Jonathan Crane has been still, and silent, for a very long while. He might have even been here since before Nygma arrived... He certainly hadn't coordinated his timing with his colleague. But like a marionette he folds into a standing position from behind a bunch of milling machinery, flopping his arms a little as if the Ventriloquist is pulling his strings.
He is of course in full costume. And ever since it turned out not to be the Black Mask who had shot Poison Ivy full of holes, it's not as if he has something personal against the ganglord. Scarecrow has no particular love for Catwoman.
It's just an excuse to have a little fun.
"Excuse me." He twitches his hooded head at a sharp angle towards one of the Black Mask's thugs, standing right beside him. "I would be very interested to find out what a man of your imposing size is afraid of." He jerks his right arm up and rather than a cloud of gas emanating from his wrist, a jet of liquid sprays out.
Fear toxin version 34AB. Designed to stick to the skin, irritate it, and permeate, producing an almost instantaneous violent and uncontrollable reaction. A bit like having adrenalin shot into your heart mixed with an ounce of cocaine.
If Nygma was here, Crane was to be expected. Dent was certainly a surprise, though. There was a slight glance over his shoulder at Harvey, while he kept his gun trained on Selina.
Two guns... interesting.
"What? No coin flip to decide my fate? That's a bit unfair, Harv."
Face down and motionless on the floor near his Lamborghini's right front tire and Selina's feet, the Prince of Gotham seems to be bleeding copiously from a head wound. The money he brought, which should have been counted properly, is still by the counting machines. Hey, if the guy's dead, that's a lot of money and a really expensive car up for grabs.
Anyone looking at the Riddler might swear he was actually worried for the man better known to him as the Dark Knight Detective - his face is a mask of frustration as he takes a roundabout course to the fallen billionaire, tossing out a couple of smoke bombs and beginning to pull Bruce away from the line of fire.
Muttering to himself the whole while, of course.
"Of course, it's too much to hope he'd have some gratitude in that utility belt of his.."
Selina is crouched, staring at Black Mask as Eddie starts to move Bruce. She almost lashes out at him but she stands and steps toward Black Mask. The look on her face is locked in. She must think Bruce has taken a bullet to the head, with a look on her face like that.
She's bleeding from the graze but she doesn't seem to notice the blood or the pain. She's locked on to one thing and one thing only and she's going to make him bleed.
Roman isn't dropping his gun. He's also not taking his eyes off of Selina. That other hand of his, which had been resting in his pocket is slowly raised to show he's holding a grenade. One whose pin is dangling from his thumb.
"Want me to drop this too while I'm at it? As a matter of fact, you can hold it, Harv. Catch!"
It was a slight flick of the wrist and that grenade is tossed at back at Harvey's chest.
Selina is moving toward him, slowly. This is the movement of a hunting cat, almost tail twitching. "You killed him." Her voice is hissing and low, streaked through with hatred and grief.
If Roman wanted to see what happened when she'd gone over the edge, he might well get his chance right now.
Harvey was expecting something. He's not dealt with Black Mask much, but he knows the guy is a complete psycho. Admittedly, he was partially expecting some crude reference to his genitals as to the other thing he was holding.
This is almost preferable.
Not many people know that Harvey's now had a hell of a lot of fight training, thanks to an ex-Batwoman. With a quick stutter-step back, he swings up his foot in a spin-kick and hackey-sack punts that grenade off to the side, in a long arc out through one of the dilapidated windows.
Nygma attempts to signal Nightwing, waving one hand while carrying the stricken Bruce Wayne - hoping the young vigilante isn't too preoccupied scattering Roman's small army of goons.
The man's wound looks like a nasty one, but as one of his former nemeses, the Riddler doesn't fully accept the notion that Batman is necessarily mortal.
While Harv dealt with the grenade, Roman ducked out of the way. He didn't really take his eyes off Selina, but twisted around to fire of a few shots at Two-Face. He didn't want any further distractions. Even with the mask on, it was clear he was enjoying how much he had pissed her off.
One thing Roman's got a lot of, and that's hired muscle that's too dumb to ask a lot of questions - just lift a gun and shoot. But it's hard to shoot a moving target, and he's been doing this kind of thing since before he hit his teens.
Bullets ricochet off the Ducati's custom armor plating, and goons drop like stones in the wake of taser 'rangs, blows from his escrima sticks, and the squealing of tires adds to the chaotic din echoing around the old warehouse.
He spots Riddler trying to get his attention, and though it takes a few more moments of concerted effort, he strikes a clearing through the remaining throng, pulling the bike up between the prostrate man, Nygma, and the line of direct fire.
It's hard not to react as he dismounts with haste to assess Bruce's condition, but there's no time right now to panic.
Christ, that's a lot of blood.
"I've got him," he says, reluctant to entrust the man's care to someone he spent a great deal of his youth turning in.
"If you can tell me how to stop the bleeding, I can take care of him while you do what you do best."
His voice drops to an undertone.
"I mean, he must have this sort of thing happen all the time, I know I've winged him a few times myself. Do you people employ a full-time trauma surgeon?"
His look, to his credit, is only faintly incredulous, with a barest hint of 'why do you give a damn.'
"He doesn't do site visits," he says bluntly, turning the unconscious man's head. Ah. No entry wound. Good news, but as with all head wounds, plenty of blood. He doesn't have time to argue. Staying low and reaching to his bike, he grabs a medical kit and tosses it to him. "Keep pressure on the wound with the gauze in here. Don't move him until it's stopped, then wrap it and get him in the car - back seat, keep him lying down."
He moves reflexively to shield them as another spray of bullets passes overhead. Shame about that Lamborghini's paint job.
And by the way, Nygma, try not to give yourself a hernia moving the dead weight in your arms, the one that's bleeding all over that hideous suit you're sporting.
Nygma unwraps the gauze from the medical kit and applies some pressure - though he's not so sure about that not-moving part, if the firefight gets any heavier.
"Alright, Boy Wonder. I'd say Selina, Harvey and Jonathan can handle Roman - we're hoping he ends up in Arkham to see how the other half lives, but with 'Bruce' so badly injured, my plan for the denouement of this little charade is up in smoke."
He glances to Nightwing.
"I don't need to tell you your job. I've seen you do it plenty of times."
Nygma's suit will be ruined, blast it all, but the sheer amount of blood he'll be wearing will be a good excuse to get Query and Echo in their matching green and purple nurse uniforms, anyway.
He is of course in full costume. And ever since it turned out not to be the Black Mask who had shot Poison Ivy full of holes, it's not as if he has something personal against the ganglord. Scarecrow has no particular love for Catwoman.
It's just an excuse to have a little fun.
"Excuse me." He twitches his hooded head at a sharp angle towards one of the Black Mask's thugs, standing right beside him. "I would be very interested to find out what a man of your imposing size is afraid of." He jerks his right arm up and rather than a cloud of gas emanating from his wrist, a jet of liquid sprays out.
Fear toxin version 34AB. Designed to stick to the skin, irritate it, and permeate, producing an almost instantaneous violent and uncontrollable reaction. A bit like having adrenalin shot into your heart mixed with an ounce of cocaine.
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Two guns... interesting.
"What? No coin flip to decide my fate? That's a bit unfair, Harv."
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Muttering to himself the whole while, of course.
"Of course, it's too much to hope he'd have some gratitude in that utility belt of his.."
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She's bleeding from the graze but she doesn't seem to notice the blood or the pain. She's locked on to one thing and one thing only and she's going to make him bleed.
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One gun barrel presses against the base of his neck.
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Roman isn't dropping his gun. He's also not taking his eyes off of Selina. That other hand of his, which had been resting in his pocket is slowly raised to show he's holding a grenade. One whose pin is dangling from his thumb.
"Want me to drop this too while I'm at it? As a matter of fact, you can hold it, Harv. Catch!"
It was a slight flick of the wrist and that grenade is tossed at back at Harvey's chest.
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If Roman wanted to see what happened when she'd gone over the edge, he might well get his chance right now.
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This is almost preferable.
Not many people know that Harvey's now had a hell of a lot of fight training, thanks to an ex-Batwoman. With a quick stutter-step back, he swings up his foot in a spin-kick and hackey-sack punts that grenade off to the side, in a long arc out through one of the dilapidated windows.
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The man's wound looks like a nasty one, but as one of his former nemeses, the Riddler doesn't fully accept the notion that Batman is necessarily mortal.
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Bullets ricochet off the Ducati's custom armor plating, and goons drop like stones in the wake of taser 'rangs, blows from his escrima sticks, and the squealing of tires adds to the chaotic din echoing around the old warehouse.
He spots Riddler trying to get his attention, and though it takes a few more moments of concerted effort, he strikes a clearing through the remaining throng, pulling the bike up between the prostrate man, Nygma, and the line of direct fire.
It's hard not to react as he dismounts with haste to assess Bruce's condition, but there's no time right now to panic.
Christ, that's a lot of blood.
"I've got him," he says, reluctant to entrust the man's care to someone he spent a great deal of his youth turning in.
Reply
His voice drops to an undertone.
"I mean, he must have this sort of thing happen all the time, I know I've winged him a few times myself. Do you people employ a full-time trauma surgeon?"
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"He doesn't do site visits," he says bluntly, turning the unconscious man's head. Ah. No entry wound. Good news, but as with all head wounds, plenty of blood. He doesn't have time to argue. Staying low and reaching to his bike, he grabs a medical kit and tosses it to him. "Keep pressure on the wound with the gauze in here. Don't move him until it's stopped, then wrap it and get him in the car - back seat, keep him lying down."
He moves reflexively to shield them as another spray of bullets passes overhead. Shame about that Lamborghini's paint job.
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"Alright, Boy Wonder. I'd say Selina, Harvey and Jonathan can handle Roman - we're hoping he ends up in Arkham to see how the other half lives, but with 'Bruce' so badly injured, my plan for the denouement of this little charade is up in smoke."
He glances to Nightwing.
"I don't need to tell you your job. I've seen you do it plenty of times."
Nygma's suit will be ruined, blast it all, but the sheer amount of blood he'll be wearing will be a good excuse to get Query and Echo in their matching green and purple nurse uniforms, anyway.
Reply
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