20225/GN:R&R - The Breaker's Run

GN:R&R - The Breaker's Run
Date of Scene:	03 April 2025
Location:	Abandoned Warehouse - Chinatown
Synopsis:	Nightwing and allies stop a Rustborn heist at a WayneTech warehouse, down Gorehound, and disable a hacked drone, preventing the tech from falling into the hands of a new threat on Gotham's streets.
Cast of Characters:	Gwen Stacy, Dick Grayson, Matthew Murdock, Luke Cage, Franklin Spade, Jr, Natasha Cranston, Richard Swift
Tinyplot:	Gotham Nights: Rust and Ruin

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Gwen Stacy has posed:
WayneTech Industrial Warehouse #17
East End, Gotham. 2:14 AM. Rain falling.

The outer security lights are dead. A perimeter fence has been cut and trampled in two places, the jagged edges bent inward. The sliding gate lies crumpled ten yards inside the lot, crushed flat under the front end of a stolen GCPD SWAT van. Its frame still ticks and pops with heat damage. The engine's silent now, but the pavement around it is scorched and cracked, littered with pieces of the warehouse's primary drone tower, which failed to deploy.

The EMP hit just under seven minutes ago. Automated defenses failed instantly. By the time the remote alert reached the WayneTech mainframe, the Rustborn were already inside.

Warehouse #17 isn't marked from the road. It's one of the old expansion builds off Crane Street, tucked in the shell of a decommissioned steel plant. To anyone driving past, it looks abandoned -- rusted shipping containers stacked around the loading dock, torn tarps snapping in the wind, a crumbling access road that floods in the rain. No signage, no guards out front. Just a black access pad at the side gate and the quiet hum of something still drawing power.

The site is supposed to be classified. Off-books, even for most WayneTech staff. The kind of place where prototypes go to sit, long before patents get filed. Early-stage servo-hydraulics. Raw capacitor cores. Exosuit skeletons waiting on firmware. No live weapons on file, not officially. But the kind of parts that could turn a street gang into an armored force? They're here. Or they were.

Now the north-side bay doors are cracked open, just enough to catch movement inside. Dim red emergency lights pulse across the open floor. Shadows shift between crates, figures working in pairs. Voices cut through the static-heavy air -- sharp, urgent. A tool clatters hard against concrete.

Toward the back of the warehouse, a crouched figure works over a deactivated WayneTech security drone. The unit's built for ground patrol -- four sturdy stabilizer legs, a low-slung armored body, and a recessed turret mount along its flank. The Rustborn technician has pulled the rear panel, hooking in a portable processor unit while muttering to himself. The drone stays dark, but its status lights blink in short intervals. A mechanical whine rises and falls, not yet stable.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
No sirens yet. The area's too isolated. GCPD routed the alert to internal security, not street-level patrol. They're still en route. Distant sirens rise and fall against the wind, but they're not close enough to help.

Ghost-Spider drops into a crouch at the southeast corner, knees skidding slightly on wet steel as her grip tightens along the rooftop ledge. The rain is steady, light enough not to obscure her line of sight.

Fortunately for them -- unfortunately for the Rustborn -- this is one of those nights that she and Nightwing had been out on patrol together. She frequently leaves Gotham to its Bats rather than treading too heavily on their turf, but she does sometimes venture out. Most often with Nightwing.

Below, one of the Rustborn emerges from the side bay, dragging a crate half his size toward the van. Rust-orange stripes mark the shoulders of his coat, paint peeling in places. The crate isn't marked, but it's not hard to recognize the casing if you know what you're looking at -- servo-motor modules. The lid's loose. He drags it like dead weight, all spine and knees, and still looks rushed.

Another Rustborn jogs into view to take over and waves him back inside.

Footsteps echo deeper in the warehouse. A pair of them are moving between rows of shelving, pushing a second crate on a rolling lift. A third walks fast along the catwalk above the floor, scanning the darkened corners with a flashlight beam. Someone barks an order near the far end of the loading dock. It cuts off with a sharp impact and the sound of something metal falling sideways.

The longer the activity runs, the clearer the pattern becomes. This isn't a smash-and-grab. They're methodical, stripping high-value tech and trying to clear out before anyone can respond. One of them is systematically crouching in the dark corners, leaving behind little devices with blinking red lights before moving on.

And it already looks like they're wrapping up.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
TL;DR
Warehouse #17 has already been breached. The Rustborn used an EMP to knock out defenses and are now working methodically to extract high-value tech -- servo-motors, exosuit parts, and more. A stolen GCPD SWAT van is parked at the entrance, half-loaded. Inside, a technician is trying to reprogram a quadrupedal WayneTech security drone for their use. Others are planting small red-blinking devices -- likely explosives. There are no GCPD officers on site yet, just distant sirens. Ghost-Spider is already in position on the rooftop, having arrived early on patrol with Nightwing. The Rustborn are almost finished. If anyone's going to stop them, it has to happen now.

Dick Grayson has posed:
As a general rule all of Wayne Enterprises facilities security systems not only route alerts to corporate security and to the GCPD, but also send such alerts to the Bat-Computer as well. And while not every report necessarily requires that someone in the Bat Family actually check it out, from time to time it is something that is, if not required, a good idea.

Much of the security that one would find at Wayne Enterprises facilities is the same that would be found in most corporate offices. But some sites - particularly those that house WayneTech - tend to be a little more secure. A little more advanced.

One of those security features is live video feeds that are monitored by an A.I. program designed to look for anomalies. Anomalies like activity in the middle of the night at a highly restricted facility that isn't exactly advertised. And while the EMP has done a number of said security - not to mention the electric grid nearby - such activity was flagged and forwarded before the system went offline.

Hence Nightwing and Ghost Spider's presence in the area before the newest Gotham gang can make their escape.

Fortunately, in this instance, Officer Dick Grayson of the GCPD is not on duty this night. Otherwise he would likely still be minutes away like the rest of the police department. Not that he was exactly taking it easy. Patrolling the city as the cool spring rains fall and slowly start to wash away some of the accumulated winter detritus isn't exactly a relaxing, easy evening.

Particularly when one is doing it with someone gifted with enhanced spider agility. Keeping up is a little bit of a workout, though Nightwing is one of the mere mortals who can at least keep pace with the enhanced athleticism of his partner for the evening.

Fortunately it is not all swinging around the city and the Nightbird is parked not that far away, left in an alley after gliding to a silent stop.

Of course even with all of their advantages, with their advanced notice, with the fact that the Nightbird made it possible to get here well before the police, as the pair take up position on that rooftop ledge, as they peer down at the scene below - Nightwing's starlight lens inserts easily piercing the gloom of the blacked out area, lighting it up in a greenish glow that makes it easy for him to pick out the Rustborn who move around below with surprising quickness and efficiency. No the typical gang to be sure. But then they already knew that.

"Looks like we got here just in time. Another minute or two and we would have been chasing them through the city instead," he murmurs lowly.

Then he flashes a grin towards Gwen. "It's not exactly a night out dancing, but I did promise you a good time. I think this should qualify."

And without any further hesitation, the darkly-clad vigilante leaps from that rooftop perch with his customary, casual grace, plummeting towards the ground below.

Matthew Murdock has posed:
When a new gang operates in Hells Kitchen, Matt takes notice. He's got files aplenty on every hood that works those streets, almost always tied back to a short list of shotcallers, but these guys don't work in any of the common methods the Daredevil is use to. Last week a Waynetech Depot in Hells Kitchen was hit. He hadn't been there to investigate it during the crime, but had done a thorough sweep once the police had abandoned the scene. Evidence pointed across the bay to Jersey, which almost always meant Gotham.

Profiling isn't, exactly, a legal term, but it's not always 'wrong' either.

Matt, of course, needs a ride. "I can't exactly drive myself, Luke." The little half-grin meets the expected sarcasm regarding 'Driving Mister Murdock' jokes that they're both probably thinking, but neither of them is going to say. "Besides, if things go sideways, I'll need you there for backup." Nobody he'd trust more than 'Power Man'.

He would never, ever, call him that to his face though.

A few hours later, Matt is making his way into the GCPD, messanger back under his arm and cane extended out as he walks towards the clerk desk, "Hello Sharon." The lady behind the counter pulls a surprised face at him, then grins. 'How do you always know?' "Your perfume and the carnations." He points towards them and winks behind the red lense of his glasses. "I should be on the registry for a Darnell Washington in cell thirty seven A. Armed robbery with a class M weapon?" She sorts through the files on her computer and buzzes him through.

The whorble of radio chatter echoes off the Gothic archetecture towards his ears. <"Silent alarm at warehouse 17 off Crane Street. Show us responding."> <<"Hold off on that Two two seven. Looks like a disfunctional signal. We got a call from the security company, all is clear for now.">> "Ah.. I forgot my phone back at the motel. How long until processing?" 'Couple hours, Judge wont even see the file until seven am.' "Perfect. See if you can shuffle us back an hour or two? Traffic in Gotham..." 'Don't I know it. I'll see to it sugar.' "Thanks Sharon, you're a gem."

Back out to the car, Matt tugs at his tie and slides into the passanger seat. A glance over at Luke, "Crane Street. Silent alarm. Got a look at the database, officially nothing there. Which means there's definitely something there."

Luke Cage has posed:
"I don't remember signin' up to be no Uber."

Luke Cage is in the driver's seat of this vehicle and the way his hands grip the steering wheel makes it pretty clear that he's both annoyed and trying to not just rip the steering wheel off and throw it out the window.

Followed by a blind man.

It'd be a gentle throw.

By the time that Matt is getting back in the car, Luke maybe had managed to cool his jets. The information that's tossed in his general direction is met with a bit of a smirk. "You did what to the database?" This is the chop busting that Luke is doing while he pulls the car on out of the parking space. "Let me find out you had me drive all the way to this sinkhole and you can see." His dry wit is probably not needed at the moment but he might as well get a little commentary in since he's the one being tasked with getting them over to Crane Street.

There's a glance in the rearview before Cage gets to whipping that ride. Boosting cars as a teenager never really leaves your system and now that he's got a destination that he needs to be at in a hurry, he might as well put some of those old skills back to good use on the back streets of Gotham.

This ain't exactly his hood but that don't mean he don't know how to speed through it.

Franklin Spade, Jr has posed:
    Franklin Spade, Junior is a well-known figure in Gotham City. He was born and raised there, son of soon-to-be millionaire realty investor and before-long billionaire Franklin Spade, Senior. He's inherited much of his father's Gotham empire, including the notorious Gotham Sun, but he's also made it big on his own terms, having since broken into reality TV with 'Riches to Rags: The Spade Story,' eventually shortened to 'Spades' as the show's ratings resulted in another reversal of fortunes for Frankie Junior. He's probably just below the tier of the likes of Bruce Wayne or Jim Gordon or Oswald Cobblepot for local notoriety.

    Franklin Spade, Junior also avoids Gotham like the plague, because unlike those other guys, nobody in Gotham actually likes Franklin Spade, Junior -- particularly after one particular off-the-cuff quote caught in an impromptu questioning a Metropolis news reporter amidst online rumors that Franklin was planning to run in the Gotham mayoral election.

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    "So, is it true that you're going to run for mayor, Mister Spade?"

    "Run for Mayor of Gotham? You're kidding, right? It's a sh**hole!"

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    "I mean, come on. Everybody in Gotham would've agreed with me," Franklin is saying to the young woman sitting next to him in the back of his limousine as the vehicle pulls out of the Gotham Sun Headquarters after a brutal and unfortunately necessary meeting with the upper management where the sound byte has been brought up again as a scapegoat for another poor sales year. "I meant it in the context of 'I love Gotham; it's a shithole, and it's our shithole, but I don't want to run for Mayor because I don't wanna end up in some mobster's pocket or getting murdered by an anarchist in clown makeup.' It wasn't an interview, it was an ambush."

    "You really don't have to explain it to me, Mister Spade," Sylvia Stover, the SpadeTech scientist sat beside him, says. "And it's fine. I mean, it gave us a chance to field test the bulletproofing on your limo last week."

    "You know that whackjob thought it was my dad's limo," Franklin gripes, leaning against the window and staring out past the scratches in the glasswork at the passing streets. He wouldn't admit it, but it's the reason why he happens to be wearing the inner layer of his personal body armor under his clothes.

    "Hang on. That's weird... why would somebody be breaking into a place on Crane Street?" the woman wonders, staring at her laptop.

    "Shit," Franklin says with a sneer. "And on the day I don't happen to have a damn tech team with me to film new content for Badass. Ignore it, it's not like we're gonna get anything out of it."

    "It's on the way," the chauffeur mentions from the front of the limo as the GPS coordinates are forwarded from Sylvia's computer.

    "Weren't you just saying you actually love Gotham?" Sylvia points out. "Couldn't you help just for the sake of... you know... community goodwill?"

    "I was saying Gotham was a shithole, and I don't wanna get murdered by some clown," Franklin jabs back with rising levels of grouch.

    "We've got two drones, the Mace of Spades and a BFG prototype in the trunk," Sylvia mentions.

    "I guess it is our shithole," Franklin mutters under his breath before turning to Sylvia. "Did you bring my -"

    "It's under the seat," Sylvia says, reaching down and pulling a gas mask out from under Franklin's seat and handing it to him. "I figured it's another worthwhile precaution while we're in Gotham. You know, until the heat blows over."

    "Who would've thought we'd be saying that three years later?" Franklin asks, his voice partially muffled by the gas mask he's now pulled on over his face.

    "I brought one for myself, too," Sylvia says, pulling it out from under her seat to show her boss.

    

Natasha Cranston has posed:
        Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of Man?

    It's not that the Shadow avoids Gotham; it would be more accurate to say that she generally has her hands more than full dealing with organized crime in her native New York, and the various Bats rarely require additional assistance.

    That said, especially given the proximity she does try to keep abreast of developments that sound like they might break containment. Such as the Rustborn's sudden ascension; a rapid rise like that tends to spell bad news for everyone in the vicinity.

    So far, Natasha has left actual containment of the gang to the Bats while she focused on finding out where their sudden influx of improved weaponry had been coming from, but with limited success -- wherever they get their toys from, they don't appear to be coming through the more conventional smuggling channels -- until two people who had been drinking just a bit more than was wise while celebrating their newfound fortune talked more openly than operational security warranted, and paid no attention to the girasol ring on the bartender's finger... And now The Shadow Knows where and when they're headed next.

    The first order of business is a quick message sent via channels supplied by Oracle, from a number Oracle would know to trust and relay.

        <<< This is the Shadow to any Bats currently listening. The gang known as the Rustborn are planning a heist on a Waynetech facility in East End, somewhat after midnight. Additional mentions were of a 'major score' of 'toys' and reference to a high ranking member calling himself 'Gorehound'. I am currently enroute; recommend any available forces converge and authorities notified. >>>

    Message sent, she leans back in the passenger seat of the cab, her hat on her knees while she goes through one final gear check. "Once you've dropped me off you should probably find some place to sleep, Benny. This may be an all-nighter."

    "Whatever you say, Boss," Benny chuckles as he pulls off the highway and into Gotham proper. "May want to get your game hat on, we should be there in a couple a --"

    Electricity flickers, and the engine dies even as the lights outside go dark.

    "-- Minutes. What the hell?"

    Natasha sighs and puts her hat on, then reaches for her scarf. "Apparently our unwelcome guests are unfashionably early. That was an EMP of some sort," the Shadow finishes. "Your car should start again fine once you key the ignition. Get somewhere safe; I'll call you when I'm done.}"

    With that, the cab door opens and nothing visible emerges, making a beeline for the warehouse...

Franklin Spade, Jr has posed:
    "I don't need you distracting me with sexy mental images right now, Sheila. I need to be on my A game," Franklin says as the vehicle starts speeding for the silent alarm signal.

    "It's Sylvia! For God's sake, Franklin, I swear you do it on purpose," the scientist says with a glare.

    "Hey, Lenny, step on it, will you?" Franklin says, ignoring the deadly look from the SpadeTech scientist.

    "Sure thing, boss."

    Sylvia grabs onto the seat as she lurches with the vehicle's acceleration. Lenny, as it turns out, is a former racecar driver who lost his sponsorships for doping. He'll get the vehicle to its destination fast - but in one piece is another question.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
It always amazes Gwen that Dick can keep up with her as easily as he does. Granted, she was bitten by a radioactive spider a decade ago. She's been this way since she was fourteen, so she doesn't really know anything different at this point. But she also doesn't know anyone else without powers who can keep up with her.

The Rustborn don't hear them land.

The rain masks the motion, and whatever vestiges of motion sensors survived the EMP went down when the front gate folded under the weight of a stolen SWAT van. Inside the warehouse, the work continues uninterrupted -- crates pushed across the open floor, two-man crews rechecking straps and latches. One of them crouches at the far wall, adjusting the angle of a charge. He doesn't glance up.

"What... in that big tank?" Ghost-Spider asks Nightwing as she nods towards where the stolen SWAT van is 'parked.' Those big, pink-rimmed eyelets of her mask narrow in amusement, clearly expressive even without being able to see any of the rest of her face. "The way you drive, you could have taken 'em. Honestly... I'm kinda tempted to let you do it."

And not just because she's already soaked to the bone in her white suit. Honest. It's only been a few minutes in the open-air drizzle, but she already has patches of pale pink skin visible through the white fabric (which is arguably a questionable choice). Her hood clings awkwardly to the sides of her face.

Nightwing jumps down to the ground, but Ghost-Spider lowers herself, upside down, from a strand of webbing. Her teal Chuck Taylors cling to the string, keeping her balanced.

"So how are we doing this, boss?" she whispers. This is his turf. He calls the shots. In Gotham, she's just backup. He's got the whole Oracle, Bat-Computer, years of experience thing going on. "Are we doing this all sneaky like, or are you gonna remotely crash one of the bat-planes into the building? Batgirl would totally go for option two. Just saying."

Inside, the drone technician mutters something under his breath and slaps the side panel with an open palm. A red spark jumps across the circuit feed. The crawler shifts -- just once -- and then stills again. The technician grins and returns to his interface. Its systems aren't live yet, but the override routines are holding.

Overhead, the emergency lights flicker. Not from damage. From draw. One of the interior generators is failing under load. It won't last the hour.

The Rustborn enforcer at the bay door grunts as he rolls a half-loaded crate onto its side and begins wrestling it onto a dolly rig. One wheel locks up on a cable. He curses and kicks it until the wheel breaks loose.

There's still no sign of GCPD. There are still sirens in the distance, but they're not even close enough to determine if they're headed this way.

The upper catwalk creaks. A lookout shifts position, tracking something with his flashlight. The beam cuts across the loading dock, lingers briefly on the bay door, and then moves on. Below, a second pair of Rustborn drag a crate toward the SWAT van, their pace uneven as the dolly tips under the weight. They're not built for speed. But they're moving with purpose.

The red lights keep blinking.

Then something changes.

The lookout on the catwalk stiffens. He lifts his radio -- he saw something.

"You saw something or you think you saw something?" comes a reply full of static through their crappy handheld radios.

"I... I mean... It... Something moved," comes the lookout's reply.

The radio crackles. "Was it a cat? Last time, it was a cat."

"Shut up, Ned. Are you guys gonna check it out or not?"

The interior response is not coordinated. One of the Rustborn grabs a stun baton from his belt and starts toward the front entrance. Another heads for the drone rack to cover the tech. A third kicks open a side crate, revealing a bundle of scavenged batons and jury-rigged servo bracers. He starts strapping one on.

The whole process delays the loading of the van, but better safe than sorry, right?

Overhead, the catwalk lookout moves to re-ac

Gwen Stacy has posed:
Overhead, the catwalk lookout moves to re-activate the main floor lights. He flips the panel switch. Nothing happens.

The technician by the drone swears and slams the panel again. The drone's hind legs twitch once, then reset.

He's making progress.

Richard Swift has posed:
The Shadows seem to move, deep inside the area. Then, the shadows congeal into a tall, shadowy figure. Wearing a black top hat, fashionable black suit, expensive Italian black shoes, polished to a mirror finish, and finally, a can with a very distinct tip.

The Shade frowns as he arrives to see what was going on around him. Deciding to remain silent, and in the shdaows, he takes in the activity. Fun.

Matthew Murdock has posed:
"You got me, I've been faking this whole time to get out of paying parking tickets." Matt pulls off his glasses and turns his brown eyes in Luke's direction with that far away look that indicates he knows 'roughly' where the big man is, but not exactly. Half second before the back end of the vehicle whips around. His right hand comes up to grip the suicide bar, the left slaps out against the dashboard, bracing. "I'm starting to regret not asking Jessica. At least I know why she'd be driving like she's drunk..."

Two can bust chops.

Once they're not jerking and jiving, Matt disrobes his coat and tosses it behind him in the back seat. Along with the tie and button up shirt over a long sleeved black compression shirt. In the glovebox, he pulls out white boxers tape and start wrapping his knuckles. "Just up here." He doesn't look up at the road, certainly couldn't know where they are, except that he does.

The exterior sounds of changing landscape. The echo of sound off tall buildings is completely different to that of warehouse fronts. Less glass, more brick. Chainlink fences have a unique chattering and the patter of rain off gravel isn't the same as concrete. He flexes his fist into a rock that stretches the tape, until it groans in silent protest, then proceeds to wrap his knuckles more. Heavy padding. "Alright, let me out." Soon as the car stops, Daredevil pulls the black mask around the top half of his face and ties it off in the back. Eyes covered, rain already starting to soak through. The unique patter on the surface around him gives him a sonar vision that's like walking through a 3D model of a video game in the early coding stages.

"Try not to cause to big a scene."

The rest of the way towards the warehouse is on foot. He kicks at a loose pipe connected to a drainage system and wrenches the three inch metal pole out of the ground as he's coming to a stop near one of the bay doors where the Rustborn are loading crates into a boosted SWAT van. The pole twirls around his hand, then comes down in a tight grip at his side. Clearly in view for the would be thieves.

Right as the overhead lights shine down on where he's standing.

Dick Grayson has posed:
The rain is not particularly pleasant, not this early in the spring, not when there is still a clear chill in the air. Of course dealing with the rain is part and parcel of living in Gotham City. If it's not snowing it's probably raining.

But the rain does serve another purpose on this night. That constant background noise does an excellent job of muffling anything else, of making it hard for anything else but the patter of falling water into puddles, onto pavement and the metal roof of the warehouse to register. It makes it that much harder to discern between those sheets of drizzle and actual movement and adds another layer of difficulty for any sentries to notice their approach.

"Consider yourself lucky that I'm not Batgirl. I think we'll avoid crashing random things tonight. At least if we can help it," Nightwing counters with wry amusement, his de-cel jumpline slowing his descent at the last moment, letting him touch down lightly with nary a sound.

Could they just plow through everyone in their path? Maybe. But generally speaking Nightwing tries to avoid that wherever possible. Distraction and misdirection are almost always better choices and while the rain outside means that simply blanketing the area in smoke pellets or tear gas won't work nearly so well, that will be less of a problem once they're inside.

"Same practice as usual," he suggests, his steps light, seeming to instinctively avoid the puddles that pool underfoot, where a random splash might give away their approach. "Take out the sentries and then we can start on the ones actually handling the heist," he suggests as he creeps through the darkness, those flickering emergency lights doing very little to make things any easier for either them or the Rustborn.

"And if you could do something about the getaway vehicles," he suggests, waving his hand absently in the air. "You know, web them up, gum up the works a bit, lets take away their options," he suggests.

Going in without a plan might be more spontaneous. More exciting. But there are times that there is something to be said for a more deliberate, more methodical approach.

He is little more then a shadow in a night full of them, flitting forward smoothly as he locks his attention on the first of those sentries, barely even slowing his stride. One hand reaches back over his shoulder, pulling one of his escrima sticks from the magnetic strip that runs down his back, creeping up on his target and wrapping an arm around the man, gauntleted hand covering the sentry's mouth right before jabbing the taser tip of his weapon against the back of his neck, sending waves of current through him as the man twitches and jerks in his grasp before being lowered, unconscious, to the ground.

Shooting a glance back towards Ghost Spider, Nightwing grins once more. "You know, if you're going to keep going on patrol with me in the rain, we should consider getting you a Bat-Poncho. I mean, not that I don't appreciate the view, but..." he teases, already slinking forward once more, moving on towards his next target.

Luke Cage has posed:
"I knew it." The way that Cage just falls in line with the chops that are being busted while whipping the car around this corner and through that alley and through that construction site (illegally) all at the same time has to be some sort of merit badge worthy skill. He knows his way around a bad neighborhood. And they don't come much badder than Gotham City.

Luke rolls his eyes right into an inquisitive expression. "... Is she even allowed to have a driver's license?" If anyone would know the laws around a perpetual drunk like Jessica Jones having a driver's license it would be the lawyer that can't see a thing.

Coming around onto Crane Street, Luke cuts the lights on the ride and slows up so they can creep along. Another thing he learned from his Rivals days. Drive-By Etiquette can be used on the other side of the law as well.

Matt's comment has him looking back over his shoulder with a quick look. He shakes his head as he stops the car so they can go the rest of the way on foot. "I hate it when you do that." He turns the car off to let Ghetto Daredevil go do his thing.

It's only a few moments before Cage realizes that he can't just wait in the car. Maybe it has something to do with that light shining down on his friend. Or maybe it's the annoying rain. Or maybe he just has one of those stupid hearts that means he has to get involved when he really shouldn't even be in this city but that's neither here nor there at the moment because he's already getting out of the vehicle and pulling his hood up over his head.

"Big scene? Do I cause a big scene?" Luke Cage is just walking towards the warehouse. No trying to hide. No trying to be in cover. He's just walking right towards the warehouse and the stolen SWAT truck and whatever else is in his path. He's just all out in the open right now.

Eh, it'll be fine. He's Luke Cage.

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    No one likes being out in the rain if they don't have to, and the Rustborn are no exception. That's probably why the pair currently inside the van are in no particular hurry to finish their work and go back out... And it's also why neither of them are looking at the muddy ground to notice the splashes of footsteps with no feet making them until the van suddenly shudders with the additional weight of another person jumping in... And by then it's too late.

    The sound of raindrops pattering on the roof of the van muffles the sound of leather-clad fists hitting flesh, and flesh hitting the van's inner walls, and the abortive grunt of someone almost managing to shout a warning before a knife-hand to the throat silences him.

    By the time Gwen arrives at the van to sabotage it, she finds two unconscious Rustborn -- and a black-clad figure examining their equipment.

    The Shadow looks at Gwen, taking in the white hood and web-themed outfit, bright blue eyes suddenly flaring in recognition. "Well met indeed," comes the voice from under that crimson scarf, eyes crinkling slightly with sardonic humor. "Well met. I admit I'd have expected a Bat or two, not a Spider, but any aid will be welcome. I take it You're aware of the situation?"

Franklin Spade, Jr has posed:
    Franklin Spade, Jr. - or, in the guise he is now wearing, Mr. Badass - does not arrive at Warehouse 17 under cover of stealth. His limousine is not secretly some kind of high-tech military-grade assault vehicle, unlike some of the more well-known billionaire crimefighting moonlighters - even if he wishes that it was. It's slightly less conspicuous than a squad car showing up with sirens blaring, but only slightly - and just enough so to barely avoid a collision with another vehicle heading toward the Warehouse.

    "Christ. What's that asshole doing gunning it toward our shooting location?" Franklin asks as the car veers to one side and the other.

    "You mean the crime scene?" Sylvia asks, pinned to the back of the seat by inertial forces.

    "We don't know it's a crime scene. With my luck, some old dumbass forgot the key code," Franklin mutters.

    "You mean like when you tried to get into the lab last week?" Sylvia says.

    "I keep telling you, we need fingerprint scanners," Franklin growls.

    "Sure. That way you can leave the code to your R & D lab on every door, beer bottle, and toilet handle you touch," Sylvia snarks.

    "No need to bust my balls, Sally," Mr. Badass replies as he squeezes the handle to open the door. It doesn't budge. "Dammit, Lenny, turn off the damn child locks!"

    "Sorry, boss. I took Little Frankie to baseball practice earlier, remember?" Lenny calls back as he disengages the lock.

    "Right," Franklin II says distractedly as he climbs out of the car into the rain. He walks around to the back of the vehicle, pops the trunk, takes out an armored vest, puts it on, takes out a folded-up trenchcoat, puts it on, takes out a tactical belt, puts it on, keys in a password sequence to a metal case, keys in another password sequence, keys in a third password, pops open the case, and finally pulls out two items: a futuristic-looking sidearm and a high-tech metal bludgeon. He slides both into designated holsters on his belt, turns around with purpose toward the warehouse, then pauses, raising his wrist to his mask.

    "Wait, was Lenny supposed to pick Little Frankie up after practice?"

    There's no response.

    "Susie, was Lenny supposed to pick up my kid after practice?"

    Another pause. More silence.

    "Dammit, Susie -"

    zz The transceiver's in your other sleeve, Mister Spade. zz

    A growl emanates from the gas mask as Franklin swaps wrists.

    zz Is Lenny supposed to pick my kid up after ball practice? zz

    A pause. Then:

    zz He says he was supposed to half an hour ago, but your meeting ran over. zz

    zz Dammit, Susie! Tell him to go get my kid now! zz

    zz Are you serious, Franklin? zz

    zz Of course I'm serious! Kat's gonna stick my goddamn nuts in a blender if she finds out I screwed up again! Not that it would be my screwup, but Frankie Junior always gets the blame. I swear to God, I'm sick and tired of -- zz

    The limousine speeds away in the midst of Franklin's rant, hitting him with a spray of water as it manages to find a puddle already formed in the asphalt.

    He sighs.

    "Alright. Let's see what pond scum are scouting real estate for their new crack den," Old Man Badass grumbles as he starts lumbering toward the warehouse on foot through the rain, unholstering his sidearm. As he approaches the bay doors and SWAT van, he sees two figure lurking in the rain. He stops, cracks his neck, and levels his weapon at the big guy next to the one in red. zz What kinda idiot wears bright red to a breakin? zz he mutters under his breath into his transceiver, before calling out, his gravelly baritone tinny with the effect of the gas filter: "Freeze, dirtbag! This heist is cancelled!"

    Right about the same time that the big light comes on.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
Ghost-Spider keeps pace with him using her webbing and wall-crawling talents, never setting a single pristine Chuck Taylored foot down in the mud.

"Nothing against Batgirl. I'm sure she's very nice. But I frequently consider myself lucky you're not her," she murmurs, eyelets narrowed with humor.

Dick gives the signal and peels off toward the northern side of the building.

"Yes, sir," Gwen says lightly, voice barely above the rain, before slipping up and over the edge of the roof again. She's halfway across the southern overhang when her Spider-Sense buzzes.

She peers back just in time to see Dick drop a sentry without slowing stride, and then she's already thwipping a line. A quick yank, a flick of her wrist, and the unconscious Rustborn sails upward -- bound in web and out of sight before his boots hit the dirt.

"You can blame Janet," she hisses quietly down at him, already gone again. The costume had been Janet's idea. She can still remember the line -- it tested well with women ages 12-28.

Her trip down to the van is near silent. She lands atop it quietly, crouching low, and a second later she flips over and into the back -- and comes face to face with a figure in black and crimson.

Two seconds of absolute stillness pass as a soaking wet Ghost-Spider just stares at Natasha. "You're not a Rustborn," she blurts out, eyelets blinking in surprise. "What are you, a -- "

She doesn't get to finish the question.

Because that's when everything breaks.

From somewhere just outside the loading bay, a voice shouts in surprise. Metal strikes pavement. Two of the Rustborn working the dolly drop the crate mid-turn, weapons half-raised. One ducks behind the wheel well. The other calls out for backup.

It's Matt they noticed first -- a dark figure with a pipe in hand. But shortly, there was another one closing from the street, big shoulders, hood drawn up.

Flashlights flick toward the noise. Crates are abandoned mid-load. Voices rise into shouts of alarm and warning. A few Rustborn fumble to open equipment cases, yanking out prototype gear -- shock batons, some sort of gauntlet with exposed wiring.

Then someone yells: "This heist is cancelled!"

And for a second, no one knows what to do. Because the man yelling isn't pointing at any of them.

He's pointing at Luke Cage.

That moment of confusion costs them the advantage.

From inside the main aisle, a heavy thud echoes across the warehouse floor. Then another. Something big shifts.

A figure emerges from deeper inside the facility, ducking beneath a steel crossbeam as he steps into view. Seven feet tall, maybe more, with shoulders wide enough to make the corridor seem narrow. He's armored in scavenged plating -- tactical pieces welded into old exosuit frames and braced with WayneTech polymer scrap. Paint smears the seams in streaks of rust-red and brown. Some of it might be dried blood.

The club he carries is nearly as tall as Gwen. Spikes line the end. Reinforced tips catch the emergency lights as he lifts it casually one-handed.

"I will give you one chance to leave this place," the man rumbles in a thick Russian accent.

That voice doesn't come from a radio.

It comes from Gorehound.

He steps forward without urgency, casting a quick glance toward Matt, Luke, and Franklin. But not toward the van. He hasn't seen Gwen or Natasha. He hasn't seen Nightwing skulking around the building, either. Not yet.

From behind him, somewhere between the scaffolding and the crates within the warehouse, a voice shouts: "I got it!"

And then the drone he was working on moves.

It starts low. A whirr of gyros, the hiss of repositioning hydraulics. The crawler lifts one leg, then the next, unfolding from its low-docked profile into a full stance. Its red-eye sensor strip clicks once, scanning. Then it locks forward and begins its slow, four-legged advance down the center lane -- eyes fixed on movement, tags resetting one by one.

It looks a bit like... a horse? Without a neck or a head?

There are sensors all around it, l

Gwen Stacy has posed:
There are sensors all around it, little ports that open, and it doesn't appear to seem all that friendly.

Not anymore.

Richard Swift has posed:
The Shade taps his top hat with his cane, to make sure it was still on tight, and stays within the shadows while walking quietly to remain within eye sight and hearing distance of the fun. After all, it was always a good idea to let the good guys do all the work, and then swoop in when no one was looking to take the prize. Whatever that was.

Cutting edge combat tech, very lucrative on the black market, especially when it was Waynetech. "Delicious." Swift whispers to the darkness.

Shade watches the heroes creep forward in shadow. Easy enough for him to see. Quite a spectacular group. High end heroes, of course. What did that mean to the Shade? He had to be extra careful. Especially with the Devil and his senses.

"At least I don't have to be quiet..." The heroes were making quite a commotion. Which allows the Shade tosneak deeper into the complex, while remaining in the shadows...with a little help from his powers. Especially with that huge bloke arriving. Discretion, as they say...

Matthew Murdock has posed:
They call him the Man Without Fear.

Matt has always hated that moniker because it wasn't true at all. He felt a great deal of fear, almost constantly. When he was facing down common hoods, he feared that he may push too hard or that one of them would harm someone caught in the crossfire. He feared that eventually he would release the kraken of his rage and hurt someone beyond what they deserved. Justice is blind, they say, but it's a fine line because Matt Murdock can't look away.

He feels fear.

He feels it now, standing in that overhead spotlight trained down on him. From the pitch of blackness to sudden light, the natural inclination of the human eye is to shrink away. Flench. Matt doesn't. He hears the elecritic hum of the spotlight igniting, sending a spark across the filament to illuminate him. Clad in black with the pipe hanging loose in his grip. He hears the pattering rain fall on the metal roof creating a drumming that echos down into the warehouse.

A 3D map for him to follow. Tracking the sounds of voices, following the hurried crack of crates coming open and weapons being retrieved. There's a buzz of electricity on a shock baton and the crackling clank of a gauntlet, the particulars of which don't matter to him. Except that it's meant to hurt him in the hand of someone who wants to use it for that purpose.

His adams apple adjusts upwards when he swallows.

But he doesn't move. He just stands there with his head cant forward. Waiting.

Luke can take care of himself.

No fear for the big guy.

Or the gun being trained on him.

Or the voices in the SWAT van.

'Slow down.' Sticks says. 'Pay attention to what you hear, boy. You can't see shit, so listen. Men are afraid.. they'll come at you sideways in their fear. They'll use ever advantage they think they have. So take them away from them... you're blind... level the playing field.'

The length of metal tightens in his grip, another half second and he finally moves. Twist at the hips, left leg over right to build enough momentum to send the metal improvised weapon skyward at just the right angle to shatter that spotlight. From bright light to sudden darkness. Now they're in his playground.

His first target is one of the ones with those shock-batons. Quick. Controlled. He ducks beneath a swing and catches the man wielding it just beneath his solar plaxus with a spear. The black of his compression shirt visible beneath the blue glow of the weapons' dangerous end. He spears and pushes, shoves the man back towards a support beam until shoulders collid with metal structure.

Hard enough to knock the wind out of him, followed by an elbow coming up and over his unarmed shoulder to connect with the side of his jaw. In close, the goons head snaps at a dangerous angle. All about appropriately applied force. 8 lbs. That's all it takes to break a man's neck. Six and a half is enough to send a jolt of pain shooting down his spine all the way to his hips when the nerves temporarily lose signal with his brain.

There's not even a yelp of pain because, because he can't breath from hitting his upper back against metal railing.

Matt ducks, twists, and punches another approaching goon in the groan. Down on one knee, pivoting in the dirt. He's wearing slacks and dress shoes. Good for loose traction. Soles are hard too.

From groan punch, he twists straight backwards, flips up on his palm, and kicks the groaning goon in the underside of his jaw with the pointed end of a business shoe. Right up from his Adam's apple.

Matt's already on him, hand covering his mouth, pushing him towards another goon. His other hand comes up, bends back and catches a shock baton swing on the back of his tricep. It sends volts through him, lost feeling in his fingers, but it's transiant. 'life isn't easy, boy.' Sticks tells him. 'If it were, you would be able to see how many fingers I'm holding up. Stop whining when it hurts and make them pay for it.'

He releases his hand

Matthew Murdock has posed:
He releases his hand from around one goons mouth and stabs the corner of his thumb and index finger right into the throat of the man who'd just hit him with a baton. He braces a foot on the first's thigh, pushes up and over, gripping the front hem of the others shirt and uses backwards momentum to send him flying over his hip down into the dirt.

Instantly he mounts him, knee on one shoulder, taped fists raining brutal blows down on his unprotected face until the snap of his head against the floor comes with far fewer groans. Unconsious.

Matt's head snaps around, to 'look' over his shoulder. He heard something... tracks it. Then hurls the shock baton like a boomarang at someone trying to creep up on him. Smashes right into the bridge of creepers nose, shatters the bones in his face, and fills his mouth with blood that sprays out when his head jerks backwards.

Breath. Teeth grind.

'Stop gettin' mad. Is it doing you any good? Stay calm.' One breath.

Matt swings up, slumps against a crate, trying to catch his breath and works his way back up to his feet. Just in time for someone to yell a battle cry that announces his presence and earns him a stabbed thumb in the eye on a hand that Matt can't feel right now due to the shock running down the back of his arm.

A thumb in his eye, a hand on his throat, and a silent sneer as his other arm loops beneath the man's thigh, lifts his leg off the ground, and pushes with his own head ducked down using his the goon himself like a shield to close the distance on another another group.

The Devil is loose in Gotham.

Luke Cage has posed:
If there's one thing that Luke Cage knows and understands it's the word 'Freeze'. If there were time for a proper flashback to the days he spent on the streets as a member of the Rivals gang, the amount of times he and his friends had to run from the cops, the handful of times they actually got stopped and then there was the entire run of him being in Seagate... well, let's just say that all of that couples right up alongside the fact that he's a black man in America? Yeah, this is basically like a Thursday Afternoon for him.

You want to know what makes this even worse? He's wearing a hoodie.

The big man in the hoodie barely even wants to deal with whoever's behind him, that much is obvious from the way his shoulders just kind of slump in annoyance. Not fear. Not worry. Just straight up annoyance. Enough to have the way he turns his head over his shoulder to look at the individual aiming some kind of weapon in his direction be so obviously angrily annoyed that it'd be a meme-able GIF if this was being recorded.

"So which part of any of this makes you believe that I'm the criminal mastermind behind this nonsense?" Cage has time today it seems as he turns himself fully around. "Is it the hoodie? I know y'all been scared of these for years." Cage shakes his head. "Nah, that ain't it." Cage pretends to think, even going far enough to tap his chin with a finger. "Oh, right. I almost forgot. I'm a black man. Existing. That automatically makes me America's Most Wanted."

Cage rolls his eyes and flags at the sidearm-wielder with the most dismissive wave he can muster up in short order before turning his back right back to him so that he can get back to taking care of the business he came here to take care of in the first place.

And that's just in time for him to see the impressive arrival of the Gorehound. Which is a big one. Well, only a handful of inches over Luke's height but still even he has to look up a bit. He narrows his eyes but still has enough sarcastic annoyance left in his facial expression to look back in the direction of his previous almost assailant. He doesn't even have words. He just kind of shakes his head in disappointment because maybe some of this has become much clearer now?

And now he's going to have to fight that thing. Cage brings his eyes back towards the Gorehound. "... Figures."

Dick Grayson has posed:
Everything is going exactly as planned.

Right up until it isn't.

The Rustborn might be more capable then most of the Gotham gangs out there. They are certainly more technically savvy, more likely to have unexpected access to technology then the typical gangbanger. And while they might be just as inclined to make use of the night as most of the criminal element, that doesn't mean that they are truly at home in the dark. Not like the Bats are at home in the dark.

It is an advantage that Nightwing puts to good use as he flits from shadows, as he moves swiftly and silently through the falling rain, even moreso as Ghost Spider slips off to try to make sure that the Rustborn have no way of escaping them.

A second sentry goes down, almost as easily as the first though this time Nightwing doesn't bother getting up close to take out his target. Instead he rears back and hurls that escrima stick, letting it clip the man across the temple sending him down hard to the pavement, the weapon angled so that it rebounds back towards him, the darkly-clad vigilante springing forward to catch in before it can clatter to the ground.

But then any real threat that his presence might be noticed evaporates. In a rather unexpected way.

Of course they had received other notice that this warehouse might become a target so clearly Nightwing and Ghost Spider are not the only interested parties on this occasion. Still, as the commotion begins out front of the warehouse, it is a little unexpected at just how many have shown up.

That masked gaze seeks out the Rustborn transportation, those starlight lenses picking out Ghost Spider standing there with the shadow before his attention flickers over towards the heart of the disturbance.

He frowns for just a moment as Luke is called out by yet another figure, lips pursed in consideration. He doesn't look like one of the Rustborn by any means - they do have a rather distinctive style - but regardless the confusion provides an opening. An opportunity.

And Nightwing is happy to take it.

He moves quicker now, the need for caution, the need for excessive stealth greatly reduced by the fact that the would-be thieves have had their attention thoroughly diverted to the opposite direction.

Which makes it easy for the darkly-clad vigilante to move in amongst them.

He strikes swift and sure, never lingering long. His first target goes down, a knockout pellet crushed against his face as Nightwing's gauntleted hand holds that choking gas to his mouth and nose. And second sentry gets the other charged taser from his second escrima stick.

By the time he reaches the third man he doesn't even try for the subtle, silent take down, simply going low, that coated titanium rod slamming into the back of the Rustborn's knee, leaving him collapsing towards the ground with a startled cry as a second blow puts him out.

"Hopefully the vehicles are dealt with. Because it looks like they've been building again. If you can keep the big guy distracted for a couple I'm on my way," he murmurs to Ghost Spider over that sub-vocal mic, his strides lengthening.

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    "Indeed not,, comes the reply, some humor coming through even with the voice mask's distortion. "I am known as the Shadow, and--"

    Whatever else Natasha was going to say will have to wait, as loud shouting outside interrupts. "... I believe we are discovered," the Shadow concludes instead. "I work best when I'm not seen; I can deal with the mooks easily enough while their attention is elsewhere. Their leader, on the other hand --"

    The Shadow's speech is once again interrupted as Daredevil and Luke Cage go to work. "... Is apparently being taken care of."

    The Shadow steps back out of the van and holds one hand out to Gwen in invitation. "It appears this dance has been called. Shall we be about it?"

    And with a bow and a classic ballet curtsy, modified for a greatcoat and wide pants, the figure vanishes -- except for a vauge outline where raindrops splash on an unseen shape, barely visible when Gwen squints -- and then the figure moves, and blurs, and she loses track right up until one of the armed Rustborn is suddenly yanked up and backward before slamming facefirst into the ground.

Franklin Spade, Jr has posed:
    Franklin Jr. keeps his weapon arm steady as the lights come on. It takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust, which is too long for him to lower his weapon before Luke Cage begins laying the verbal beatdown on him. Which, at least, is better than having Luke Cage lay an actual beatdown on him.

    Still, no matter how poor his decisions may appear, Franklin feels the need to defend them, even as he quickly points his weapon somewhere else.

    "Look, pal, it was dark! I couldn't see you clearly, could I?" Realising that that could land him in deeper and hotter water, he quickly clarifies, "Anything. I couldn't see anything clearly! I have infrared goggles on in this thing! For the last time, I'm not racist!"

    It's probably not the last time he'll have to say that. Maybe it's a good thing that his camera team hasn't been managing to capture this, Franklin thinks.

    zz Oh, my God. Did you seriously say that? zz

    Shit, Franklin thinks.

    The lights getting smashed out snaps him back to the situation at hand, and he turns toward the approaching figure with the giant club.

    "Okay, I'm not racist, except when it comes to scumbag Commies," Franklin says as he focuses on the obvious real enemy, stepping up alongside Luke Cage. Two underlings lunge out of the shadows at him in quick succession, brandishing weaponry. He dispatches them each in turn with blasts from his sidearm - the BFG, as he calls it privately, litigation pending for the right to do so publically. The gun fires non-lethal projectiles that burst with concussive force on impact, sending the assailants flying.

    He points the weapon in turn at Gorehound. "Say hello to Stalin for me, asshole."

    It makes even less sense given the non-lethal nature of his weapon.

    When he pulls the trigger, though, there's no concussive blast.

    *plink*

    Instead, the pellet will likely bounce off harmlessly - a dud.

    *plink*

    *plink*

    Two more shots are fired uselessly.

    zz Dammit! Why do you always send me into action with prototypes, Sarah? zz

    zz Because the prototypes keep breaking, Franklin. zz

    zz Why do I pay you?! zz

    Holstering his sidearm, Franklin pulls out his high-tech truncheon instead, flicking it on and causing it to hum. He can't help comparing it with the weapon his adversary is wielding with some level of envy.

    "Look, bygones be bygones, right?" the somewhat well-equipped and incredibly lucky but otherwise ordinary human says to the big man more or less next to him. "Let's kick this guy's ass."

Gwen Stacy has posed:
When the woman in red and black calls herself the Shadow, Gwen just stares at her for a moment.

No tingle. No sense of danger. Nothing.

That's what makes it weird.

"Ghost-Spider," Gwen replies finally, tone a little distant -- still not sure if polite introductions are the best move, but not willing to break the rulebook on someone who hasn't done anything aggressive yet.

The moment is broken when Dick's voice filters through her comm, low and clipped in her ear. The get-away vehicles... and a 'big guy?'

She frowns. She'd been so absorbed trying to figure out the Shadow that she'd momentarily lost touch with the battle outside.

"Right. On it."

She pivots back toward the cab of the SWAT van, aiming her web-shooters and firing fast. One shot gums the steering column to the dashboard. Another seals the door shut. She moves fast now -- wiring the handbrake, the pedals, the shifter into an unreadable tangle of silver thread. A final shot glues the ignition port closed. It's not elegant. But it'll do.

By the time she turns around, Natasha is gone again. Gwen pauses, eyelets blinking once.

"Cool," she murmurs, mostly to herself.

Then she springs out of the back of the van, flips in a clean arc, and lands low and centered atop the roof -- her signature crouch, balanced and steady even on slick metal. Rain rolls down the slope beneath her hands. The emergency lights flicker against the wet edges of her mask.

Across the yard, Gorehound looms in full.

The pieced-together armor is worse up close -- thick plating from at least three incompatible suits welded across his chest, shins, and arms. A cracked riot visor is fused to his shoulder pauldron. His entire right arm is armored differently than his left. The club in his hand -- nearly as long as she is tall -- scrapes sparks as he shifts his grip.

He's in the middle of chortling at the scene in front of him when Ghost-Spider comes into view. Franklin's weapon -- whatever he had intended it to do, it didn't. Instead, it just sputtered harmlessly.

"Hey! Tall, bloated, and smelly!" Gwen calls out. "The auditions for Doom 2099 are two warehouses over."

Two webs snap forward -- one to each of his shoulders. They land true.

And then his body twists.

One massive arm comes out, wrapping once around both webs, and rotating one massive shoulder as he swings his torso in a tight, brutal arc. The sudden force snaps Gwen's balance. Her legs lift off the van and she's yanked violently sideways -- off the roof, through the air, and into the rusted sidewall of the warehouse.

The impact echoes across the lot. Corrugated steel buckles under the force, warping inward. Her breath leaves her body in a rush. She doesn't hit the ground -- she catches herself. But only just.

And Gorehound keeps coming.

He doesn't waste words this time. He moves forward with speed that doesn't match his size, club raised half a step behind him. His boots crunch against the gravel and metal fragments underfoot.

Inside the warehouse, the four-legged drone begins to reposition.

The red sensor strip along its face pulses. It locks its rear legs into place and adjusts the internal stabilizers. Its targeting system -- slaved now to Rustborn command input -- confirms new signatures as hostiles. Tags flick red.

The turret pod on its left flank hisses. A net cannon rolls forward and locks into place. A sonic pulse unit rotates open on the right.

It takes its first step. Then a second. Then it launches forward, fast and low, covering ground like a four-legged tank and sweeping for targets... finding Nightwing and firing on the fly.

And above them all, the storm crests just a little harder.

Richard Swift has posed:
"Ah. So heroic." The Shade watches as the scene plays out. It was a sight to see, that was for certain. With this group, perhaps it wasn't worth the prize. After all, he didn't need to P. Off the Family of the Bat, and everyone else besides. AT least, not yet and for such a small...payout.

Stepping out of the shadows, neaking into the "treasure trove" of technology, the Shade doesn't even look back as he takes a sample or two of the technology. Nothing too grandiose, but enough to be worth the trip.

Letting the shadows fall for a moment, the Shade bows his head to the crew, taps his top hat with his cane in a salute, and then takes a step back, into the shadows.

Without a whisper, the Shade was gone to let the heroes take care of business. He was sure they would not need his help anyway, with another Shadow there for backup.

"Until next time...." Gone.

Matthew Murdock has posed:
Daredevil knew Luke would be fine. Nothing to fear for the big man who is more than suited for handling himself. More so with the vigilantes attention thus diverted amongst multiple targets who are all baring down on him at once now that they see how useless coming at him individually is proving to be. The buzz of a swung shock baton nearly misses his jaw when the Daredevil ducks backwards, pivots over his palm (that he can't feel) and sends an upward angled roundhouse at the curve of the swingers jaw.

All the way around, over, and into a roll that dips his upper body beneath a massive, gauntleted, fist. Rather than smashing a Lawyer, it rends a support beam upon which Matt had slumped after his low level twist. Metal groans, wood splinters, and the fist whines mechanically when the wielder clenches his fingers tight. Threats are hurled, but they fall upon deaf ears from a blind vigilante, who sees the battlefield in the echoing sonar of a million rain drops falling upon the slanted warehouse roof. In the buzz of machines as the massive Gorehound sends Ghost-Spider flying.

It's inconsistant feedback, but it's enough.

'You think your condition makes you special? It doesn't. Nobody is special, boy. Either you win or you lose and nobody is gonna hold your hand in this world.' Sticks tells him. The phantom of his mentor lurks ever in his mind as the swift moving vigilante narrowly avoids having his head taken off by bringing his arm up to absorb the swat of a gauntleted fist.

The impact is hard enough that it sends him sliding across the floor, where he clambers back to one knee and a foot, just in time to catch a boot in the chest that smashes him into the box that had stopped his momentum. It shatters under the weight of the blow and the weight of the masked lawyer. Blood runs out of his mouth, through the stubble on his jaw, as he works his way back to his feet.

"Where you going? We're not done yet."

The Goon had turned his back on Daredevil. Time to make him pay for it.

Wild swings. Matt's expecting it now, so he ducks his body and lets it glance off his shoulder with his right hand tucked in tight against his flank. The left stabs out in a jab that catches the Rustborn in the abdomen. One-two. One-two-one. 'Work the body, Matt.' Says his father. 'Man can't breath, he can't fight.'

Another dip of his shoulder in the opposite direction, another glance, this time putting his right shoulder down and back. Perfectly placement for his lowered, wrapped, right fist. Which comes up in an uppercut that catches the bigger, brawnier, man in the chin. 'Everyone has a button, just learn when to push it.' Every bit of his remaining strength follows his fist. Enough upwards force to knock the man back off his feet. Matt dropping down onto his knee, with his bloody wrapped knuckles in the dirt.

Where he slides over and wraps a forearm around the groaning mans throat and tightens it. With his knee braced in the small of his back to keep him from getting any traction or relief. The gauntlet is too big to wield in tight like this. A club that swats harmlessly off the side of Matt's face and right shoulder, but useless for fine motor details like slinking fingers beneath a constricting forearm.

Until the body slacks and Matt can release him.

Panting.. blood running from a busted lip down to the ground... as he pushes back up and rolls his shoulders, both hands balling back into bloody, wrapped, fists.

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    In less confused situations, the shimmer of raindrops bouncing off her coat and hat, not to mention the splashing of her footsteps in the rain, would make the Shadow much easier to spot than she'd prefer. But with the majority of Rustborn well and distracted by the spectacle that is Daredevil in full motion, Natasha has all but free rein. Time and again when one of the goons shakes themselves enough to remember they're armed they find a blurry fist coming at them at speed, or a sudden yank from behind pulling them to the ground, or a kick sweeping their feet out from under them...

Dick Grayson has posed:
One of the things about doing this sort of thing long enough, you start to learn lessons. Start to learn what works and what doesn't. You start to learn from your mistakes, at least if you don't want those mistakes to end up costing you big.

The Rustborn have escaped from them in the past. Which is one of the reasons Nightwing wanted their escape route closed down this time. Yes, they managed to track them down. They got lucky. Nightwing might not be as grim and unrelenting as his Dark Knight mentor, but he would rather not leave things to chance if he can possibly help it.

This time they won't have to worry about that. Anyone who is going to flee will be doing it on foot and when it comes to that kind of race, Nightwing rather likes their chances.

He can hear the commotion continuing out front, can hear that the armored figure is making a pain of himself - as Dick rather suspected that he would. But as he crosses that gap, on his way to try and help Ghost-Spider - and whoever else out there is actually on their side - bring it down, Nightwing stumbles over that reprogrammed drone.

Again the Rustborn prove themselves to be something besides the run-of-the-mill Gotham thug that tends to populate gangs like this. That they could hack through the security in it with relative ease suggests a technical expertise that is rarely evident in the rank and file and it can't help but raise that question of just who is behind the Rustborn once more. Those that they have caught have proven surprisingly resistant to talking thus far.

Yet another surprising trait from the standard criminal in Gotham who can usually be intimidated enough to spill their secrets without too much difficulty.

It's not something that he has a lot of time to dwell on though. While he might be stealthy enough against the rank and file, that hacked drone has additional sensors that make it harder to trip up. And while the sound of that fight nearby might distract the flesh and blood threats, the same does not appear to hold true for the mechanical ones.

So as it twists towards him, those red glowing optical sensors fixating on him, Nightwing is already moving, darting for cover as those weapons begin to whirr to life, slowly sliding to fix on him.

His swift response prevents him from being hit, taking cover behind a stack of crates, pinned for the moment. But not for long.

Hands dart to his utility belt, barely discernable against the black of his costume and he fishes out a pair of devices. The first he casually tosses over his shoulder, over those crates blindly, letting that blinding burst of light and noise play havoc on the mechanical sensors.

The second one is the real threat though, the round sphere landing just a couple of feet away from the drone before exloding with violent concussive force, slamming the mechanical sentry back against the wall, leaving it crumpled and broken.

Ideal? No. But Bruce can afford to pay for a new one.

Then Nightwing is sprinting outside to try and help Gwen at last only to find Daredevil already standing over the armored Rustborn. Instead he slips over to the fallen Ghost Spider. "Sorry, got delayed," he murmurs, offering a hand to help her back to her feet. "Looks like the issue was dealt with anyway," he notes drily.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
"Ow," Ghost-Spider mutters into the dented steel siding, her voice flat and breathless. Her shoulder throbs. So does her ego. She rolls.

A split second later, Gorehound's reinforced club comes down with the weight of a wrecking ball. The asphalt beneath her cracks wide, throwing a spray of gravel and steam where the impact lands. If she hadn't moved, she wouldn't be moving at all.

She doesn't get time to regroup. Gorehound yanks the weapon free, already lifting it for a second strike.

And that's when Daredevil hits him.

He comes out of nowhere -- just a shadow behind the rain. Gorehound doesn't see him, but Matt doesn't need to be seen. He ducks under the first swing, using the momentum to pivot off one palm and lash upward with a roundhouse that connects hard with the undercurve of the brute's jaw.

The strike doesn't drop him, but it rocks him back a step.

Gorehound roars, swinging low in retaliation. The air splits with the force of the blow, but Matt is already gone. He rides the opening, slipping under a wild haymaker to drive a jab into the big man's midsection. Then another. Then three more. Controlled. Mechanical. Efficient. Each hit lands with the sound of a hammer against packed sand.

Another feint -- another dodge -- and Matt drives an uppercut into Gorehound's chin with enough force to lift his heels off the ground.

The brute stumbles.

Matt doesn't stop. He drops with him, one arm around Gorehound's throat, the other braced at the small of his back. The club slams into Matt's side, once, twice -- no leverage. No control. Not in close. Not here.

Then the club goes still.

Matt holds a second longer before finally releasing the grip and pulling back. Blood on his mouth. Rain running in streams off his jaw. His fists still clenched.

The biggest threat is down.

Inside the warehouse, the last of the Rustborn scatter. Whatever hold the drone might've had on the fight ends with a concussive burst from Nightwing's last charge. The unit slams into the far wall and crumples in a tangled heap of metal limbs and twitching hydraulics. Its sensor strip shorts with a bright snap. Dead.

Natasha clears the floor with quiet precision. One by one, each remaining Rustborn goes down fast -- yanked into the dark, swept from behind, or cracked across the back of the skull. A pair of them raise their hands before she even reaches them.

By the time Gwen pushes up onto her hands, the fighting is done.

"Uh... yeah. Looks like," she mutters, voice still catching around the last breath. Her hand slips for a second on the slick metal surface before another finds hers -- gloved, steady. She glances up. Takes it.

Nightwing pulls her back to her feet. She leans against him for a second, just enough to feel his shoulder under her own before straightening again.

The silence feels too still now. No voices. No movement. Just the low hiss of rain and the rising echo of sirens, louder now -- maybe two blocks off. Lights sweep the edges of the loading yard through the fog.

"Thanks," she tells him, then looks up again toward the sound. "They're playing our song."

She doesn't need to say more. She's been here before. Not as frequently in Gotham, maybe, but in alleys. On rooftops. Places she wasn't supposed to be -- doing things that still didn't earn trust, no matter how many lives she saved. Even if the badge said GCPD instead of NYPD, the instinct stayed the same -- disappear.

She steps back. Rain runs down the edge of her hood. Those eyelets squint with mischief.

"I can always take the car, if you need to stick around..."

They both know she can't. She doesn't know how to drive. But they both know she wants to.

Behind them, the warehouse is silent -- half-loaded crates left abandoned mid-theft, downed Rustborn bound or unconscious, the hacked drone fully disabled.

Sirens near the entrance now. Headlights sweep wide over the crumpled fence and the scorched SWAT van.