic of patrons below. A few people shouldered past Fracture to get to the catwalk stairs as he turned, head tilting. Though his face was an unemotive, speechless mask of crystal, he'd learned to communicate through non-verbal gestures. You had to be creative when your mouth was sealed over with a layer of diamond, after all.

For the girl, it was a finger-wag.

Whether it was mocking her taste in men or her choice of weapon, his follow-up made it clear he wasn't one to be fucked with; a quick few steps forward and he closed the distance, jacket fluttering a bit as his hand shot to wrap around her neck. Fracture looked her over for a moment before attempting a throw to the catwalk railing-- not to send her over, of course. He wasn't a psychopath. It was just to send her head into the bars.

The maneuver was punctuated with a singular message-- a thumb pointing over his shoulder, back to the stairwell. Beat it.
 
He lunged for her throat. Instinctively, Siren put up her arms in a block, but well -

He was made of fucking rock. Not exactly an easy thing to knock aside. Thankfully, he didn't seem to see her as a threat, yet, so he effortlessly yeeted her into the railing, gave a dismissive gesture, and turned to head on his way. Fucked up the block, but she still knew how to fall. She hit the railing shoulder first, tucking in, then bounced back, pulling her pistol from her purse in a quick flourish.

People were already running and screaming. Cops were probably on their way in -

Oh, who was she fucking kidding, they'd be thirty minutes minimum. Lifting her gun, she fired three quick shots between his retreating shoulder blades.

"Don't fucking dip on me," she retorted, getting back to her feet and levelling the gun at his head. "I'm not done yet. You wanna cause a scene in a place like this, you gotta deal with the consequences, yeah?"

She grinned.
 

Okay. A shoe was one thing-- three bullets was another. The shots packed more than a punch, causing him to stagger as he stumbled forward as the diamond layer caught the trio of .44 Magnum rounds that buried into his back and shoulder. The first two were buried in a mixture of diamond and flesh; the third missed entirely as he ducked instinctively to the side, the pain of being shot radiating along his spine as he crashed into a table and set of chairs near the stairwell. Diamond sloughed off in thin sheets, slipping out from underneath his jacket and shattering on the floor unceremoniously. A moment later, the bullets clattered free and left a shallow crater between his shoulderblades, though his clothes blocked most of the damage.

Jesus fuck--

Of course the psycho bitch was packing. Why wouldn't she, if she was fucking a ganger? God dammit. Nearly got paralyzed. Closing the distance would only hurt and run the risk of him taking a shot that'd kill him; this wasn't worth his time.

Instead, he did the rational thing-- he scrambled to his feet, dove for the stairwell, and rolled ass-over-teakettle down the steps to the first floor, clattering onto the tile with a sound that resembled rockfall. After pushing to his feet, he moved for the back exit, flapping the hem of his undershirt to dislodge the rest of the shattered dust from his back onto the ground.

Fuck this city. Was already beginning to hate it here.
 
Her smile faltered a bit as the guy didn't do the expected thing, turning around to fight, but instead bolted in the opposite direction and dove down for the first floor of the club. Guess he wasn't as hard as he acted. Glancing back at the bodies - cops would handle that - Siren sprinted after him, hopping onto the railing and sliding down. Wasn't as fast as jumping, but she wasn't exactly looking to break her ankle.

"Turn tail pretty fast for a guy made of rocks," she taunted. He dove through the back exit, and she moved to follow, shouldering the door open and glancing around the alley lot.

Fucking hell, was this really the smart thing to do? Guy was already running, wouldn't be an issue for at least a little while. Besides, it wasn't like it was her problem.
 

He was, evidently, able to move fast enough to outrun the gunwoman. For a while, at least. He shouldered open the back exit and looked both ways before pressing himself against the wall beside the door, watching as people ran out to their cars and out along the sidewalk. Probably a few minutes until cops arrived; the place was too open to run. Who knew how hopped up on coke this bitch was? She'd probably chase him for a few blocks and gun him down. Better to deal with her here.

As she pushed through the door, Fracture stepped forward from behind and delivered a snap-kick to the back of her leg; his hands went to her arms, next, trying to wrap around her wrist and wrench the revolver free. Then, with a practiced step to put his foot between her legs, he sought to throw her back and trip her onto her ass, using his weight to his advantage. All while his yellowed eyes glared at her-- a bit more than contempt shining in his gaze as he went for the kill.
 
Siren burst through the back door, gun lifting - but a sharp pressure struck the back of her leg. She crumpled forward, caught off guard as the guy she'd been chasing wrest her pistol out of her hands. Before she had a chance to react, he flung her up - spiraling - and she hit the ground with a crack.

She seriously hoped she didn't break anything.

Before he had a chance to finish her off, though, she was already moving, rolling to the side and using the momentum to jump back onto her feet. She raised her fists, eyes scanning the area for anything she could use. Then - feigning a lunge - she instead darted to the side, grabbing a pair of trash can lids off their cans and raising them like shields.

"You move pretty fast for a boulder," she poked, grinning.
 

In an instant, Fracture's arm molded into something that resembled a railway spike more than a fist; it slammed into the asphalt a few inches deep where the girl's head once was, chipping slightly as he gave a grunt of frustration. The spike was retracted back into his arm proper, the shape of his hand returning as he took a step towards her.

She held up trash-can lids. Like a fucking moron.

Fracture stood there, a moment, and tilted his head; he took a step forward, then plucked the revolver off the ground, straightening into a low firing stance and firing off the remaining bullets in the cylinder at her. It'd be interesting to see if aluminum trashcan lids would stop .44 Magnum; that, and he wanted her to be scared shitless. The quips were getting annoying.
 
He lifted her gun and her eyes widened - trash can lid wouldn't help there. Chucking one of them at the barrel like a frisbee, she leapt to the side, the first two shots clipping her face with their heat. Landing in a roll, she ran forward.

"Thought your whole thing was punching, not shooting," she said, before swinging the lid at his side with as much strength as she could muster.
 

Fracture gave a grunt as the lid hit him in the arm, fucking up his shot and leaving the girl alive. Unfortunately. He chucked the revolver to the side, letting it clatter on the asphalt as she drew in close-- slamming the other aluminum lid into his side, staggering him a bit with the heavy clatter of metal upon diamond.

Not even a dent. Or scratch. Fracture stared at her a moment, then formed his arm into a blade-- slicing it down the middle of the lid to prove a point, and then snapping his other arm out to wrap a hand around her throat.
 
Completely fucking unphased. She really should've known better, but then again, metas weren't her typical targets - especially ones built like a fucking boulder. She stepped back, raising one half of the broken lid - then his other hand shot out and caught her around the throat.

Letting out a strangled shout, she elbowed at him, kicked at him, squirmed. Fucking hell, this'd be a shitty way to die, strangled by a guy she decided to chase down. With a heft, her feet dangled -

Calm, Katya. Calm.

Panic kills more than anything else. He'd panicked, when she shot him before. He didn't panic here. That meant the shots must've broken through. Must've hurt. Taking the jagged half of the broken lid in both hands, she jabbed an edge over his shoulder into his upper back.

 

Fracture lifted the girl a foot or two off the ground, tilting his head as his diamond-plated knuckles squeezed around her windpipe. There was a sort of measured fury in his eyes that suggested he'd done this before, in this very same way-- with the very same lack of remorse. There was something odd in the way the diamond completely absolved his face of emotion-- completely blank, save narrowed eyes and the borderline analytical tilt of the head. Like a soldier that'd mortally wounded an opponent, and wanted to see how long they could crawl.

The lid at his shoulder hit the skin with a clang, and the tip came away dented. His grip seemed to tighten, as a result.
 
"Ukh."

She dropped the trashcan lid limply. Well, that idea was shot. By now, her head was beginning to pound, tingles dancing between her fingertips. Probably didn't have more than 30 seconds left. Less, if he was pinching her carotid.

Her hand fell loose to her side - then quietly slipped into her purse.

"Ukh. Uhh."

Spittle on her lips, she had just enough feeling in her face left to smirk. She lifted the can of pepper spray and let loose directly in his face.
 

Fracture seemed content to hold her in the air until she finally expired-- until he saw her hand snap up with a canister of mace in it. The reaction was immediate; he threw her to the side and ducked away, turning his head as the spray hissed out into the air. Some struck the side of his cheek and slid harmlessly down; the rest was inhaled, and a few droplets struck his right eye, leaving him to immediately close it and wipe at his face with his shirt. Fuck. He would've roared out a few insults, if it wasn't for him silently retching beneath the mask of gemstone; while he could see out of one eye, the cloud had struck one side of his face rather well. His skin was fine-- it was diamond, and held no pores-- but the there was the issue of breathing, which famously became difficult in the presence of capsaicin spray.

Fuck this.

It wasn't worth the effort. Fracture turned to leave, making his way to the alleyway across the lot-- stopping every few moments to lean against a car and wipe the mucus that'd leaked from the vents on his diamond-plated face. Fucking disgusting. He was going to kill this bitch if he ever saw her again.
 
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