16964/The bigger they are

The bigger they are
Date of Scene:	20 January 2024
Location:	Summerset
Synopsis:	Six Months Ago, The Punisher was in Gotham, following a transaction of weapons from the docks back to New York. His intentions keep things out of the city are thwarted by the arrival of Bluebird who is engaged by the PMC soldiers sent to secure the payload. What follows is a protracted gunfight that leaves Frank Castle knocking on deaths door. The worth of a man is measured by his actions, but oft his intentions are made clear only in reflection.
Cast of Characters:	Harper Row, Frank Castle

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Harper Row has posed:
Archie Goodwin isn't supposed to be having this much scrutiny tonight, apart from the hawks and owls that strive to keep the rabbit and pigeon population down. But that's during the day. Tonight, tech-spec gadgets are over Bluebird's eyes, and she's scoping one of the separate hangars that is the focus of a number of jeeps and trucks assembling like they just heard a summons.

The swerve inside the gaping hangar doors, the vanguard of a couple delivery vans that are of the suspiciously unmarked variety. From Bluebird's angle, half a cargo plane is roosting like a fat hen, and crates are in the process of being unloaded.

Bluebird murmers across her assumed secure comms to her fellow Birds. Giving the final observations before she moves in closer for solo recon work. Harper likes snooping on her own at night, when her expertise with her tech can really shine. She should bring in backup for a suspected weapons drop to these high-paying customers, but another puzzle from the Calculator has sent a number of her allies on errands around town before something tips into the water supply or vents through shopping malls. Surely a suspected illegal transaction of weapons packed in boxes of straw and environmentally horrible packing peanuts is a one gal operation.

Surely this is just a run of a mill recon Op.

...Those are an awful lot of boxes. Those are an awfully anxiety inducing level of odd symbols on those crates.

A briefcase is flashed. Just one of ~seven~. Bluebird's throat constricts and she stiffles a squawk. She leaves her bike so fast she nearly pushes it over. Gotta get close, has to get ears on this and better eyes on what appears to be the motherload of exchanges. Country-toppling Arms, not just County troubling.

Frank Castle has posed:
There's a mystique about Gotham that always puts Frank on edge when something leads to the city. He is not afraid of the Batman, persay, but does have a healthy respect for him. The pair of them do not share ideologies with regards to the fair and proper treatment of criminality. This isn't suppose to be a weapons hot OP, however. Just following the money.

Originating in New York, the buyers moved across the bay to Gotham, of all places. Where weapons deals are a beacon for the Bats. So it must be one hell of a clearance sell... worth the risks. That or they know Frank is on their tail and would rather get their asses kicked than blown off.

The battlevan sits a little ways down the street with Frank in the driver seat watching a small HD screen where Microchips drones are feeding him footage from inside the warehouse. Exchange of brief cases, a bunch of crates being loaded into a cargo plane meant for god only knows where. "You seeing this, Frank?" The voice in his ear says, Frank tilting his head to take a bit from the big belly burger he'd picked up a few hours ago. "Yeah. Too much firepower to hit them in that warehouse." He's good, but not stupid. Besides, setting off a grenade in Gotham is a sure fire way to get a visit in the night by a man dressed as a bat.

"Keep an eye on the cars, we'll hit them on the interstate leaving town. Track the cargo planes, find out if we have any assets on the ground to hold them up once they land." Another bite and a confirmation from Microchip.

Harper Row has posed:
Surveillance overlapping surveillance, layers of observation like the rings of some celestial body. Bluebird's own, Dewey and Dunlop, matte-purple that's so dark as to be almost a hole in reality, whisper quiet but not quiet enough. It's just science after all. Bluebird keeps one near her motorcycle while another trails her like a puppy. She keeps some line-of-sight signals on them to avoid the healthy amount of radar gear the airport uses. Piggybacking her last message back to HQ from one drone to the other until they can shoot it off and then try and go ninja-mode. "Hang back you two. Ready on remote start when signalled." she murmers, chewing around the tortured bit of mint gum.

Bluebird, fully suited, dashes forward until she can get to the edge of the large hangar doors.

Damn, but these Dealers must be in quite the hurry. Something has put the fear of God, or the promise of a Devil, into their veins. Bluebird knows the look on their faces as they transfer cargo into the two trucks. Strung out Long-Haulers trying to make time on a steady supply of stimulants. People with guns to their heads or...No, like people trying to flee an imminent tropical storm. Instead of suitcases of clothes and food, crate of ammo, explosives and automatic weapons. They didn't even close the hangar doors because that would have delayed the hand-off. They aren't counting the briefcases of dough. They're hectic, terrified, taking risks to get the hell out.

Harper gets her hands on a set of trackers from her utility belt and weighs them in her palm. She can tag a dynamic duo of jeep and truck, but the plane might be a bridge too far. She puts a little spin on things, hoping that in these criminals' haste, it'll fly completely over their heads.

The plane rumbles to life, coughing smoke from engines that haven't even properly cooled yet. Harper takes some quick shots with a finger to her temples and her goggles to the details. "Smiiiiile." she rasps and tries to make a judgement call on what to follow as they seem to be packing up.

Damn but they're fast. The clandestine trade show is full of barked back-and-forth rather than full conversations as they run to vehicles to get the hell out by land and air.

"You said we'd clear a couple mil easy. Easy you said!"
"Risky and rash."
"This is a bad beat."
"We're bleeding from this one."
"Not as bad as if he shows. Count your money, count your blessings..."
"Back in time to kiss your Missus if we haul ass."
"DoubleDown, he ain't gonna like it."
"Shut up, once we're in the air, it'll be fine, we'll be out of reach."
The roar of engines heralds the vehicles about to peel out, and Harper has to run like hell before she's caught in a headlight or left behind.

Frank Castle has posed:
"Billy's getting brash, Frank. He's desperate if he's willing to deal with the Maggi for weapons." Billy Russo. Jigsaw. The kind of piece of shit that attracts a piece of shit like Frank Castle to drive into hostile territory to keep tabs on what he's doing. As much a nemesis to Frank as the Joker is to Batman. A buddy... gone wrong.

Frank finishes his burger and tosses the wrapper, balled up, into the passanger floorboard. "That's disgusting." "Shut up." The jeeps and vans peel away with Frank watching the feed from the hack CCTV cameras and aerial drones.. Microchip is anything if not efficient, but this is an unfamiliar network. Anyone could trace that signal if they know what to look for. Didn't have the time to clean up after himself.

When the vehicles pass, Frank leans back in his seat, canting his head to peer sidelong through the glass. Then he starts the van and pulls around to take up position a few car lengths behind them. Unmarked black vans attract attention, but nobody suspects a white panel van with the logo of some logistics company on the side. At least not until it's too late.

Acting like they do in the movies doesn't win wars.

It certainly doesn't catch badguys.

As he pulls around he almost spots a motorcycle further up the lane, but it could be anyone. So rather than peel off to check it out, he keeps pace. Casual driving, they're not going to want to attract any more attention than necessary.

"Flight plane says they're headed to Logan international. I'll let you know when, if, they land." Each bump in the road has Frank's head wobbling side to side. Blue eyes staring forward, focused, with just the slightest glance down at the glock sitting in the passanger seat.

The back of the van is full with enough munitions to make a series dent in the war on terror... or worsen it.

Harper Row has posed:
Bluebird leans forward on her motorcycle, increasing speed and veering towards it. She's trying to tail a bit too eagerly. The tantalizing sight of the cargo zooming off down the street gives her the urge to chase. That short-circuit that happens to some pooches where they wanna get their jaws on a passing bumper. The remote tracker is doing its business, but she just can't let them get away.

Bluebird's jacket flys behind her as she really starts to pick up velocity. She can't give chase easily to the cargo hauler already setting itself up to take flight, and she leaves it, and the cash, to others. The weapons are the biggest threat to her. Harper pulls in the drones to dock into their charging cradles before she hauls on the throttle and rockets forward.

Subtlety is the first thing to suffer tonight as the bird of prey decides to strike. The sound of her souped of cycle whines and she careen towards it like a gosh darned caped crusader sort, looking like she's going to try to overtake and do something obnoxious to the drivers or the engine block. Either that or she's one of those terrible TikTok'rs doing stunts for clout!

Frank Castle has posed:
Whichever it is, Frank keeps glancing at the rearview as the whine of a motorcycle becomes increasingly more apparent. The engine in his van isn't stock, but rebuilt and suped up for chases... that does not make it capable of the kind of speeds that motorcycle is capable of, however. The two vehicles are just built different. Plenty enough to keep up with the jeeps and vans of the world, less so for keeping up with the high end sports cars and racing bikes.

His first instinct is that this is one of the bats, which he's right about. This time of night, this part of town, even clout chasing tiktok'ers aren't stpid enough to come peddling their special breed of stupid, doesn't matter how many followers they'd get. His second instinct is that they're not here for him, but he'd probably make a good secondary prize soon as they realize The Punisher is in town.

That said, the drivers of those transport vehicles aren't stupid.. They're trained professionals. Paramilitary guys. The kind of people other people pay millions for security... only these are loyal to Billy. "What're you doing." When the bike overtakes him and heads out wide as if she's going to pass the van & jeep.

"This kid is going to get herself killed." Reaching for his pistol, cursing under his breath. "Frank, don't get in a god damn gunfight in Gotham... that's like.. a land war in Russia." Despite the warnings, and all the obvious warning signs, Frank pushes the pedal to the floor and speeds up... just enough that when he clips the back end of one of the bumpers, it's as likely to flip the Jeep as send it into a tailspin. He doesn't know Bluebird from a hole in the dirt, but she looks young. Too young for this kind of business.

That's the real reason Frank hates Gotham City.

Everyone here is a kid.

Harper Row has posed:
Bluebird's ride slashes through the night, a chainsaw that fails to damage pavement but sounds like its hungry to. Crotch-rocket daring for the young costumed crime-o-naut. Reckless and wild, her teeth are showing in a kind of rictus grin as she peels on next to the paramilitaries that are just trying to make a dishonest buck and avoid the threat that's been hanging over their heads all evening. It's something akin to a monkey wrench in their assumptions when it's not the hometown crime fighter they were most worried about, nor grim reaper that could visit from anywhere. But they definitely aren't stupid.

They are distracted though. Windows are rolled down so that handheld party favours can be drawn and used without blowing out their eardrums. Just enough time for the little hellion on the motorcycle to whip something that looks like a prosthetic hand towards the grill. Bluebird's mouth is uncovered, though her voice mostly stolen by the passing wind as yells, "Watt's up folks!" Some manner of gadget to do terrible things to the electricals of the van. The facehugger-looking tech-crab croonches securely and a countdown starts before the blistering overcharge builds.

"Shit!" Shots fired. They're not idiots, and they're not into puns. Impacts ping off the road, chassis of Bluebird's bike as she hangs over the opposite side to let her ride take the brunt of fire.

Bluebird is not the only one surprised by his battlevan making contact with the jeep pulling escort for the high-value shipment. The treads of its tires chirp loud as gunfire before the headlights swing sudden and crazy. The sweet love-tap of vehicles giving it that special ~umpf~ to send it out of control and drunkely weave in greater and greater disarray. The ~krump squeal~ of the Jeep jettisons people and things not lashed down after chaotically spotlighting different vehicles within its soon to be smashed headlights.

Frank Castle has posed:
The Jeep flips and the battlevan follows, in a spin because that's how physics works. The back end of the jeep presses to the bumper of the van, pushing it for a hundred feet before the tires catch and it spins over axel onto it's side. Frank slams his foot on the breaks as the back end of his vehicle comes around hard, taps the upturned front end of the jeep, and rocks up onto two wheels... Then over on it's side, leaving Frank suspended towards the passanger seat by his seatbelt with a wicked looking cut across his forehead from smashing it against the steering wheel.

It's a dark section of road, which works in his favor. The Jeep wasn't entirely on it's side, so the front end bump knocked it back down onto all four wheels. And the passangers inside are clear headed enough to get their senses about them quickly.

Wont be long at all now and the gunfire is going to start. Land war in Russia, indeed.

Harper Row has posed:
Bluebird's head dips, chin tucking in as she peers between her straddled leg and one arm, back towards the dance between Jeep and Van. A bullet comes close to her gloved hand and she course-corrects to make it a little harder to hit her from the speeding truck. It's almost showtime for her gadget, and as shielded as her bike is, she doesn't want to risk being something that a high burst of electricity is tempted to make her a conduit.

Whatever code the BoP are operating by, it's in Bluebirds playbook. The way they're going so fast, she has to reconsider fallout. "Five...four...three..." Harper drops back from the speeding truck of goods a few seconds before there's a blue-white flash that fries all electrical quality-of-life functions of the truck. Powered this, powered that...lights out, fade to black. Except that killing the engine means no cessation of forward movement, but a growing diminishment. Harper almost feels a bit of backlash in her piercings from the gadget going off, but she's focused on Frank's ride and the jeep of hostiles. Wrongly assuming some civilian accidentally getting involved. She waves a hand, trying to ward off the battlevan before she's able to get a better look. Plus...gunmen. Armed and skilled gunmen.

Smoke bombs...no.
Caltrops...no.
Unsling drones to annoy and pester while she unslings her SMG...yes.

Frank Castle has posed:
The van is over on it's side, Frank dangling from the seatbelt, with blood dripping from his broken nose. Willpower, the god damn willpower of a demonic entity, alone is all that keeps him conscious... but nothing is going to stop the buzzing in his ears from suddenly facial impact with the steering wheel. "-ank.. buddy... -ake up.."

Either comms are busted or he's hearing the voice in his ear from far away.

Until reality pops back into focus. Clear as clean glass. The KABAR slides out from the sheath on his belt and slashes the harnass keeping him precariously suspended into the passanger seat. The impact isn't as great, but it still jolts his shoulder. While somewhere out beyond his cracked windshield he can hear shouts, orders, and foot falls. Then gunfire. Suppression. It's not aimed at him.

Has to be aimed at the kid.

A bloody hand fumbles for the pistol, closes around the grip, and pushes barrel down to force himself into a crouched position in the front of his overturned van. "AHHHH..." BANG... his shoulder slams against the windshield. "AhhhhhAHHHHH..." Bang.. splinter, crack, and the whole thing comes down and out. Followed by a boot hitting pavement.

Wearing black cargo pants, a black t-shirt, and a heavy black armored vest. The stoney eyed Frank Castle erects himself with crimson bubbles popping from each hissing snarl of a breath where blood drips down the back of his throat from his broken nose. His hair is shaved high, tight, black stubble.

And a white Skull spray painted on his chest.

The Momento Mori.

Harper Row has posed:
Bluebird's momentum can't stay entirely intact, and she throws her weight to the opposite side of her motorcyle to help make the turn more savage. The gunfire spackling her position make terrifying cracks against the surface of the road, or their passage like killer hornets too fast for the eye to follow. With adrenaline flooding her engine, it worsens everything that isn't down a narrowing tunnel. Her HUD clamours with a grocery list of concerns on an OCD list colour coded for ultimate anxiety.

Harper guns the motorcycle and her headlights sweep across the Jeep's passengers, making them stark silhouettes to anyone coming up on them from behind. Album cover stuff from behind, and alien abduction over-exposure from the front. If she had any sense and extra hands free she'd have tried her hi-beams.

Bluebird makes herself a hard target, but her soft tissue feels glances and flattening of rounds. She hadn't correctly calculated the calibre. They absolutely tear through her weaving drones that try and make double-helix before her, obliterating like they just flew through a wood chipper. Their sacrifice sends shards of metal and plastic into and across her while she yells out curses within the hailstorm.

Frank Castle has posed:
The gunmen, rightly, believe the bike is one of the Gotham Knights... or one of the Birds.. it's just putting them in a position where they're not paying attention to the right target. Worst case scenario, it's Batman on that rocket.. he beats their ass and they go to prison.. but they go alive. Even if it is with a couple broken bones.

What they get instead isn't as nice.

Frank is limping, but that doesn't really deter his speed.

Snorting bloody sputum as he builds up momentum until the sound of gunfire pauses long enough for them to hear the 'pat pat pat' of his boots. One of the gunmen turns, but it's not soon enough. He's already on them. With his foot coming out of a forward run into a sideways stomp-kick aimed at the mans instep. It knocks his leg out to one side and starts the toppling effect, with Frank ducking down to press his shoulder into the mans solar plexus, hoist him up onto his shoulder, and use his back as cover.

The pistol around his cargos hip to fire off three concentrated shots, 'pop-pop-pop', all of them in a gunmans armored back. It wont kill them, but he'll be hard pressed not to feel his lungs angrily burning from sudden, explosive, agony when the hollowpoint ammunition puts severe dents in the kevlar plates.

Two other gunmen turn and open fire at close range, with Frank turning, the combination of the man on his shoulder and his own thick armor eating the spray. If they were hoping it would stop the bear, they're sorely mistaken. He jerks when one of the bullets hits a section near the straps that offers less protection, busts the kevlar, but misses the plate. Hitting his flank instead, lodged near his kidney..

The spin builds strength, enough strength to hurl the man he's carrying at another of the group of gunmen. Knocking them both over to allow Frank enough time to duck behind the back end of the Jeep.

The FUCKING PUNISHER... in Gotham. One of them clearly realizes, perhaps too late, that they're well out of their depths.

Harper Row has posed:
Bluebird isn't sure what she's seeing, like her goggles are suffering a bit of a glitch. There's a glimpse of the van's driver coming up on four heavily armed and aggressive folk like some sort of...

She can't spare the time to stare, but she does, a delay in trying to pray 'n spray the armed foes. She squeals her tires on asphalt as she commit to banking towards and then perpendicular to the remaining enemies still standing. That's no weekend warrior inserting themselves into the mix. Her sluice of adrenaline gets punched up with spikes of confusion and alarm. The unknown is the worst to her.

Nope, she's wrong. There's something worse and it's the avatar of retribution somehow having inserted themselves into Gotham. "Punisher!" It's not a greeting, it's an expletive. A warning and static-crackle distortion into the BoP channel.

Bluebird can't brace her SMG as well as she'd like, but she rakes a low-angle blurt of piezoelectric bullets at the two gunmen once she thinks she's got better than bad odds of concentrating her fire on them alone. She lets her bike go over and throws herself onto her shoulder to use it as cover and see whether she's reduced them to a herky-jerky dance or that armor is more insulated than it looks.

Frank Castle has posed:
Frank reaches up to a harnass laid across the skull on his chest and jerks a flash-bang grenade from a loop near a bandolier of clips. The pin is caught in his teeth and pulled, then tossed backwards around the right side of the jeep, with him going right. Pistol held up, real close to his chest as he duck-runs in cover to both come around on the flank side and keep from being caught in the sudden flash-pop.

These aren't punks, however.

One of them kicks the grenade under the jeep.

The other gets hit several times in the back by Harper's spray of SMG fired electric bullets. If it had completely hit is plates, it likely would have been annoying, but of little impact. Unfortunate for him, one of the prongs hit him in flank and went through the vest to touch skin. He jerks, sputters, and damn near pisses himself.

Frank turns, stands up, and strifes. The gun extending out as he does so to fire through the wind shield with a lethal accuracy for which he is spoken of. 'pop-pop-pop'. Controlled, measured. Most of them don't hit, but they're not suppose to.

The flash-bang goes off beneath the truck, hitting the two from earlier. The one he'd thrown and the one who caught him. As well as the one jerking on the ground... but not several others and not the ones in the van that is now turning around to come back.

These are Spec-Ops. They don't leave people behind.

"I'm monitoring GCPD frequencies, Frank. You better shack a leg... guy in the van just sent out a text to a number inside the precinct."

This is one of the other reasons he hates Gotham. The Cops are usually in on it. And he really hates killing cops.

Harper Row has posed:
Bluebird jerks her head to the side, despite her high-tech accessories having some ability to shield her. Things are occurring to her, going off like 'nades in her noggin. Her assumptions of this being nothing but a lethal affair aren't going to do any fact checking. From what she knows of The Punisher, she's going with her gut. Her only hope is to bring targets down before the executioner does.

"I've got this!" she screams and unloads another burst at the next targets of opportunity. She hasn't in fact got it, but she tries to give it. She backhands the bike, to deploy more drones, forgetting in the excitement they all got blown to the Circuit City in the sky. "Goddamnitshit!"

She can't fireman's carry her bike, or a huge dude, but she can leverage her bike back up into a drunken lean in preparation for greater cover and a possible extraction. She prays for no traffic. Damn but these assholes don't cut and run or panic like the crims she's used to. This is nightmare stuff.

She glances at the van on its side and decides its done for without a winch. She tries to gauge the distance between the Spec-Ops and The Punisher, exits and cover. And backup. So much backup. "This is too hot! You gotta scram!" It feels ludicious to even shout it at The Punisher, like she's in Kindergarten tell the Teacher that it's time to move onto finger painting from Recess.

Frank Castle has posed:
Frank tilts his head and peers beneath the jeep, then rolls over his shoulder and fires off several shots beneath the under carrage that hits one of the remaining gunmen in the shins. An explosive burst of gunshots, blood, and pained visceral screams as he drops like a sack of potatoes onto the ground.

The irony of her trying to wave him away isn't lost on him. Since he'd had no intentions of getting involved until they crossed city lines out of Gotham... the fight is on now, though. And he's not afraid of cops.

He's not afraid of Batman, either.

But he's less afraid of cops.

"Then scram." He tells her, growling as he comes around the front of the jeep with the pistol dropping into the holster on his hip, switching out for the pump sawn off on his back. Usually there would be confusion, and would have been had Frank's attack gone to plan.. but when has one ever survived engagement with the enemy?

CHI-CHAK BOOM

Small calibre kevlar is exactly no match for a shotgun blast at close range.

Frank stood up and walks towards the remaining gunmen, carrying the weapon like a peace offering as he pushes it forward against the slider ather than jerking the slide back. 'CHI-CHAK' BOOM. The first guy might not be dead, but he's guppy breathing with a few hundred pellets peircing his back. The second is never going to walk again without a cane.

Chi-CHAK

Walking with the weapon held down at his side, he passes over the man he'd shot in the shins earlier and pulls the trigger when the barrel passes over his chest. BOOM.

Only four left.

And the headlights of the van rapidly approaching from the cover side of Harper's position. "Running out of time, kid. Shit or get off the toilet."

Harper Row has posed:
The tone of voice from the infamous vigilante carries dread, and Bluebird shoulders it. As worried as she is, it makes her hackles raise to be given an ultimatum just on the fringe of her home turf. Maybe it's something in the way the Punisher makes a measured trip to tread on the bad dudes one-by-one, crouching behind her bike feels worse than cringe. She comes up behind it, gripped hard while the barrel stinks of burnt batteries and motes of blue snap-crackle-pop by the accelerator.

What to snap back, throw shade and snark off with? The whites of her teeth show as she's the only one to stand in as sherif at present. Her weapon raises, to point at the oncoming van. She has a better position to brace her feet this time before the weapon can make like a maniac sewing machine and start rattling. Damn thing is full of so much ka-blooie, she pulls the trigger and aims for tires and engine block. Still going for the take-down not the head-shots. "I can wipe my own ass, dude!"

Frank Castle has posed:
Usually a bit of banter wouldn't trip up the vengeful spirit, but the redundency of it hits him in a way he'd not expected. She can wipe her own ass? Is he really that out of touch that this means something now, that it hadn't meant when he was her age? His brow furrows and he turns to glance over his shoulder. If she catches that look, it's not the menacing scowl one might expect from the Punisher.

It's a look that practically screams seriously?.

It wasn't a very good time for it, though. There's still a guy over there with a gun and he's not holding fire just because Frank is distracted. The ratta tat of an compact assault rifle reports before the pepper popping of rounds hitting armor plates across the black clad vigilante's chest. A controlled three round burst, center mass. Hurts like a mother fucker.

Pisses him off too.

He's on the guy so fast, smacking the barrel down and away with the shotgun used like a club. With his whole body turning so when he whips his right hand around it catches the guy on the right side of the neck with his palm turned down and out to grip his jaw. Carrying through to slam the dudes face off the corner of the opened back door of the Jeep that he'd been using for cover. Then a straight kick to knock his feet out from under him when it hits just below his knee. Shoving them back and away. He lands right on his face.. Frank turning to check his armor, fingers coming away bloody.

Some of it might not be his though. There's speckles of crimson on his face, sprayed across the white skull on his chest, and dripping from beneath the armor on his left flank... that's his. It's too frank red to not be a bad thing.

Thank god for adrenoline.

Harper hits the vans front right tire and it causes a frantic swerve to regain control when it shreds a second later. Sparks flying off the pavement, it's still coming. Right at her...

Harper Row has posed:
Bluebird feels the warmth of her weapon through the palm of her gloves. It's that hot, angry that she's been so generous with her fire rate. Her clip of charged ammo coming up on empty, which is a blessing on how much she's taxed the tech. She lets the weapon drop on its tether, left to singe the material of jacket and body armor while she fumbles out a dynamic duo of smoke bombs. She wild-eyes to the temporary ally, bottom jaw hinged forward. "Smoke!" she blurts and sets the orbs to detonate on impact rather than timer.

She's hopping around so much tonight she might have to consider something more Kermit-like, if she doesn't get Froggered. She can't just jump aside, she's gotta get her feet moving first. Gotta get some clearance. It's just cold hard physics that's an absolute bitch for mortals. "Coming throooooough!"

Her boots pound across the road all semblance of style through out in favour of good old expedience.

Frank Castle has posed:
Frank leans against a palm against the Jeep when a bit of pain stabs up through his side, over the bruises already forming on his chest beneath his armor, but it's only a temporary pause. Because that van isn't stopping and Harper isn't moving fast enough. At least not fast enough for his liking. He might be all that caring in his tone, but he definitely doesn't want to see her get splattered...

Indirectly he feels responsible.

If he hadn't chased them out of New York, they wouldn't be in Gotham.

It's viglante guilt, honestly... makes no sense, but what about any of this does?

The smoke bombs go off, as planned, and obscure the drivers vision when he passes through them. It doesn't make it difficult to control the vehicle, but it does make it impossible to see Harper's bike still laid over on it's side. The front left tire hits it at speed, pushing it up off the ground onto the blown out rim which is starting to melt under the constant sparking friction of riding without a tire.

It's not enough to send it flying into the air, but it does send it up on two wheels with the axel frame buckling under the pressure when the metal is already super heated. The front end hits concrete, pushed by the back tire, and then slides.

These things don't happen like in the movies.

Frank grabs one of the men on the ground's compact assault rifle and brings it up into his left shoulder, approaching the over turned van at a limp. When the back door bursts open, driver having crawled to the back, grabbed something from one of the boxes, and burst out into the street... with a chaingun. Which he sets to spinning, lighting up the night sky, street, and anything within a half mile radius as he pulls the weapons dangerous 50 a second gunfire towards where Harper had landed.

Harper Row has posed:
Harper half-expects to feel the impact of the chassis, the sound of the tortured tire rims getting closer and closer. She tucks and rolls bouncing and then skidding herself. The exposed flesh of her cheek gets some road rash, and the more covered up parts add more bruises to her tab.

Spitting out grit, the gyro in her head resets itself and she gets to her hands and knees to stare back over towards the van. "You can't..." she starts to stammer at Frank's back as he goes to complete the mission. Her protests she wants to deploy run the gamut of: Bat Code, being judge-jury-executioner, about being a Terminator. Until the doors of the van burst open.

Her eyes go wide, her mouth gapes, the sight of a freakin spinny-multi-barrelled weapon almost gives her the paralyzing shakes. Whatever she's going to say is lost in the roar of the rotary cannon.

Those things aren't supposed to exist outside of the movies.

Bluebird's ear dampeners go into overdrive as she yanks a pair of pistols from their holsters and tumbles to the left, desperate for cover and a low profile. She screams.

Frank Castle has posed:
Frank is limping, but he's doing it far quicker when he sees what comes out of the back of that van. Maybe it's the target? It doesn't matter, he's advancing with a determination that his wounds shouldn't allow for. Holding his own weapon up as he does so because the bullet spread is serious.. cutting of pavement towards Harper.

The meager report of the assault rifle is paltry by comparison, but it hits true. None of them are a kill shot, persay, but all of them are on the mark. Dancing in a wide strife counter to the mans firing arc, it jolts him forward and angles the barrel downward when it very nearly cuts Harper into a so much viscera.

His finger comes off the trigger, the barrels stop spinning, and Frank's gun goes dry. So he tosses it, wasn't his anyways. Favoring his Glock instead, it's jerked from the holster and brought up quickly.

While the man grabs his own pistol since trying to spin up the anti-personale weapon he's carrying with the Punisher baring down on him would be suicidal. Both of the weapons point at each other and start firing. Each ducking, taking hits in the vests. The flash of muzzles, the impact of bullets on armor.

At twenty paces... twelve paces.. five paces.. A bullet hits Frank in the shoulder and jerks him back, but he keeps walking. A bullet hits the gunman in the leg, but he goes down on his knee. Until both guns are dry.

The first one to fall is the gunman... right onto his back.

Followed shortly after by the Punisher. Down onto his hands and knees. Blood oozing from his open lips, panting from air. Thick blood. Bright blood. Internal damage. "Get me out of here." It sounds like he's talking to Harper.

"I'm working on it... you're going to owe me for this, Frank. Seriously, you have no idea how expensive this is going to get."

"Less talking, more getting me out of here."

"Extract inbound, ten seconds. Black sedan."

"Doctor. Find me a doctor."

"How bad...?"

"Find me a doctor..."

Harper Row has posed:
The passage of time plays tricks on Harper. Bullets flying fast and the follow-through of the contest between the two facing off unstoppable and fierce. Using the butts and then barrels of the pistols to prop herself up like a sprinter, she's rushing the back of the van and the results of the showdown. "Hold on!"

Finding a Friendly asset near Gotham won't be an issue and sorting through best fit happens fast. "Keep breathing, keep conscious." Harper rasps, yanking off her gloves and reaching for a trauma kit. Nowhere near as good as a surgeon, but full of party favours and things to postpone.

Unaware of the private comms chatter between Frank and Microchip, she on him like a gnat. The sound of packets being torn by her teeth, gauze unspooling to stop all the ruby red from leaking out from the worst and obvious looking stuff. "Bats'uv got sawbones in town. Real good. We know what we're doing around here. We get into a lot of scuffs." Of course, this is way more than a scuff. This looks like a warzone. A site of a crime against humanity. "Frig me, is that vest holding in your guts?"

"Bluebird here, gonna be bringing in a...friendly...for TLC. Multiple gunshot wounds. Concussion..."

Harper Row has posed:
This latter spoken into her Comms while she gets an earfull from her allies in other parts of town.

Frank Castle has posed:
There is a great deal of blood. Way more than Frank is comfortable with is coming out from beneath his vest and he's starting to look a little pale.. so he's not going to look a gift trauma bag in the face. He is, however, going to handle it himself. Unhooking the armor on that side, he pulls up his shirt (with a bullet hole through it) to hold gauze to a wound that likes arterial by the amount coming out of it. Pressure applied.

He drops against the upside down van, stumbling away from Harper. "You need to leave." He tells her, because the sirens are getting closer. "Don't be here when they show up.." Not because of her, but because of him. They'll kill him and then they'll kill her to keep from letting anyone know they killed him. Or worse, she'll have to kill them.

Neither option sits well with him.

The limp is getting worse, leaving a smear of blood across the roof of the van as he drags himself along. Towards teh screech of tires when a black sedan pulls up, spins, and the front door opens. The driver temporarily illuminated by the interior light shows a scrawny looking white guy with curly brown hair and beard. "Let's go, Frank... window is pretty small."

He pushes off the roof, towards the front seat. Glancing back at Harper, bloody hanging from his lip and running down his chin. "Tell your people I got in the way and you tried to stop me." He all but collapses in the front seat, physically pulling his wounded leg in with his right hand.

The door closes... Frank lulling backwards after reclining the seat so he can hold better pressure on his abdominal wound. "That doesn't look good, bud." Says Microchip. "I noticed." Says Frank. "Hold on, I know a guy.."

"Hurry." There's no fear in his voice, just seriousness as the car speeds away.

Harper Row has posed:
Harper is hounding Frank's heels, a collection of blood and stained medical supplies left in their wake. She doesn't lay hands on him when he's under his own power. Maybe she's leery of making direct contact because of what will result, by instinct or reputation. She doesn't recognize the driver, but this Uber is definitely for the Punisher. Her brain catches up, realizing she wasn't a participant of all the conversations tonight. Much as she had her own channels. It makes sense, and the Punisher strikes her as someone how has as much preparation or contingencies as the Batman.

"Yeah. Plausible." Harper mutters, stopping a few yards from the sedan as Frank extracts himself under his own power.

A brutal mental tally of events is about to unload on her, and this is not the time or place. She turns and runs for her bike, gritting her teeth as she rights it and throws her leg over the seat. The Excel spreadsheet in her head is already slotting in data, arranging a timeline, the players and positions. An ugly set of data is awaiting a final tabulation. Like who kicked this party off, escalated, took the risks that touching things off. The sour taste of blood and grit in her mouth promises to match the nausea that wants to bubble up like reflux.

This was costly, and it was her fault.

Harper doesn't like to hold a Tab, and she pays her debts.