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Feathers in Their Caps (IC)

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Doom Room, Claremont Academy

May 5, 2016


School was almost out, even at the rather unusual educational facility known as Claremont Academy. Then again, even heroes-in-training needed a break. Assuming they were the sorts who believed in "taking breaks". Some, like the three in attendance here, didn't quite get that idea, at least not all the time. 


Woodsman and Nighthawk, who often practiced various scenarios in the Doom Room alone, as a pair, or with their friends anyways, were in here on the request of Headmistress Summers. She somehow managed to mix "as stern as a mountain" and "concerned about your education" into one frightening package. In this case, she had "strongly suggested" they undergo a training exercise with a student-hero who they may or may not have heard of, let alone seen or met, but who would give them good practice working with other more...subtle...hero types. 


They were currently in the control room of the Doom Room, apparently by themselves. The control screen showed a few potential scenarios, with the settings listing 3 combatants. And the difficulty was set...pretty high. Not horrifically so. Certainly not at the locked-down "Wander" level. But not "newbie" level, either. 

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"I hate this place," Nighthawk grumbled under her breath, her attention on the scenarios. She'd finally taken up Woodsman on his offer of getting the awful blue and gold scheme into something that didn't scream 'here I am, punch me please' so although she was wearing the school bodysuit, it was in a uniform drab grey with her hands taped up in preparation for the inevitable punching. "Which of these do you think is least likely to involve some sort of crappy mind game?"


That question was directed to her companion although she didn't lift her gaze from examining the options in front of her, her brow furrowed as if she could discern whatever machination or larger lesson was behind Archer's latest exercise. Under the tight fitted uniform, the muscles in her back and shoulders were taunt and tense - already agitated even before the scenario began. 

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"Hmm." Riley was in full costume, the way he usually was when training unless specifically ordered not to, his brown and green poncho an odd color contrast against the flat grey of the Doom Room control room. He'd set his bow down, carefully uncocked, when they entered, but still wore the hatchet at his belt. "Don't think Archer's 'round - don't hear those little pitterpats he does when he's going fast."  Catching his girlfriend's mood, and feeling his own tension rise in the narrow space, he tentatively stepped close before sliding his arm around her waist. "He's prolly gonna put us up against some other chump and see who thinks they're as good as Nighthawk and Woodsman and then write a lot in his notebook afterwards. In the meantime, though, we're technically in public," he reached up and stroked her hair. "so if I kiss you, we aren't gonna get in trouble..." And so he did just that. 

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"Mind games best reserved for criminals."


And suddenly a teen in a dark, caped outfit that looked clearly armored was standing a bit behind them, calmly watching them kiss. Head tilted to the side, in a manner that both reminded one of a curious bird, and spoke of someone observing something he perhaps didn't fully understand.


"Would like to think I'm not a "chump", but pride might bias opinion. Then again, this isn't a two-on-one scenario."


A gauntleted hand briefly reached out from beneath the form-covering cape, gesturing vaguely at the holographic interface and the list of Doom Room scenarios within. 


Long seconds of silence stretched out after that. Perhaps he was waiting on a reply?

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The affection had only started to ease the tension in Nighthawk's shoulders when the voice caught her by surprise. It was a fairly typical teen reaction to leap apart when caught in the act. What was not remotely a normal teen reaction, however, was to leap backwards, kicking the small, metal trashcan up into one hand to be used as either projectile weapon or, perhaps, blunt bludgeoning instrument. Her fist was half-cocked backwards to when Nighthawk's brain caught up to the fact that it was not a threat. 


Her lips flattened and she dropped the trashcan to clang onto the ground with mute displeasure. "You got a death wish or something? Sneaking up on a body like that." Nighthawk grumped as she folded up her arms over her chest. She did not, however, answer the implicit question in the hand hovering over the scenarios as she jerked her chin at Riley in silent question. 

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Woodsman did not put his hatchet down - not at first, anyway. "Smart t'wait till I put the bow down," he said levelly. "Safer." He glared up at Nevermore, brow furrowed. "Damn upperclassmen," he muttered, sliding the hatchet back into his belt. He looked down at the displayed scenarios, shaking his head. The truth was, he didn't know very much about how these systems worked - Mr. Archer was not one to hand over the keys to his vault to his students. Most of the time. "Hey, havetatell Sanderson there's no mindscrew the witch after all. So whaddya in for, Nevermore?" he asked, challengingly. "Hangin' around and snoopin' yer thing?" 

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"Stealth and observation key skills for this line of work."


Is....is he serious? Maybe. Though the other two teenage heroes likely noticed him shifting his stance slightly when Nighthawk raised the can up in the "ready" position. 


"Also wondered if you'd notice me, been waiting her for 10 minutes before you two showed up and started, uh. The thing."


He means "kissing". His stance relaxes a bit as Woodsman keeps a bit calmer.


"Mister Archer not the one who suggested and organized this. Headmistress was. Says it would be..."good practice"...for me. Something about small group tactics with heroes who utilize similar skill-set, in case infiltration mission or the like is needed. Or because we cross paths and hunt muggers the same night. Happens sometimes. Fun."


Here he smirks.


"For us."


Pretty clear it's not for the muggers, though. He shakes his head a bit and walks forward. His hands move smoothly over the keyboard, and in a moment, 3 screens light up, each with 3 city-scapes. One is Freedom City, one is Los Angeles, and one is London, England. All 3 are set at night, and in inclement conditions; Freedom City on a near-blizzard winter night, Los Angeles on a stormy, rainy night, and London with fog so thick you can practically walk on it. Nevermore then turns to the other two.


"Each of us follows same general set of tactics, focusing on stealth and skill, without any real superhuman powers. Nighthawk, you operate almost entirely at hand-to-hand range, while Woodsman, you operate farther out with your crossbow. Prefer to use my fists, but I have a bit of short-ranged capability. Won't be winning any archery contests, though."


He nods at each of them in turn as he describes their skill sets (in  very broad terms), clearly showing respect and acknowledgement.


"Practice never hurts. Headmistress thought having me join you would "shake things up" for you. And would give me practice as a..."team player". Won't force you to do this, but...I think it could be useful. Interesting, even."


He suddenly seems less sure of himself, even though he's a year ahead of them in classes, and two years ahead of them in age, and probably the best-equipped of them by a long shot. 


And if rumor had it right, he worked for Raven.

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Nighthawk gave a small sigh, "Don't sneak up on me in the field though. I don't wanna deck you by accident in the middle of things and m'still working on target acquisition," she offered although it was less aggravated at least than she had been at first. Rather than offering invitation or agreement, she turned her attention to the display fully, including them both in her conversation as she began running through the list of potential scenarios, "Freedom City's familiar but I hate fighting in the cold - slows you way, way down. I'll take precarious footing any day over cold. Woodsman and I can both handle low visibility conditions well enough. I vote for wet and rainy Los Angeles."


She turned her head slightly towards Woodsman as she added, "Good to learn new terrain when its just practice. Never know when we'll get sucked through some damn portal to wherever again, y'know?" She suggested before tipping her head towards Nevermore, "Works for you?"

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Show you stealth, bird-looking weirdo..."...yeah, all right, let's do LA. Never been there," said Riley thoughtfully, leaning close to Robin as he studied the displays. He still didn't know what to make of Nevermore, but maybe the guy was just weird and not a jerk. Lots of people in Claremont were. As for the city, well, he didn't know what to make of that, either. He knew this Freedom City like the back of his hand; his own Freedom City as well as he knew his crossbow. Other cities might as well have been on the Moon. "Heard 'snice." He'd heard all sorts of things about Los Angeles and the West Coast, but none of it actually nice. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure he'd ever even seen a picture of the city with the largest superpopulation on the Pacific Coast of the United States. Not a picture that wasn't drowning in redwoods, anyway. "Rain's nice. Makes things grow." He wasn't about to say more. 

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"I'll try to make more noise when we work together in the future. Didn't mean to upset you. Just a reflex."


He pauses, then smiles very lightly, though there's no malice in it.


"Can be just a bit fun to surprise people. Sorry, though. Moving on."


He got more serious as he spoke, his own hands touching the haptic interface with quick, precise movements.


"Boss says it's only a matter of time before a portal accident, or "accident", happens. But hasn't yet. Did get kidnapped to a jungle once, got dressed as a terrible version of a "tribal warrior". It was...weird."


Um. Well then. The screen highlights rainy LA (it looks to be just short of a major thunderstorm in intensity), and zooms in on a section that's pretty run-down, with lots of nooks and crannies and shadows, and not a lot of streetlights.


"LA is big. Plenty of heroes but lots of crime. Not going to send us up against a League-level opponent, though. I'm thinking a gang scenario. Gun-runners, those are popular. We'll need to neutralize scouts and guards, isolate the base, take out inner perimeter, then bust in and take out the "inner circle" before they can bust out too many of their product. Going to set the "boss" to random within certain parameters; a lot of these sorts of rigs are either run by a big bruiser-type trying for easy money, or a brainy-type looking to make money off their designs."


He looked to the others, the white lenses on his eyes sliding back to reveal thoughtful, but guarded, grey eyes, trying to appear a bit more friendly.


"Any last thoughts, requests, or the like before we head in?"

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"S'okay," Robin gave a bit of a shrug, the muscles that were normally hidden under baggy clothes moving under her uniform with the gesture. She'd spent too many years wearing leotards for gymnastics to feel self conscious in the tight fitted uniform but it did lack the element of surprise as jeans and a jacket made it at least a little less obvious that the young woman hit like a mack truck. Reaching up, she pulled back the twists of her hair to absently knot them in a tie. "I'm more jumpy in this part of the school than the rest of it. Don't like the Doom Room at all."


She nodded her head once at the assessment, "I don't mind gangs - that's my usual target in the Fens. Be interesting to see how different the scene in LA is. Good experience. You good with gangs, Woodsman?" She said, turning her head towards the cowled archer and her expression softened into a slight smile for the other teen.

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"Yeah, 'm good. Gangs'r easy if you don't play it stupid. Most of 'em run real fast if ya scare 'em enough." Riley's hackles were going down now that it was clear the other boy wasn't competition - just a little odd. Riley had to admit that he wasn't what you'd call a normal Claremont student either. "Three of us seem pretty scary. Hey, maybe you can toss somebody up in the air and see where he comes down," he joked to Nighthawk. Not a man of many words, he settled back to let the tech guy program the scenario. Must get along real well with Summers if he's messing around with the control down here - dang! Thought she didn't get along with anybody. 

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Nevermore nodded lightly at both of them.


"Gangs seem like a good..."baseline". Their numbers will be  a bit of a challenge to us, but them being non-powered, and not unusually equipped or trained, means that any one member shouldn't overwhelm any one of us. The "boss" being more potent should give us a nice finish to our workout. And the dark and rain should play to our strengths."


He pressed a few keys, and all three teens could hear the Room powering up, and the computers in the control room ramping up. A door to one side lit up slightly, and Nevermore pointed to it, and began walking slowly, talking as he did. From his belt he pulled a couple of small headsets that he casually tossed over his shoulder, one after the other, at the other two teens. 


"This door will lead out into the Room. Will put us...hm. Should put us in an alleyway. Randomized to somewhere in the area. I'm thinking Woodsman goes up to the rooftops and gives us overwatch and range, Nighthawk stays at street level most of the time, and I can move between the two as needed. Headsets are linked, so we don't need to shout. My thought is we try to find their perimeter, and try to take a chunk out of it. That way, we lessen who they could try to flank us with, and in a worst-case scenario we have a potential evacuation route.


I'm open to other ideas, though."


He paused, hand on the handle to the door that would presumably lead them to the Doom Room. He turned, his white lenses still retracted, his grey eyes deadly serious.


"Hitting them hard enough to send them airborne is unnecessary force. Just because we aren't police doesn't mean there aren't lines we can't cross."


He...probably didn't pick up that that was a joke. He seems serious, but not quite angry about it.

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"I always catch them, its okay," Nighthawk deadpanned as she finished knotting back her hair, cracking her neck once to loosen up the joint. Taking the headset, she took the moment to fit it to her ear and test it before she turned towards the scenario. "Sounds fine to start off. You're going to call the plays then?"


There was no challenge in the question. Often, Nighthawk found herself in the role of making mid-fight choices for whatever knot of students that she found herself with but that was generally, to Robin's mind at least, because she often had the most experience. Also because she had the lucky role of 'getting' to take most of the hits. "How I take on gangs kinda depends what I'm after. Usually though, I pick off one that strays too far and shake them until the information I need falls out but if its just whittling down numbers, that works for me. Woodsman?" She asked to get his assent as well to the tentative plan.

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"One at a time, yeah. Better with sniping," said Woodsman, his hood down and face half-lost in shadow. He held his crossbow in hand, half-cocked, on the edge of where it would actually function as a weapon. The headset was familiar enough, underneath his hood it fit more neatly than the bulkier units he'd worn back home. The truth was that, given a suitably dark night and the terrain to his advantage, he could probably handle an entire gang by himself as long as they had no powers and he had his hatchet - but would they be alive when it was done? "Be on the roof," he said, agreeing with the other boy's strategy - trusting that, at least, was an area where they had something in common. 

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Nevermore nodded at the "pick off strays" comment, and at Woodsman's comment about one at a time.


"I like it. Very strong. For us."


The door opened, and they were in the dark and the rain. There was a fire escape on either side of the alley they found themselves in, and very little light. Woodsman should have an easy time climbing to a rooftop, and Nighthawk would have plenty of places to hide and then strike. And of course, plenty of terrain all over for Nevermore to move between. 


The serious young vigilante tilted his head a bit, white lenses clicking into place, before a green glow suffused them. He looked around for a minute, before pointing an arm at a fire escape platform about halfway up the building down the alleyway. With a hiss of compressed air and a quiet whir of electric motors, Nevermore was flitting through the air, Within moments, he was crouched on said platform, barely visible to the two people who'd come into the Doom Room with him, and likely functionally invisible to anyone else. 


"Clear to the end of the alley. I'll wait until Woodsman's at the corner before moving up."


His voice all but ghosted into their ears, likely impossible for people not sharing headsets (or bearing supernatural hearing) to pick up. 

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Lacking Nevermore's budget or Nighthawk's powers, Woodsman ascended by all-too-human muscle power. He didn't even bother with a grapple line on the simple surface, instead slowly picking his way to the roof with the cool, methodical grace that came from long experience and an intimate awareness of the consequences of a fall. Climbing in a city like this was a trifle harder than on his own world, with fewer broken ledges, tree roots, and other surfaces to grip, but at least the landscape was less likely to crumble under his feet. Or produce monsters. Once on the roof, he signaled by pressing a button on his headset (better that than speaking) and began the way forward, picking his way forward to a corner and dropping prone, peering forward with his binoculars to keep track of their targets before the latter could spot him. 

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  • 2 weeks later...

Nighthawk dropped with lethal athletic grace to the wet alley and took a deep breath. The city wasn't familiar to her - she'd never strayed beyond Freedom City, but somethings were universal. Desperation. Filth. A little bit of urine. Alleys apparently were not all that different across the states. Reaching up towards her headset automatically as the whisper came across it she began to move, a streak of grey against the darker asphalt. Nighthawk was no speedster but her top speeds were faster than even peak human potential so it wasn't so very difficult to cut around and keep up with the boys on the roof tops. 


"Get ready to catch, Woodsman," her voice was low, a thread of humor running through the adrenaline high. Here, Nighthawk was in her element. She'd shed the discomfort, and tight laced control that dogged her at Claremont as her grey eyed gaze caught sight of the first knot of drug dealers at the edge of the street. "Gonna split 'm. Send a couple down the alley, scatter the rest."


As soon as she'd announced her plan, she shoved into the light, leaping from dumpster into the midst of the knot of gangbangers with deliberate flash. Catching one by the shirt, she sent him flying into the dumpster that she'd just leapt over: a soft enough landing but also showy enough to scatter the knot of ne'er do wells into panicked flight. 

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The one that hit the dumpster was out like a light, easy enough. The rest, well, this was clearly a group meant to warn more by dint of numbers (meaning some could get away). Several of them tried to mob Nighthawk, overwhelm her with numbers. A couple pulled back from the cluster, pulling out weapons (a couple of knives, and one handgun). And a couple of them? They just ran. Criminals were superstitious and cowardly, and in this world, heroes were nothing to sneeze at. They were barely getting paid, time to book it.


One of them made it about five steps before suddenly zipping up into the wet gloom above, the shoddy lighting in the area only revealing a whirling shadow, before his bound and unconscious form swung down to hang by a high-tension cable from the fire escape. One of the knife-wielders who was hanging back saw this and bolted in the opposite direction. A blunt throwing "knife" shaped like a feather whistled through the air and struck the back of his knee, driving him to the ground in pain, dropping the knife as he went. He'd recover, but not soon enough to matter in this fight. 


The other "runner" had made it almost to the end of the alleyway, when a shadow with wings like a great and terrible bird swooped down upon him. His screams cut short into a gasping choke as the dark figure resolved into Nevermore giving the thug a sleeper hold. 

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Woodsman wasn't much for conversation in a fight - instead a slow, steady stream of bolts rained down on the battlefield, their blunted tips knocking men down and out without actually injuring them or breaking their skin. Well, much. He disarmed the gunmen first, then took out the ones who went for the guns, his rapid hand movements cocking and reloading his automatic crossbow faster than nearly any normal bow. He moved from rooftop to rooftop as they moved further down the alley, taking the time with each jump to load up a grapple line, fire it across the way, and then slide down it with his hatchet in hand. After all, he didn't have his girlfriend's anatomy - or their ally's armored suit. "Prolly setting us up," came his laconic voice crackling over the headsets they wore. "Can scout ahead and blow 'em up."

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"Do it," Nighthawk agreed with an air of authority in her tone as she pivoted and spun between those who'd decided that gang-on-one were decent enough odds. Her fighting style consisted of short, sharp blows and precise movements. It wasn't any particular style - the only formal training that she had was in gymnastics - but was rather a catch-as-catch-can grab bag of whatever worked. 


Her shin caught one errant gang banger in the throat, dropping him to the ground with a grunt. Like her partner, her actions bespoke a carefully restrained lethality, exerting enough pressure to render targets unconscious but no more than necessary despite her banter earlier. "Nevermore, you wanna see bout getting some information from 'em while Woodsman keeps 'em moving?"


"Who are you - glrk!" The thug had not time to finish his question as Nighthawk caught him by the back of his jacket and sent him flying after his compatriot towards the dumpster with a clang.


"Two points."

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"Roger that, have a target."


Nevermore had finished with the other stragglers. By this point, most of the group was down, or so close to unconscious it wouldn't matter. Except for one isolated man, clutching a pained knee while rolling back and forth on the ground. That man looked around, and saw a shadow moving away on a rooftop, further down the road. He saw a young woman mercilessly turning an entire patrol group into so much driftwood, effectively. But...where was the one who threw the feather?


And then a grapnel line shot from the darkened fire escape above him, and within moments he was hanging by his feet in front of a man-shaped shadow with glowing green eyes and no visible emotion. His voice, though, growled with anger and disgust.


"Patrol information. You have it. We want it. Give me whatever you've got. Everything. Don't lie."


He grabs the thug by his shirt and pulls his face close to his own, those glowing eyes reflecting the terrified criminal's face back at him.


"I will know if you do."


Moments after adding moisture to his undergarments, the petty criminal shared what he did know of patrol patterns, equipment of other patrols, and what was guarding their warehouse and the "big boss". Nevermore's voice was soon on the radio, whispering out like it had been. 


"This was an outer patrol. Chaff, to keep most threats busy while heavier troops, ones with training, body armor, and heavier guns could zero in. We have about two minutes. Woodsman's intercept should throw them off their game. I'll go in from the roof and dive down. Nighthawk, your approach is up to you. After we break this group, there's two more 'heavy patrols', and then we hit the warehouse. I vote we hit the other heavy patrols, or we get flanked. Divide and conquer."


His tone was confident in his proposed course of action, but open to other suggestions. 

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For his part, Woodsman wasn't one for talking. Instead he crept ahead, his headset keeping him connected to the conversation on the ground, moving from rooftop to rooftop on pure muscle power. When he was in a position that he could see the second line forming, the better-armed, better-prepared thugs who suggested this was more than just a gang meeting, he went into action. First he lay prone on the roof, his poncho still wrapped around him, then peered with his binoculars down into the courtyard below, assessing who was best-armed, who gave the orders, and otherwise who needed to be attacked first and hardest. 


The leader earned a silented, blunted bolt to the back of the head - hit in a moment of inattention, the man fell and had hit the ground before his squadmates quite had a chance to react. The woman with the flamethrower and suit got a steel-tipped bolt through the reservoir of her tank; that impact was loud and vibrated through the arsonist's costume. Impossible to miss. Good. "Oh, crap!" she was declaring, hastily undoing the straps that held her to the double-walled tank as highly flammable liquid gushed out everywhere. Her squadmates, seeing the spilling fluid, retreated too, not wanting to fire guns near such a high explosive. 


"Where is he? Who the hell is doing that?!?"


On the way to the other side of the rooftop, Woodsman treated himself to a flaming bolt directly in the middle of the spreading pool of gasoline, just as the would-be flamethrower operator got herself unbuckled and ran like hell. The flash of light from below caught his smile, quickly, before he took shelter again. 

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"Never like having patrols circling. Too much left to chance," Nighthawk agreed as she paused to catch her breath before adjusting her course of travel to intercept the heavy patrol that Nevermore had pointed out. She didn't flinch from the sudden flash of fire in the distance although she did double check on the coms... just in case, "Woodsman, you good?"


She didn't have much time for a response as the patrol was clear when it rounded the corner. Nighthawk had long ago learned to tell the difference between a low caliber hand gun and the nastier weapons that would really hurt. "Got an armed patrol. Watch yourselves."


With that terse warning, she dropped silently from the rooftop into the midst. Thankfully, guns had a certain range of efficacy. Being shot pointblank was nasty but they had to tag her first and close in, Nighthawk had the advantage of speed and training. The shotgun barked in the night as she slammed her hand to the barrel, driving it aside to take chunks out of the street harmlessly. Her fist followed swiftly, taking the shotgun wielder out with a blow to the nose. Ducking and twisting, she dodged the next barrel as it swung towards her as she dropped low and swept the other man's legs out. Drilling his head once into the pavement, just hard enough to knock the man out, Nighthawk turned in time to catch the barrel as it swung towards her chest. There was a soft 'crunch' of the metal deforming as her fist tightened and she drove the weapon back into the man's solar plexus. 


"One patrol down."

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Nevermore was unseen, probably going for the final patrol group. 


This one had no flamethrowers or more exotic gear, but they all were dressed in modern body armor, and carried military-grade weaponry. They moved as a unit, from cover to cover, steadily moving toward the position of the group Woodsman was taking down with so much cheery efficiency. Cover to cover, advancing in pairs, that sort of thing. It was irrelevant, in the end. The night itself stalked them. And the darkness was not so easily evaded. 


At first, it was a man at the rear of the formation simply not being there, with nary a sound to indicate his disappearance. Then two of them split off to go down a side alley to check a strange noise. There was the sound of a scuffle, but no gunfire, and those men stopped responding on the radio, and didn't come back to the group. Finally, the man in front, already starting to shake with fear, felt a small tug at his ankle, looked down to see a cable wrapped around it, and before he could do more than begin to yell in surprise, he was dragged screaming to the roof above the squad, his screams cutting off before his unconscious form dropped back down, now wrapped in high-strength cable. The broken pieces of his gun rained down shortly afterward.


The 6 men remaining circled up, their backs to each other, trying to figure out where their assailant was striking from. Which meant that Nevermore had a good place to quietly and seamlessly drop right into the middle of, crouching for a moment before slowly rising up, his eyes seemingly glowing green in the dark. One of the mercenaries (for with this level of discipline there was little other option for their origin) half-turned and saw him, and started to raise an alarm...


Before an arm snaked out and wrapped around his throat, cutting off air and blood flow enough his vision started to tunnel almost immediately. Another arm snaked out and jabbed a man in a pressure point on his neck, locking his muscles up for precious seconds. A kick hit the back of the knee of a third man, bringing him down with a shocked cry. Three men remained alert and fully mobile, though. The choke-ee was released, gasping for breath, hand reflexively going to his neck (and away from his gun), even as Nevermore reached out and grabbed two of the men by their helmets. With a heave of his own armor-clad arms, the helmets struck each other, and the men were left dazzled. The final mercenary was drawing a bead on Nevermore, but the young vigilante's arm snapped the barrel of the gun up and away from his body right before the trigger pull. Bullets dug uselessly into the brick walls. And then the man was subjected to the gun being dragged from his hands, struck across his face, broken on Nevermore's knee, and a flurry of blows leaving him an insensate mess. 

The first merc was almost back to normal, when a couple of blows to his neck put him under for good. The man who'd taken the knee blow had his gun hand mashed to the ground, and his helmeted head bounced off the street thanks to a hard punch. The one who'd taken the blow to the pressure point learned what several more felt like as he fell like a doll to the ground. 

And the last two men just had a few punches put them under.


Within moments, guns were unloaded or broken, limbs were zip-tied, and radios were tossed to the ground and smashed, and Nevermore was a fluttering shadow taking to the roof once again.


"Another patrol down. Rendezvous a block closer to target building, three blocks out from the warehouse base. We can plan our attack from there."

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