The devil's fingers - IC

[Ozoe]

"Tonight, we cover Il Diavoli Neri; otherwise known as Black Devil's. Our man on the street James Pinkerton was able to get a rare insight into this growing menace. James? What can you tell us?" came the voice from the Television.

Tasha sat quietly in her room in the dorm listening to the evening news. It was something having a TV available to her, although she realized that much of the experience was lost on her. Still, it was nice to feel a little more connected before heading to sleep.

"Well let me tell you. These guys are dangerous. Until recently, we hadn't heard a whole lot about them. However a seemingly pitched gang war with their Red counterparts on the Westside has catapulted them into prominence in the city. Even worse is that they are trying to muscle out some of the existing gangs and even setting their sights on the Mob," James cheerily replied. Tasha could practically hear his polished smile and TV made looks.

"Is that really a problem?" the anchor asked. "I mean let them shoot each other up and I think we'll all be happier."

"To some, that is the view that Freedom should take. However, when that battle is happening in your backyard you might think differently. These guys are smuggling up guns, drugs, and dabble in many of the other traditional crimes. I think I speak for everyone when I say that we already have enough of that nonsense as it is. You might have heard some mention of a notable Super group, the Interceptors, engaging both the Red and Black Devils about a month ago. It's my opinion that this has much to do with the recent shift in neighborhoods. Like any bully, if the heat gets turned up, they are moving to greener pastures."

Tasha was nodding off as the reporter talked about his undercover work and the people he interviewed. She was just on the verge of sleep when her vision came to a searing singular focus. There was going to be a disaster and soon. The Southside warehouse which it would occur in was not far and if she was right, innocent people would die for it. For a moment she considered calling the police, but her encounters with them in the past had not given her confidence that they would listen to her now.

Getting out of bed, she dressed quickly and gathered her staff and some money for the bus. She sighed, thinking of Dimitri's teleporting ability as she left the room.

[trollthumper]

The sun was setting, and it was time to go to work. Well, the other kind of work.

It had been another day at the factory for Joe -- usual work, usual issues. He couldn't help but overhear what Brett was talking about over lunch, though. Mixed in with the standard talk about union concerns and the risk of outsourcing was a tale of Brett's cousin Mike, who handled the shipments at a warehouse in the West End. Mike had helped move a bunch of crates to Southside for a couple of suits who gave him extra money to keep quiet. The money only inflamed Mike's curiosity -- "just like the guy" -- and the suits had to threaten him with violence to keep him from talking.

After the day was over, Joe came back to his apartment. He poured over the papers while eating dinner, trying to trace the movement of organized crime in the Southside. There wasn't much, but there was at least enough to pick out the most probable locations. So once the sun set, he got into his costume, climbed out onto the roof, and began his patrol.

They've always gotta come here, don't they?

[Ozoe]

Rozerio looked over the now empty warehouse and smiled. His boys had done good work by paying of the foreman. Actually he had to laugh, supposedly the stiffs in this place were now doing some kind of team building exercise to improve operation efficiency. What it really meant was that were paid off and were likely hanging out at some kind of local bar watching pre-season football. American football, he corrected himself. No one in this country seemed to realize that to the rest of the world football meant the beautiful game, soccer.

"Hey! Get those crates over her now, mang. We gots to be unloaded and ready for the suits to show up. This is all going down in an hour so lets get moving. I want them stacked and ready for loading like yesterday!"

The shame was they hadn't quite had the time to really beat down the local populace like they had with their West Side stomping grounds. There, they wouldn't have had to pay to play. Just leave a little calling card or rough up a few people and everything would be ok. That was the price of expanding business.

"Oh and let the boys know that I wants them loaded out. I don't trust these suits at all. You hear me?"

There was nodded assent from the dozen or so Black Devils present as they went about their work. It wasn't easy to smuggle in a crate of machine guns and no one ever really realized how much ammo you needed to keep one firing for any amount of time.

[Ozoe]

Tasha sat patiently on the bus and listened to the people about her. There was the pungent odor of humanity that permeated every corner of the bus as the Southsider's went about their daily lives. At 8:30 in the evening, most would be heading home and she assumed the sun had long since set. Amazingly, the vision she had experienced was still with her, was that some kind of portent or warning? She didn't know. However, she earnestly believed that her vision would come to pass unless something was done.

"Indiana," the bus driver called out the stop as the ponderous machine ground to a halt.

Feeling her way out of the bus, she paused at the front, 'thank you. What is the latest time you are running tonight?"

"We're stopping service at 11:00pm," he said. Tasha liked his voice, it was deep and he spoke with the softness of someone who cared. "Oh and just to say it Miss... but I wouldn't be walking around here much later than this. The neighborhood has kind of gone down hill."

"Thank you," Tasha replied. "I'll keep that in mind."

Stepping out into the warm evening air, she immediately began tapping down the street heading towards where her vision indicated there would be trouble. With any luck she would arrive on time to help out the people who were so wronged in her sight.

[trollthumper]

One good thing about being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound -- the vantage point.

Cannonade wasn't immediately sure this was the right one. The other warehouses he'd stumbled upon had either been dead save for your standard security patrol or deserted and playing home to a few squatters. So he sat it out on the rooftop with a set of binoculars and waited.

That was when the first guy stepped out for a smoke. Most rent-a-cops didn't tote Kevlar, and most of them didn't wear it under an unbuttoned dress shirt. He'd snuck down the fire escape once the guy had gone back inside so he could try and get a peek in the windows. There wasn't much to see at that angle, but there was enough -- two of the guys were looking over the merchandise, assembling rifles from their component parts.

Jackpot.

Cannonade waited there, hiding in the shadows, for the next guy to come out. It'd be best if he could take out at least one of 'em before their buddies figured out what was going on.

[Ozoe]

As Cannonade stuck to the shadows he noticed a few things. The toughs, usually a mixed bad of punks and bullies actually looked reasonably competent. Perhaps this was a weeding out process from their current struggle or perhaps it was his bad luck that this shipment was being watched by someone skilled. There looked to be about six large wooded crates labeled 'FRAGILE' and 'USDA Certified' all over them. Setting out on the table were two large bore machine guns, glinting in the flickering and wholly inadequate lighting of the warehouse. Ammunition, linked in gleaming belts were stacked neatly next to the two deadly weapons.

For the count, he saw at least six of them and guessed from conversations that at least one or two more were on the opposite side of the building. The warehouse itself was a large structure which housed multiple shipping crates much like the few that were now piled on tables in the middle of the building. Always within a few feet of the table was a tall banger whose slicked back hair was pulled into a near waist length pony tail. He seemed to be directing the others and while he had initially been very agitated, he had settled down and was now just idly looking at the weapons.

[Ozoe]

Danger was a mixed blessing. For brief window of time, she moved towards the warehouse down deserted commercial streets without the usual hesitation or worry. She had little doubt she would get to the drop. However, she had yet to figure out what she was going to do once she got there.

"One thing at a time," she said quietly to herself.

Feeling that she was getting close, she wrapped her mind in the fog that seemed to keep people from noticing her and continued moving holding the staff in front to make sure she didn't stumble on something and blow the whole thing now. She almost passed by the warehouse, but the multiple conversations in Spanish on a street that had been as silent as a grave cued her that this was the place. All that remained was to prevent disaster... simple enough. Or not, she sighed moving to where she prayed was a side door.

As her questing hands probed the wall until they found a door nob she sighed in relief. Opening the door she stepped into what must have been an office. The smell of paper and antiseptic were enough to let her know that this wasn't the main warehouse. Sweeping before her with her staff, she managed to make it through the relatively crowded office with nothing more than a bruised shin to show for it. A door in the back opened and she could once again hear the gang members within.

[Ozoe]

A block away from the warehouse an old '79 Impala station wagon, chugged to a halt and with a bang and a cloud of choking back smoke gave up it's life. After some swearing coming from the inside of the car, six teenagers piled out and looked over the engine for some time.

"Dude. It's totally blown. Come on, call your mom."

"No way... besides phone's dead."

"Whatever. This sucks, I'm out of here. Next time get a real car."

"Hey I paid $400 for it. It is a real car."

"Was, moron!"

The banter covered the bonds of friendship the six of them had. Realizing the car was dead and that there was a bus stop not far away, the began to walk down the street towards the warehouse. Unaware the precarious situation they were heading into.

[trollthumper]

No one was coming out of the warehouse. So much for picking them off one-by-one. Eh, I wasn't really one for subtle, anyway. Cannonade snuck around the edges of the warehouse, looking for an avenue in. He could always try running in... but by the time he got in range, they'd probably have their guns out. He'd taken a bit of abuse, but he wasn't sure he could fight off that many bullets. Besides, he wasn't up for ruining another jacket.

Somehow, fortune was with him. He found the main shipping doors were left open... and the workers had cleared a path through the crates. One that led right to the main staging area. Here goes nothing, he thought. He charged through the doors, and the second he was over the threshold, took a flying leap. He felt his helmet come within an inch of hitting the ceiling, but he'd managed to angle it just right. When he touched ground, he was right in front of most of the gangers.

"Welcome to Southside!" Cannonade said. "Now get the hell out." With that, he brought his hands together with a massive clap, forcing the explosive blast of energy outwards towards the assembled gangsters.