Closed Snake-Oil Merchants - I

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Hannah took Rowan's hand, pulling herself (annoyingly shakily) to her feet. She wasn't bothered by the attack - she'd faced down just as dangerous, if not worse, situations before - but the quickly disintegrating disguise let the cold coastal air seep inside, and she was always a bit lightheaded after molting.

If anything, the fact Blood Pact (and Rowan) might think she was bothered bothered her more than anything else, and the fact she couldn't say she wasn't bothered without looking like she was bothered her even more.

"Yeah. M'fine," she grumbled under her breath, peeling away a foot of dripping skin from the side of her face. The clear mucus beneath was stained with the dark green of her blood. Licking her palm, she pressed it to the side of her head, hunching forward and shooting daggers at the vigilante. "You're a fucking prick."

She moved forward, shouldering past Blood Pact to look at the drugs herself.

"If none of the new shit is here, you can prolly torch it. By the look of Crispy Steve over there, you're raring to light it all up, huh?"

Molt glanced over her shoulder, giving a sharp - almost cruel - smirk towards Miasma.
 
With a wince Ayla pulled the whip back, catching a coil in her hand as she advanced. Whatever fight the man had left in him seemed to be about as gone as his left cheek, but just leaving the rifle there seemed like a great way to get shot in the back, so Ayla used the side of her boot to slide the weapon towards the others.

“Just sit there and a medic will be with you soon.” Miasma said, which definitely wasn’t intimidating but she was currently on fire so it was probably fine. She did wish she had her burn ointment on hand, but it wasn’t like she had room for it.

Alya did wince at Molt’s verbal jab, though she did wish that she hadn’t. She did feel a little guilty there, it was hard to feel completely guilty given the whole attempting to shoot her thing but hopefully the scars wouldn’t be too bad. Hopefully.

“Just let me know when you want me to burn it.” Alya said, doing her best to not sound flustered.
 


"Mmm, sniveling doesn't look as good on you as overconfident bitch, honey." Blood Pact replied, effortlessly shrugging off the condemnation-- and threat of retaliation-- with a soft roll of the shoulders. "But whenever you're ready to stop being a lapdog, feel free to take a bite, bitch. Maybe you can come as someone who can fucking fight, next time."

I should not have to remind you of this, but do not engage with any attempts to elicit a response, please. Came the voice of the Lead Analyst over their earpieces. You have a job to do, and it's more trouble than it's worth to deal with Blood Pact now. This will be addressed at a later date.

Beyond that remark, the vigilante seemed satisfy to look through the crates themselves, cracking one open with a spray of blood that cut the top of the container clean off. It was now readily apparent that the blades were, indeed, blood-- splatters of the arc crept along the borders of the crate, dotting the floor like stray blots upon a canvas. Fishing around, the cloaked figure tossed a stray packet of cocaine over their shoulder, letting it smack on the damp concrete.

"Under control, my ass." They muttered, sorting through the packets. "They were two seconds from gunning your asses down..." A darkened visage glanced over their shoulder, back to Molt and Songbird. "When're you releasing Hernandez? I got a visit to pay him, still."

Molt's crate was seemingly mundane, as well. Multiple kilos of cocaine and heroin, yes, but nothing out of the ordinary--

-- until she reached the bottom.

Beneath the final packet of coke was a small baggie-- couldn't have held more than a gram of weed, on a good day. But there wasn't bud inside of it-- instead, there was a small, crimson lump of crystal, borderline pulverized and glasslike in appearance. It seemed to catch the light in a luminescent glow from within, as if someone had callously shoved a dying LED into the baggie along with the product-- but, no. No, this was fully real.

"So that's what it looks like." The vigilante muttered.

"If you're gonna kill me, fucking kill me, alright? I know what happens when you fucking freaks show up without the costumes. Fuck this. My fucking-- FACE, YOU BITCH--" The man seethed, sitting on his knees and grabbing his scorched face with a grimace-- the faint smell of burning flesh still pungent in the air. "--rrnh... f-fucking God dammit..."

 
It took substantial effort for Rowan to bite her tongue, and it was likely only because of the lead analyst that she managed it at all. To drop in on their operation, to ruin their carefully laid plan, and act like they had gotten in the way-

She huffed, and shook her head. It's not worth it, just ignore them. Do your job. She took a step over beside Hannah as she dug through the crate, attention wavering with their newfound captive screaming, and just as she started to head over to him, they found it. Of course, they hadn't seen anything like it, and she was no chemical expert. It almost looked like something out of a movie.

"Well, sample acquired, I guess. I'm going to go get him to calm down. You've got this, right?" she asked, looking to Molt. She didn't wait for an answer, instead giving her a nod before taking off to Ayla's aid.

He was in clear pain, and she couldn't blame him, given what had happened. Unfortunately, she didn't have anything tangible that could help. As she knelt next to the man, she looked up to Miasma and motioned for her to cover her ears, before placing a hand on his shoulder and dropping her head next to his.

"Hey, it's alright. It's just a burn, it'll heal. We have people on the way that can help." Her voice had dropped to a low whisper, meant to set him at ease. She knew it wouldn't be easy, but hopefully she could relieve some of the pain, as little a help as it would be. "Just, calm down for me, alright? What's your name?"​
 
I should not have to remind you of this, but do not engage with any attempts -

"Yeah, Birdie, I got it handled."

Molt popped the bud out of her ear, slipping it into the back pocket of her - Hernandez' - pants. Bending down, she began rummaging through the crate, pausing when she found the odd little baggie at the bottom.

"Yeah, nah, you don't get to pull that, my guy. Not when you're why they started shooting." Holding the baggie up, she gave it a shake, watching it catch the bright warehouse lights on the crystal. She slipped it into her pocket as well, turning on Blood Pact. "You don't gotta to know when or where Hernandez is out either. Sorry not sorry."

She smiled politely, for good measure. Therapists always said it was good to smile. It showed people you were genuine.

"Hey. Miasma. Miasma."

The girl was off with Rowan, covering her ears. Molt waved at her, then gestured at the boxes.

"Soak this shit." She paused. "And uh. Don't breathe it in. Smoke's prolly fucking awful for you."
 
“Huh? What?” Alya called as she slid the palm of her hand away from her ear. Oh, it was time to burn the drugs, which seemed better than standing near the very angry guy. Still, Miasma did look over her shoulder to make sure Rowan had things covered before she raised a hand over her head to give Molt a wave of acknowledgement.

“Right, coming.” Ayla said as she jogged over to Molt and the vigilante. The girl waved away the flames on her left arm as she approached, before eyeing the pile of drugs. This was… quite a lot, but they trusted her to get it done so she would. Alya held her left arm up and flexed her hand, and alcohol dripped in heavy plips onto the (bags? bricks?) cocaine. Once it seemed like there was enough to get the fire going she raised her right arm. She did a quick check to make sure everyone was far enough away before she reached out and set the drugs alight with a touch of her hand. Alya backed up, pulling the neck of her shirt up and over her nose as she killed the remaining flames around her body.

“Right, so, should we go outside?” Ayla asked, as the flames rose behind her.
 


Blood Pact hopped up onto a crate, sitting there a moment with one hand on their knee as their boot scraped along the cover of the box; they seemed to watch the trio a moment, faceless hood glancing from person to person until, with a soft tilt of the head, they chuckled. Growing into a small laugh at Molt's words, they nodded, sucking air through their teeth.

"Y'all are young as shit, aren't you. Guess they train the bootlicking early then, yeah? Is that what that long tongue's for, bitch?" Blood Pact stated, looking to Hannah before hopping off of the crate as the product burned. "Wasn't for me, that prick wouldn't have run to you. Remember that. But keep acting cute. Almost sounds like I should give a shit what you have to say."

With two fingers, Blood Pact hurled a business card-- and then impaled it to the burning crate beside Molt with a small dagger. "Call me. Could exchange information about this case. Or maybe you think you got it handled; no sweat off my back. I've been tracking that red shit for a month, now-- should've known MIRA was about to swing their nuts around on this." A scoff. "Watching all of you work was really something, but I got better shit to do. Like tracking down another cache of that," They stated. "In a different city. They tell you it was already out on the streets, freak?"

--

The man seemed only slightly calmed by Rowan's words; the distinct stench of sizzled flesh was still pervasive in a thin smoke, a streak of bubbled skin visible from ear to jaw where he'd been whipped. It crossed over the lip, slightly, but no further than the bottom of the mouth; he gave a soft grunt as he looked to Songbird, shaking his head.

"Thom-- Tommy. Buchanan." He muttered. "F-fuck you, fuckin' cloak. I'm not telling you shit--"

He's a liability. Could talk to the police about this; jeopardize this operation and Blood Pact's own apparent investigation. The rest have run, but they won't snitch. Deal with him; either enforce the fact he cannot speak candidly, or neutralize him.

The distinct, burning odor of burning cocaine and heroin filled the air of the warehouse. Each Juror played their part more-or-less perfectly; now was the time for simply getting out before the ACPD arrived.

With or without the remaining perp's life still intact.

 
All it took was a single line, and the circumstances of this situation shifted dramatically. Rowan's breath caught, and she felt a twinge of something in her chest.

He's a liability.

Agent Smith wasn't wrong. He'd seen a lot- too much. It would be easy enough to reason out who Miasma was in the future, he likely knew about the novel drugs, he'd seen the three of them and their visitor. He'd taken shots at them, and he'd been injured by one of their manifestations. He wasn't just a liability anymore, he was a risk.

Deal with him... enforce the fact that he can't speak candidly...

Already, just doing the mental math on what she would need to do, Rowan knew this wouldn't work. Making someone forget something was easy, forgetting was something everyone did every day. Just a brief look at her could be lost to time with a little bit of suggestion, but this wasn't just forgetting. His face would scar. She would have to help him reason away the injury, the four of them, why his gang wasn't working with him anymore... she could do it. If Gaz were here, she could maybe get it to last a few months. Maybe a year. Eventually, though, things would start to slip, and he would remember eventually. And then he would tell everyone.

And then they would know about her.

... neutralize him.

It was the only option. It was the only thing that would work, and she knew it. Ice cold dread spread from that twinge of something, and spread through her entire body. She wasn't one for feeling cold, but this always got to her.

From her position knelt next to Thompson, with a grim look on her face, she looked to the others. "Hh- fuck, Molt." It was hard to remember callsigns, in these times. Rowan didn't say anything else, but that look in her eyes, that odd detachment, the somewhat vacant expression, it would be enough. Hannah had seen it before, and hopefully she would pass it along to the other two. Collateral wasn't something she would tolerate.

"It's- fine. I understand, Thompson. You don't have to, I promise." Not far away, his rifle sat unattended, where Ayla had kicked it away. Rowan only saw it for a moment, before setting her eyes on the concrete beneath them. She couldn't use her own gun. The bullet, or the casing even, could be ID'd, and that would compromise the entire operation.

This was supposed to be covert.

She took a breath. Then another. Then another, letting it out in a prolonged sigh.

"This is over for you. You knew this line of work was dangerous. It would always end with you dead in the water."
​
Rowan's voice was a calm whisper, oddly soothing, in stark and disturbing contrast with the actual words she was saying.

"If you wait here, the police will come, they'll find what you were doing. You'll be tossed in jail, left to rot until the court decides that you're not worth rehabilitating. It would be easier if you took your gun, and-"
​
She faltered, just for a moment, at the end. It was always the hardest part. There wasn't any way to pad it, to make it sound more appealing. It always took force.

"- killed yourself with it. Next to the waters edge, off the boardwalk, so they can't incriminate your friends."​
 
"Fuck you," Molt practically growled, taking a step forward and flexing her claws. "I don't lick nobody's boot. I get by. But it's still a fucking longshot better than running around in a costume your mommy made and playing hero and causing more damage than you fix."

She didn't flinch at the business card - didn't even spare it a glance. Bullshit theatrics. At least when MIRA did it, they did it for the cameras.

"Don't give a shit. Don't even care what it is. It's not my problem," she retorted. "Fuck off."

With a final annoyed huff, she yanked the card off the blood dagger, tore it in half, and tossed it into the fire. Whole thing'd gone topside. God, situations like this always made her pissed off. The only good part of her job was getting the big trash off the streets - people like that little weasel that ran away with his tail between his legs. Small time dealers, enforcers, that shit? Replaced in a week.

Running her tongue along her arms to clean off the blood, she headed for Rowan and Ayla.

"Congrats. First assignment's a fuckup. Welcome to the team," she murmured as she walked past the latter. Maybe it'd be better to offer some words of encouragement. Tell her she did good, tell her she saved the day. Burned a guy's face half-off and barbecued some coke. Really top hero material.

But - she didn't. Instead, she glanced at Rowan, waiting for the go-ahead to ditch the place.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Rowan was silent, listening to something. Fuck. Headset. Hannah brushed her hand against her pocket, feeling for the tiny plastic bud. But - Rowan was turning to face her, and the expression froze her solid.

"Hh. Fuck. Molt."

Didn't say anything else. Didn't need to. The message was clear: Sorry, crispy - God said you need to go.

"Cover," Hannah hissed, fumbling for her earplugs and forcing them into her ears. Then, without a second's hesitation, she lunged for Miasma, clapping her palms over the girl's ears with a probably-not-quite-comfortable amount of force. She'd probably have plugs on her, too, with Rowan in their team, but - with that look in her eye, it was coming fast. No chances.

No collateral.

Tightening her grip around Ayla's head, she watched impassively as Rowan said - something, muffled, distant - and the man tensed. Then relaxed. Then - gun in hand - wandered almost serenely out the door.

One. Two. Three.

Crack.

Molt's hands relaxed. Popping the plugs out, she wiped them off on her shirt and shoved them back in her pocket. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. Almost gentle.

"Think we should get some ice cream, huh?"
 
Not entirely sure what she should be doing with herself now that the drugs were nicely on fire and producing a far less nice color of smoke, Ayla backed to a distance that did not seem sufficient for burning bundles of coke and heroin and picked at her nails. She didn’t look back at the gang member she had burned a touch, instead she watched as Molt and the vigilante bickered, which seemed like the right sort of mindlessness.

“Yeah.” She said as Molt passed, her lips in a frown. Really good work, huh.

Her earpiece crackled, though Alya only really half paid attention to the words. About the gunman who got left behind by the sound of it but — Ayla half jumped out of her skin as a pair of hands roughly clamped themselves over her ears. It took her a good few seconds to realize that it was Molt, and that Songbird was saying something, though she couldn’t make out what that something was. Which was probably the point. So, she stood there half confused and concern hitching somewhere under her shoulder blade where the muscle remained uncomfortably tight.

After what felt like… too long really, Molt’s grip loosened, and Ayla looked back over her shoulder as she rolled it. She cleared her throat, and picked at the edge of her nail.

“Yeah, uh, ice cream sounds good.” She said, with what might pass for a smile.
 


"You know, the words ring a bit hollow when they're from someone who was just in a flesh-suit." Blood Pact retorted, swinging one leg idly. They were amused. There was a relaxed air about them, as they conversed with Molt-- the slouching posture that straightened into a small stretch, the apathy in their tilting head. Like they were looking at a circus attraction. "You got a gift shop for your collateral too, bitch. Think you got me beat there."

A snicker. They stood atop the crate they were sitting upon, hopped down from their perch, and shrugged, walking back to the catwalk. "Hold on a second. Just need to make sure I remember this look on your face when you come crawling back to me for a lead. These gangsters are too scared to snitch, y'all." They stated, leaping onto one catwalk landing-- and then the next. "Some fucked-up shit happening between the families. Something they don't want to talk about. You'll see what I mean once you do some actual fuckin' work."

By the time Rowan began to issue her ultimatum to Tommy, they were already gone-- carried out through a skylight by a line they'd set up earlier in the night. The surviving gunman listened to Songbird's words-- drawn in by the call-- and almost seemed confused, at first. His brow furrowed; his speech was stammered.

"No-- n-no, I don't, I don't want..." He choked out, tears beginning to stream down his face. It was as if a thousand emotions came down upon him at once-- the five stages of grief visited over the course of a few seconds. His face twisted into a rictus of horror-- mounting realization-- as he gave a choked sob, hand pressing to the side of his head as if he were in a great pain...

... and then the pain was lifted, and there was nothing. His eyes grew distant; his scowling grimace faded into an apathetic frown. Determined, but emptied. A husk that stood up, his eyes flickering from one Juror to the next. The face of a man who had been convinced to suicide. Quietly, he unholstered his pistol and walked out of the warehouse, footsteps echoing into the dull night as the distant wail of sirens drew upon the horizon.

Refreshments will wait until debrief. Extraction will be on Belfield Ave. Black Suburban, unmarked. You have three minutes. If you are stopped by police, you do not work for MIRA. You are on your own.

... and good job, today.

 
M.I.R.A. TerminOS version 0.62b
Secure Distribution - Mid-Atlantic Bureau A5
TerminOS kernel 40406 [build 40406 OEM 8eXD]
Running TerminOS as current module . . .
Press DEL to run Setup
                                                                                        
                                                                                        
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                           ██     ░█▒   ░ ░    ░ ██                            ░▒▓▓█████▒░░░▓█▓  ▒█░     █    ▒▓▒░▒░▓████▓▒░                         ░ █▒    █░░░░   ▒█░░  ██                        
                            ██░ ▒█▒      ░▒█▓      ▒█░                               ░▒████▓░░░█▓░ █       ░██▒░▓▓███▒                              ▒█░    ██   ░░    ░▒ ▒██                         
                              ██        ░██  ▒█░     ░█░                                 ░▓███▓ ░█▓░     ▒█░░░▓███▒░                              ██ ░   ░  ▒█▒▓   ░   ░██                           
                               ▒██     ▓█░█░  ▓         ██░                                 ░███▒░░▓▒  ░█░░▒███▓░                              ▓█░     ░█░    ▓█  ░█ ░██                             
                                 ███░░█░   ▒    ░██░ ░░    ██░                                ░███░ ▓██▓░▓███▒░                             ▒█▓         ███░   ░██ ░██▓                              
                                   ▓█▓  █░     ▒█   ░▒░      ░▓█▒                               ░███░░▒░▒██▓░                            ▓█▒     ░██    ▓░░█░    ░▓█▒                                
                                     ███      ██    ░█░          ▒██                             ░███▓▒███░                          ░██░          █░██  ░ ░█▒  ▒██                                  
                                        ██░ ▒██     ▓█░              ░██░                          ▒█████░                       ▒██      ░ █░      ▓░  ██   ░███                                    
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                                            ███             ░█  ░█▒           ░░████▒                            ░   ▓███▓░                 ░░ ▓█▓    ░ ░███                                         
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                                                           ▓███▒   ░██      ▒█░░█░      █░     █   ░   █▓  ░        ██     █░  ░█░      ▒████                                                        
                                                               █████░     ░█    █▓      █      █▓▓█▓     ███         █▒    █       ░█████                                                            
                                                                   ▒█████▒     ░██░    ▒█      █    ░  ▓   ░█          ▒▒▒   ░▒█████▒                                                                
                                                                         ▓██████▒  ░     ░   ░▓█▓███   ░█▓█▓░          ▓▓█████▓                                                                      
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░▒▓█▓▒░░▒▓█▓▒░░▒▓█▓▒░▒▓█▓▒░▒▓█▓▒░░▒▓█▓▒░             ░▒▓█▓▒░  ░▒▓█▓▒░          ░▒▓█▓▒░  ░▒▓█▓▒░   ░▒▓█▓▒░      ░▒▓█▓▒░░▒▓█▓▒░░▒▓█▓▒░ 
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░▒▓█▓▒░░▒▓█▓▒░░▒▓█▓▒░▒▓█▓▒░▒▓█▓▒░░▒▓█▓▒░      ░▒▓███████▓▒░   ░▒▓█▓▒░   ░▒▓███████▓▒░   ░▒▓█▓▒░   ░▒▓████████▓▒░▒▓█▓▒░░▒▓█▓▒░░▒▓█▓▒░

SITE-WIDE NOTICE: PASSWORD ROTATIONS IN EFFECT AT 1500 HRS.
CURRENT CLEARANCE LEVEL: RED-9
CURRENT AGENCY-WIDE STATUS: BLUE

FETCHING INCIDENT INFORMATION . . .

INCIDENT ID: I-20278699-AXB-D
LOCATION: ATLANTIC CITY, NEW JERSEY - 20 S. OCEAN AVE


INCIDENT STATUS: NEUTRALIZED
 
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