2284/Gotham: Demons In A Bottle

Gotham: Demons In A Bottle
Date of Scene:	30 June 2020
Location:	Wetworks
Synopsis:	Along came a spider and sat down beside 'er...
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, Tim Drake, Rose Wilson, Bette Kane, Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth, Julia Pennyworth

---

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
~ The Rye Who Loved Me & NYC ~

That gold and black banner hangs across the entrance to the popular Wetworks distillery. Where once actresses strode with long processions tending to their every need and leading men chain-smoked between takes, the Wetworks now embodies a sort of 1960s glamour. Gentlemen and ladies both in tuxedos circulate among the crowd to offer tasting flights of the signature whiskeys so beloved in Gotham haunts, offering samples of non-alcoholic beverages to the getaway drivers or younger people.

Guests have already started arriving in numbers, but the vast space can accommodate any number of vehicles or, for that matter, a train. Functional rails lead up to the grain silos, in case someone wants to really get fancy. An all-ages event still has security checking ID and putting little rubber bracelets on guests -- they're all 021, gleaming black and yellow in turn. Warm, glowing lanterns are set outside on the large terrace in front of the distillery proper and its neighbouring tower, the perfect spot for the fundraiser for New York's dreadful attacks. A string quartet with supporting pianist and singer are set up to play familiar showtunes with a definite spy theme, though they occasionally segue into slinkier torch music.

Everything looks lively and friendly, meaning it can't last for long. Can it?

Tim Drake has posed:
Tim Drake, the last surviving scion of the Drake family of Gotham, adopted son of Bruce Wayne of the Waynes of Gotham after Tim's parents died(fun fact: the Wayne and Drake manors are next door neighbors!)... with his family(s) names and social presence, the mere need for a legal ID to have one of those shiny 021 bracelets to allow him to drink freely despite being two years underage for it... shouldn't be a problem.

Except this is //Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne//, and he's not about to do something like that. It would be illegal, rude, and immature. Or something. Tim is dressed as a scion of one of the first families of Gotham should be: proper black slacks, a red button-up shirt with rolled up sleeves (got to look 'down to earth' for the masses, right?), and a red-and-black fashionable tie with a tie clip that probably costs what some of these folks make in a month. He has a date! Not that he's exactly socially maladroit, no, rather the young man is well-known for being quite pleasant socially... he just usually doesn't actually //date//.

It's led to some less than kind speculation once or twice, but that's irrelevant.

And never mind that his date has white hair and an eyepatch. The society types might say something about it LATER, but for now it's smiles and politeness. As is proper, as it should be.

He's happily drinking a non-alcoholic drink, because Tim is a rules-follower.

Rose Wilson has posed:
Guess who is not a rules-follower, and is willing to use everything at her disposal to get herself a real drink, with real alcohol?

That's right. Rose. It's true, she's got white hair, and an eyepatch. But neither of those two things are things that she even treats as odd, or the sort of thing that would cause the wrong kind of attention. That blonde hair is back in a French braid, and the eyepatch is plain black, because unlike some...she's not rich beyond measure. And what money she does have usually goes to weapons, armor, things that go boom and causes destruction. Not fine, upperclass, society wear. So it's a nice dress, but plain. Black.

Maybe she's one of those Make-A-Wish kids?

Bette Kane has posed:
The youngest of the Kane cousins, Bette has always felt as if she's late to the party on most things. She was certainly late to the vigilante gig, but considering two of her other cousins are deep in it it's hardly surprising that it somehow runs in the Kane blood. From entrepreneurs to architectures, the Kane blood line has always been trying to make the world a better place. That was the legacy Bette had to somehow uphold.

But social gatherings like this are right up there in terms of fun things to do - and hey, she's legally allowed to drink now. Her C.O. would not be happy if she turned up hungover to work tomorrow, there's a photo op happening, so only one drink for Bette tonight.

A long red dress with a yellow scarf draped from her shoulders. She is going for a mix of the gangster feel of this place and the elegant rich girl she is. That and she loves the colour combination too much not to flaunt it just a little bit. Best known for her sporting achievements as a tennis player, she enjoys the celebrity fame of her lineage and her skill. In fact, the only place she hasn't garnered some level of celebrity is in her vigilante work.

With 021 on her wrist, she starts to make her way around the crowd, greeting people with hand shakes and smiles. Eventually, a glass of MoonRyker ends up in her hand, though she hasn't touched it yet - someone put ice cubes in the thing, ugh.

Dick Grayson has posed:
Dick is also present for the fundraiser, though he is of age and is certainly in possession of one of the precious wristbands of potent potables. He took a different tack in how to dress for this, ditching the tie, but instead going with a dark jacket over a light button up with the last button open. He is not standing immediately next to his little brother and his date, but Dick is at least nearby, taking a moment to talk with a friend from his studies at Gotham U.

Dick nods to Bette and raises his For Your Ryes Only, and says, "Bette, good to see you!" He takes a sip and snatches an hors d'oeuvre from a passing tray as he makes his way over to his cousin.

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
Alfred enters just after Tim and Dick, dressed well but, it has to be said, not noticeably better than usual. He is wearing a gold tie instead of black, in a concession to the event's theme, but even that is mainly to visually differentiate him from the servers circulating with their trays. To no one's surprise, he is wearing a well-cut tuxedo that has served him well on many formal occasions and marked him as a bit overdressed on a number of less formal occasions.

If the butler has thoughts about Tim's lady friend, he keeps his own counsel -- another evergreen look that he might as well never take off. Tonight, however, he did take off -- from work, from vehicle maintenance, from being a voice in anybody's earpiece. He is going to relax at an event, enjoy some fine spirits, and gather amusing bits of blackmail on a few family members. He approaches a server, liberates a flight on a tray ("four-your-ryes-only"), and seeks out a table that still has enough seats for the entire group.

Julia Pennyworth has posed:
    Shadowing behind Alfred is a newcomer to Gotham. The granddaughter to the noble butler, Julia Pennyworth follows the gold-tied man in, one of those nice bracelets around her wrist as well, indicating she's free and clear to drink. "This the normal thing 'round here?" she asks Alfred, taking a drink from the same tray and sticking close. Black tie affairs with lots of people earn eyes wandering just about everywhere. While she looks somewhat out of her element, she's comfortable enough in her place, with her companions, and her attire.

    Red hair done up in a ponytail and a silver clasp over a long black dress. There's a slit that goes up the side for mobility, and she's got smart flat shoes, but largely her only fanciful adornments are the hairclasp and some silver teardrop earrings. Practical elegance?

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Welcome to the Wetworks! We're delighted you could join us tonight, and we promise a night you won't forget." The hostess for the moment has a name tag identifying her as Anya, as the other ladies have Bond Girl titles. She gladly checks over each person's ID as they enter, though her smile turns up about a hundred watts seeing some very familiar surnames on state ID. Wayne, Drake, it keeps rolling by. "This is for you." Professionalism rules the day, though, and she distributes a small introductory package to Tim and Rose each. They are slightly different, made to look like discreet playbills with a schedule of events inside, a ticket for a drink, a donation slip, and information about the New York loss of Bushwick and how the Wetworks Brewery is distributing funds to key organizations helping the victims' families, rebuilding, and sheltering the displaced from around Brooklyn.

Anya continues, "Both of you have a wonderful time."

Her megawatt smile shines upon Dick and Bette next, and they receive their due in kind with ID checks, a satisfied nod, and tickets.

Spotlights illuminate the elegant brick tower overlooking the terrace, and shadows shift where three dancers sway in front of a light to deliberately make their silhouettes dangerously elongated and wild. They pantomime claws and bending weirdly, laughing as the darkness engulfs the tower.

A pair of older gentlemen, both respectively tied to major Gotham banks, are deep in conversation over a bottle of whiskey, looking up when they go by. Something to it is a bit off, like they're trapped in a personal bit of business that didn't stay in the boardroom.

One's ignored date sulks a distance away, and she slinks away, cutting off Alfred in his path with tears in her eyes. He gets a half-hearted sort of apology in passing, and she probably doesn't even notice Julia or anyone not in her immediate vicinity. Her phone is pulled out, lock thumbed away, her muttering voice slurred a little in passing. He might catch her words. "Hate... these things... deserve what... get."

Tim Drake has posed:
Tim graciously takes the offered package, and escorts Rose (he isn't saying anything about how she got that 021 bracelet right now) towards the table Alfred has snagged for the group. He gives Dick and Bette a wave of the hand, and leans over to murmur to Rose, "So, uh, I didn't quite realize so many folks would be here tonight. I'll introduce you to Alfred, though. He's great. I think you've met my 'brother' Dick. And one of our 'cousins' is here too, so this should be fun."

For values of fun that mean Tim will never hear the end of it later, sure.

Rose Wilson has posed:
Best to never ask how Rose gets what she wants. Safer?

Rose offers a look towards those at the table, eyes skipping over the familiar, then the unfamiliar. Then she plasters on a smile for the group so that when Tim goes to make those introductions, she at least fakes looking pleasant and date-like.

"Sure, fun. It'll be great."

Bette Kane has posed:
Hearing her name from a familiar voice she turns to see Dick and waves to him. Making her way over to him too she grabs a little bit of ham over cracker from a passing trap and nibbles it. She still hasn't touched her whisky though. "Dick. So this is a ..thing." Her eyes roam around the place.

"I think this is the first time I've been rolling solo to one of these shindigs." She pauses and thinks for a moment.. dad was at the last one, mum before, the time before that cousin Kate took her. "Yep! I honestly don't know what to do.. usually people want to talk to the person I've come with rather than me, but this time. Well, I feel somewhat anonymous. It's an interesting feeling."

She lifts up her glass to *chnk* with Dick's, "To whisky and family and living in Gotham again and not having to do more coursework or homework and actually being a bone-fide adult." Well, Bette certainly seems to have met her prior life goals. Once more her thoughts are drifting off to the horizon, rarely where she actually is.

Dick Grayson has posed:
Dick looks over the bracelet and nods after checking it and realizing he was out of attire, fishes out his tie and quickly ties it on after buttoning the top button.

When Bette approaches he nods to her, "It is. Definitely more fun than other events. At least this one is meant to be fun instead of formality for formality's sake. Even if I nearly forgot to put my tie on. And you get used to it, a little bit, the joy of big crowds is being able to hide, oddly enough." He winces and joins the salute, "To all that!"

The older gentlemen get his attention and he says to Bette, "Wonder what's going on over there?" He also gives Tim and Rose a nod of acknowledgement as he turns that way.

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
Alfred stops short, scooping his flight board back to compensate for the momentum shift so deftly that the whiskeys seem to remain level in their glasses. "I beg your pardon, miss." he says politely, his voice just as level. "Is everything alright?" Given her state, he doesn't really expect a response.

Still, he waits until it's quite clear that the woman is out of earshot before he turns and murmurs to Julia, "It seems someone should have had a more substanitial supper before imbibing. I trust you dined with a bit more forethought."

When Tim and Rose arrive at the table, he stands -- always so formal -- and proffers his hand to her, palm up. "Alfred Pennyworth, miss. And this is my granddaughter, Julia. Julia, this is Timothy Drake." During the introduction, the butler gives Tim a significant look and then his gaze flashes over to the woman who nearly bumped into him. Just an extremely subtle nonverbal flag: this person could be a problem.

That done, he seats himself again and tastes the first dram on his flight.

Julia Pennyworth has posed:
    While the signal between Tim and Alfred goes unnoticed, Julia purses her lips at the girl and her outburst. She swirls her own glass, blinking at her grandfather. "We just got 'ere, how many you think she's had?" she asks, frowning thoughtfully. Then at his inquiry, she nods, lifting her glass, "I had enough to eat for a proper buffer, ay. I don't plan on drinkin' to drunk, either. Just happy to sample some of the local flavor, as it were..." she gives him a radiant smile. "Thank you for inviting me along, grandfather, truly," she says with sincerity.

    And then the introductions. She holds out her free hand, offering it to Tim and Rose in turn. "Pleasure," she says with a distinct touch of that Pennyworth charm, smile still present. "Still new to Gotham, haven't even been here a week yet. Haven't even formally met my housemates, all my stuff's still in a hotel room."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Alfred's good intention unfortunately gets little more than a teary-eyed look from the banker's arm-candy. "R-roger is just being Roger. Inconsiderate ass, pretending to care about anyone." A sharp nod to the two bankers deep in conversation, their expressions dark.

With a tap to a mic, one of the distillery employees clears his throat. "Friends and guests, may I have your attention?" He stands up onto a flat crate to get a little height and make it easier to see him. "We will be hosting a blind auction on a case of Rye Another Day, from our award-winning 2012 batch. Jinx over there will be accepting your bids." He holds a hand out to gesture at a pretty Indian woman rocking a fierce tux with a fiery orange bowtie for show. "You can submit them all night, but we encourage you to make haste before your friends wipe it out."

He raises his hand to his cropped blond hair, sweeping it back. "We encourage you to eat, drink, and make merry, but remember tonight is for all the celebrations waiting for our neighbours in the Big Apple. New York's hurting. Let's show them the resilience and generosity Gotham is famous for. But first, we put our money where our mouth is! Lovely lady in the red dress, would you be willing to come do some honours up here?"

That's Bette he has on the spot. He has, of all things, a tiny wooden keg filled by something that rattles. It sounds awfully like plastic tokens or bingo balls, possibly.

Shadows cavort and skim across the bricks, people gathering in groups at tables or standing together, curiosity drawing them in as the slinky music plays on from the slide of a bow over strings in harmonized chords.

Tim Drake has posed:
"Grand-daughter?" Tim gives Alfred a grin, then takes Julia's hand and shakes it firmly. "Tim Drake. Alfred, Miss Pennyworth; this is Rose Wilson, a friend of mine. Rose, this is Alfred--family friend, almost like a grandfather to us; and apparently his granddaughter." He makes the introductions politely and smoothly, as the festivites begin to get more festive.

He turns his attention to the announcement. "Hm. I'll certainly bid on the case. I may not be able to drink it, but I think it would be a good addition to the bar at the manor," he points out in an undertone just loud enough for Rose, Alfred, and Julia to hear. He does pull out the donation ticket from his packet as well, fumbling a bit with his wallet for a moment. He already had a fairly substantial check written from the Drake family. Of one, but it still counts.

He hms to himself as folks gather closer for the next bit and Bette is called up, trying to decide how much to bid.

Rose Wilson has posed:
"Nice to meet you, both." Both. Although the mention of Alfred as a family friend, almost like a grandfather gets the older man a whole lot more focus than Julia for a split second. But she seems willing to take and shake hands, and shake she does. Even Alfred's hand is given a shake unless he makes some quick move to change it from a shake to something else.

The bidding? Count her out. She makes no move at all to pull out anything for bidding, or donating, instead she gives Tim a strange look, "You //could// drink it."

Bette Kane has posed:
"Two men more interested in talking shop than spending time with their partners? friends? dates?.. hm." She shrugs her shoulders slightly and tilts her head, "We could always listen in." From a well concealed slit in her dress she plucks out a tiny listening device and turns her back to the crowd a moment.

With a small cough in to her free hand, she flicks the listening device across to the chair one of the men is seated in. It sticks inconspicuously against its foot. Bette takes her phone out from her purse and brings it to her ear, pretending to chat with somebody on the other end as she listens in to what the bug picks up.

Of course, this plan goes awry, even the simplest plans do, when she's singled out to help with the presentation. She hands her phone over to Dick, "It's for you," then strides confidently up on the stage with a smile and a wave.

Bette lifts up a hand as if to say, 'Nothing up my sleeve', which is pretty far from the truth. Her nails are done in red to match her dress. She dips her hand in to fish around for a token then plucks one out - it's shaped like a car key. Holding it up for everyone to see she says out loud, "3! who is lucky number 3?"

Bette seems amused to be joining in the shenanigans of the event, but she takes the time to analyse the room from the stage. She has a nice position to overlook the assemblage. It's not that she expects anything to be off at this party, but it's Gotham so ...things are often off. Kate taught her never to take a scene at face value. Someone is always up to no good.

One of the bankers looks excited for a moment as he rises and approaches for the car key.

Dick Grayson has posed:
Dick nods to Bette, "Appears so," he notes and takes a sip. He is a little surprised at what Bette carries out, but does not show it, instead accepting the phone with a nod and says as he puts it to his ear, "This is Grayson," and occasionally makes a sound of acknowledgement, a hm, yup, no, etc. As he listens in, though also keeping his eye on the room as Bette is selected to make the first drawing, with a banker going for the car key.

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
"Don't sound so surprised, Master Tim," Alfred says genially. "I did leave my cave once or twice during the scant few years before you came into my life." This being a formal occasion, the hand he had extended toward Rose was positioned for her to hold during a curtsey, but when she moves for a handshake instead, he adjusts so smoothly to oblige that one would never guess anything was amiss. "Likewise, Miss Wilson," he replies. There's a knowing aspect to his glance, but then, when is there not?

After tasting the first rye in his flight, the butler hums in satisfaction at the spicy flavor. For a moment, he holds up the glass to peer through it, then sets it back in its circular indentation on the flight board. His expression and posture remain calm, but his eyes are unusually restless, roaming around the room as he tries to find the source of an unsettling feeling he's having. "Master Tim, do you ever have the sense, at one of these events, that you might have brought the wrong car?" he asks, in a perfectly casual conversational tone.

His eyes go to the bankers -- especially this 'Roger.' His instinct is giving him no indication where to focus yet, so he'll monitor the only trouble spot he has so far identified. Still, he spares some attention for the civilians present -- "If I may, I find it's best to keep a clear head for the start of these events," he advises Rose and Julia. Best that they don't hit the drink too quickly, if his concerns are justified.

Julia Pennyworth has posed:
    "Yep! I'm sure if ya asked him nicely, Alfred would have all sorts of stories to tell about home," Julia winks, her handshake with Tim equally firm. "Pleasure, both of you," she states again, her shake with Rose just as firm and quick. "Spent all my life 'round London, so America's a bit of a change. Looking forward to living in Gotham, though I gotta say, much as I can get into this kind of scene, it's not my favorite one. Lil' too formal, y'know?" she chuckles and takes a tasting sip from her first glass. While Alfred might be more proper and British, there's an Irish flair in Julia's tongue.

    Then her elder's comment earns a look, and she nods, "...you feelin' it too, grandfather?" she asks calmly. "Summer air an' weird humidity," she adds, blaming the unease on the weather in her own casual fashion. Still, she sips slowly, both making a show of savoring the taste and actually savoring it at the same time. She can, at the least, have a little cake and eat it too.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
A spontaneous burst of applause comes when Bette elects to leave her friends behind and become a game show host of sorts. The guy wears his name tag -- Alec -- and turns the mic off for a second to give her a quick greeting. "Thanks for being a fine sport, ma'am, Wetworks appreciates it." He might give instructions but clearly this proves unnecessarily and his chuckle is happy enough. "Normally we ask for one draw but you make this down pat. You're free to do another if you like."

The call of three earns a few looks, and then Alec adds, "If you are lucky Agent Double-Oh-Three, we have a sweet ride for you. Come and collect your prize from my slightly less devilishly counterpart over there by the distillery door." A man waves as the guests check their bracelets, disappointed sighs and grumbles becoming a pause. "Double-Oh-Three, the lady's called you!"

It takes a moment for one of the bankers to look up and get with the program. Oh look, Roger is on the spot. Another to look dully at the winning prize and depart from his conversation, pasting on a smile as he fetches his key.

He doesn't get there.

A popping noise is soft given the distance. A thin bolt comes flying at a fairly steep angle to impact him from behind. Red blood blossoms against his black coat, and the force topples him forward onto the ground unless someone intercedes. He clutches his side.

Tim Drake has posed:
Tim looks a little uncomfortable as he tucks his wallet back away, and he reaches for Rose's hand idly, squeezing it. On the surface it might look like a romantic gesture, but given the distant and scanning glances he has for the room, it might seem more like a warning than a sweetness.

He caught Alfred's warning.

But it seems like it's too late and the NerdBat, in civilian disguise, is a step behind whatever is happening. A dart? An arrow? He focuses on the man. Bolt. Crossbow. His eyes flick to Dick. No masks right now, which makes things a bit more difficult. His gaze flicks to the crenallations on the rooftop above. Plenty of good places for a sniper.

Tim is the detective among the batlings, and it shows-- he is immediately assessing the area, looking for clues, looking for details; even as one hand stays holding onto Rose's. All this in a split instant as the young Detective falls into his role, even maskless.

He shifts, ever so gentlemanly, to put himself between Rose and the direction of the sniper.

But Tim isn't an idiot and he doesn't take Rose to be a shy and shrinking violet that must be protected. It's more theater than it is anything else. Plus the shift brings him closer. "Are you all right?" he asks aloud, like any other young man in a similar situation might ask of his date.

Then, in an undertone, "Rooftop above. Crossbow sniper. Supressed round. Unsure how he got up there, but what goes up must come down-- and I don't think there's many ways up or easy access off."

Ahh, Timmy does know how to sweet talk a girl, doesn't he?

He wouldn't be a 'son' of Bruce Wayne if he wasn't somewhat prepared for things to go sideways. He knew the rough layout of the building before he arrived. Some call it paranoia. Bruce calls it preparedness. "That tower only has one door into it from the outside, and I think a crosslink to this building is the only other entrance into it-- second floor." He glances over his shoulder to Alfred. Tim isn't a medic, but Alfred is... sort of. Who knows what his granddaughter is... Tim hadn't quite had time to dig into that. Ah well.

Rose Wilson has posed:
There is a very odd look for the antics of Bette and Dick, but Rose's attention only lingers there for a little while before she nods again to Alfred and Julia, "Yeah."

What even is she saying 'yeah' to? Who knows. There seems to be some small bit of distraction as she glances towards the bankers, Roger in particular, then her attention starts to wander. Something...

And then the something manifests itself in the slight popping noise and someone drops. Handholding is //so// romantic, but Rose has zero delusions that Tim is trying to be romantic, or even protective. Not of her. So when his low words come it's not a shock, and she starts to look in the indicated direction, calculating routes, perches, probabilities quickly before she starts to make a move. One leading question also comes. What would SHE do and where would SHE be in all this? That is, if she was the one taking shots. "Get everyone out of the line of fire."

Which is literally the only warning that she gives before she's on the move, the hem of her dress pulled up so that she can run in the direction of the tower. No one is paying too close attention, right? If they were, they'd see that she might have put a dress on, but she's pulling a knife out from where it's strapped to her thigh.

Bette Kane has posed:
Bette knows that sound well. She dives over the host of the event pinning him down to the ground and then smiles whimsically at him, "Sorry. Instinct. Military. 2nd lieutenant Kane, lovely to meet you. Gotta go." With her gaze fixed on the location the attack came from, judging from the angle of the fine spray that left the victims body, she rises off of the man just as people start to realise it might be time to get the hell out of here.

The worst part is, Bette never even got to taste the whisky, and she sure as heck isn't going to now that there's danger afoot. She holds out her hand to Dick, "Phone please!," to catch it. From her secreted little pocket she takes out Bat-Birb comms and slips it in to her ear. When no one is looking she turns the injured man over and places the phone to his wound for a quick, sharp, cauterising contact burn/shock. As far as field medics go, she only has what Bat-life and Military-life have taught her; stop the bleeding. She's painfully aware of how in the open she is. "I could use some help here.."

Dick Grayson has posed:
Dick raises a brow at the commentary from the phone, but when the gentleman rises to go get his prize, Dick stops talking, but keeps watching for a moment after. He is, however, caught off-guard by the sudden pop." He looks to Tim, Rose, Alfred, Julia, and Bette to see that they are all standing, but Roger is now on the ground. On request he tosses the phone to Bette and then sees Rose moving in a direction.

Dick is no idiot and puts two and two together and raises a brow to Tim before following. The first Robin does not have his sticks, but he is a good enough combatant without them, and he would rather there be no killing in Gotham.

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
Given his extant sense of alarm and the fact that he was already watching Roger, Alfred is not entirely taken aback when the 'til-then-pleasant evening is interrupted by an assassination. Then again, has anyone ever seen him truly nonplussed? With one hand, he picks up his whiskey flight by the handle, and with the other, he catches Julia by the wrist, tugging her toward the side of the table opposite the shooter -- as judged by the direction of the bolt's origin. In one fluid motion, he crouches and sets the flight down on the floor, then rises and flips the table onto its side. Cover achieved; libations retained.

He catches Tim's glance, and huffs out a breath. "This will do for disinfectant," he says, lifting his whiskey flight once again, with a put-upon expression, "but the gentleman will owe me a bottle of my choice." And with that, he leaves the cover of the flipped table and darts out into the crowd, staying as low as possible so that the screaming people will provide their own cover as they dart past him in every direction.

As soon as he reaches Bette and Roger, the butler will kneel, quickly assessing the sight lines to determine just how exposed he is. Merely academic curiosity, of course; regardless of the answer, he whips his pocket square free from its proper place and tight folds, dumps half of the flight of whiskey over it, and applies pressure to limit the bleeding. "Well done, Miss Kane. I'll take it from here," he tells Bette. Go scale a building and beat the shit out of someone, he decidedly doesn't. Turning to the victim as he unbuttons the man's jacket and shirt to inspect the damage, he continues in a mild conversational patter, "Don't mind me, sir. Field medic, British army. Do avoid going into shock, if you would be so kind."

Julia Pennyworth has posed:
    Julia barely has time to finish her first drink when a shot is fired and things go tits up. She grimaces, and not from the whiskey. Her glass comes down, and her wrist is grasped. Her free hand captures her own whiskey board, whisking it along with her. It's almost majestic, the way the two Pennyworths secure their alcohol, and then the table goes over. "...is -this- normal?" Julia asks, both in disbelief, and with a hint of sardonic laughter. "Aw hells, Gotham's a bloody trip, innit.." she snorts, and sighs, getting her bearings as everyone looks to the tower. Instead, she purses her lips, following the crowd, as people panic, flail, and attempt to briskly disengage from the scene.

    She sees Alfred dash off and take over for Bette, and Julia exhales quickly, downs the second of her glasses, and hauls herself to her feet. "All the more reason to wear smart shoes wherever you go..." she muses to herself, hands grasping the edges of the table and with a... surprising heave from the redhead, starts dragging it over to Alfred and Roger, intent on giving them physical cover. "Geneva convention only covers field medics in wartime, grandfather..." she grunts.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
A body hits the ground, Roger being fast on his way to shock. Roger's banking partner splutters, his face ashen, unable to comprehend what is there before him. He makes an outstanding target, along with the stunned and frozen employees and guests. Presence of mind to move spreads in pockets, not waves, with some diving under the nearest table or running for a barrel. Others just stumble away if they can manage that much, milling around in uncertainty.

In short, nothing new for Gotham.

Alec isn't going to complain for being pinned flat, because that means he's not dead. "You're in the open," he splutters behind the large crate, "and someone's shooting. Can we crawl for the doors?" Alec at least has manners and good humour when two Pennyworths appear like mushrooms after the rain.

The bulk of the distillery looms over the distillery host and Bette, as well as Roger. That's a nasty wound with a black bolt sticking out, thin in profile and trimmed down, not quite like anything even their practiced military eye is sure to recognize. A burn that now cooks it in place, smelling of whiskey and debts owed. Sadly Alfred, Julia, and the rest are deliciously exposed to the tower sans one table, where Rose seems to wish to roost.

Speaking of, Mr. Less-Devilishly-Handsome is pushing open a large red door to give shelter inside the huge brick and stone building. Another shot goes nigh to unnoticed, surely, in the chaos: right for Dick, no idiot but not fleeing with his arms in the air screaming either. Soon enough a third shot will be triggered from the shadows, flashing out and striking down a middle-aged woman with a glass in her hand. It goes flying as she stumbles and falls with a scream.

But Rose has reached the tower, for all that may signal, and there's Tim without a proper drink.

Tim Drake has posed:
Tim is perhaps the most intellectually gifted of the batbrats.

Tim is also distracted by hormones.

So it's perhaps a bit forgiveable that he takes a moment to realize that he might have sent a slightly kill-happy self-professed assassin to detain an obviously kill-happy assassin of unknown provinence.

Realizing his mistake is one thing. Being able to do much about it is another. Dick's glance as the former Bludhaven cop follows the one-eyed Slade-trained murder machine is given a sheepish look in response.

But no time to waste. He herds a few frightened party-goers to ducking behind some of the tables, putting the furniture between them and potentially more crossbow bolts. Wasn't the man who was shot talking to someone? Probably a good idea to make sure he doesn't disappear, even as there are members of the crowd panicking and trying to make a not-so-organized exit.

The man looks stunned, which helps. Tim grabs his shoulder and drags him down behind the table. He isn't Red Robin, he reminds himself, he's Tim Drake; and as such... "Get down sir! I'm sure the GCPD are on the way, let's just keep out of the line of sight!" Even as he plays the role of another mere social attendee to this man's eyes, Tim is looking across towards the distillery buildings.

But it's Bette who Tim's gaze catches next. He gestures to the man he's currently got behind cover, letting her know to take over for him watching the guy. Tim's got... a plan. Half a plan. Okay more like a quarter of a plan, but right now...

Rose is heading to the tower where the sniper is shooting from. Dick is right behind her, getting shot at. People are still getting hit with these bolts.

Well, if Rose and Dick are going in the front door, so to speak, that leaves one NerdBat to try the second floor back door. Dammit. No staff, no HUD, no wrist computer. Just a cell phone and a lot of brains. Well, Tim reasons, he's been in worse situations.

So as soon as he's sure Bette has the other guy covered, Tim Drake is beating feet towards the Less-Devilishly-Handsome guy and his entryway into the distillery proper. Tim's not alone in this rush, as others are looking for cover. But Tim's not looking for cover, he's looking for a way over to the rooftop.

Rose Wilson has posed:
As soon as Rose reaches the tower she applies shoulder to door and uses the momentum of her run to force the heavy door open, which slows her down. Some. Not enough, probably, to save whoever it is that is her target. As soon as she's in the tower she's heading for the stairs, taking them several at a time to shorten the trip from floor to...other floor.

Then she's pushing through the trapdoor again, and this time it is a little more slow going, and she has to put in more force to the push before she gets through.

Tim's probably right, it was probably a mistake to send her after the sniper. But she has no famous name to worry about sullying by running around like the Batkids do.

Bette Kane has posed:
Bette nods to Alfred with a determined look and takes a quick photo of the black bolt. She smiles the most briefest of smiles to Julia and takes cover. She artfully swipes the phones off of the table. Like releasing a clip from a gun, Bette lifts up her own phone and the stun-gun attachment, a small piece of metal - spent, is expelled. The app on her phone starts hacking in to the two phones she's grabbed. <Anyone else have comms in, some sort of black crossbow bolt. I've never seen anything like it before>

The moments of chaos, everything happens fast, is exactly when the Bat-types are at their best, assessing and reacting. Her phone vibrates to let her know the phones have been jacked. Bette helps the second banker stay behind the table when Tim hands him over. "Hello sir," best to lay some authority down, "I'm 2nd lieutenant Kane. Play stay down and out of sight, everything will be alright." She places the set of phones on the ground near by for him to find. <Phones linked in, may be we can figure out who wants them dead>. The call out to GCPD is already happening, thanks to smart phones, bat apps and bird apps.

Dick Grayson has posed:
Dick is concerned at the moment, as he is all business, though fortunately he was a cop for six years, so he can be at least somewhat useful out of costume. That being said, he does not have a vest or any real protective gear as the bolt comes flying out and smacking him in the shoulder, dropping him to the ground as he was not ready for it and it was definitely made to hurt.

"Dammit," Dick says as he looks to the bolt, not pulling it out at the moment, saying out loud, "I've been hit. Dammit." He tries his best to examine the wound without taking the bolt out yet, he would rather not bleed out right now.

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
"I did ask you /not/ to go into shock, sir." Alfred mutters disapprovingly. Without the slightest flinch, he rips the banker's shirt so that he can get at the bolt without risking moving it too much in the wound. "Honestly, Roger. Would it have killed you to build a few minutes of calisthenics into your daily routine?" He peels off his own jacket and throws it over the man's shoulders to keep him warm, then drags over the little keg of tokens Alec was having Bette draw from and uses it to prop up the victim's legs.

Finally, he gets a good, close look at the bolt. It's burned in by the cauterized wound, so for the moment, it would do more damage to try to remove it than to leave it. On the other hand, an insignia on the shaft is quite distinct -- recognizable to him from some of Master Bruce's prior... clandestine work. Alfred pulls his phone from his pocket, taps the voice recognition button, and says, "Text Richard, Timothy, and Bette Kane. Black Spider. Send text." No, they're not in his phone as 'Masters.'

It's then that he notices Julia dragging a table over to provide him some cover. "Much appreciated, dear girl," he calls to her with a quirked, momentary smile, his hands still busy stanching the bleeding. "Gotham is not always this rowdy, but the nightlife can be rather invigorating. My apologies for putting you at risk."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Mr. Less-Devilishly-Handsome (Phil) plays a protective role of holding open a door and staying the hell out of the way. The second door's sheer weight keeps the surge of scared guests from knocking it open, but it shudders with vibrations. Once inside, the vast space of the distillery opens to the left and the bar stretches to the back, making a pretty clear path to the tower.

"What in the dickens?" asks the poor banker who accompanied Roger, being hidden behind a table and close to the ground. His hands shake and he mutely goes along, nodding at Tim. Tim is a nice young man. He makes sense. This woman here has rank, she -also- sounds like GCPD and he huffs, but complies if barely. It helps that Alfred keeps low while some maniac fires on them, and Roger remains pliant with that shocky state of affairs. His companion mutters, "Thirty-two D and blonde. He does."

The hammering noise outside has slowed somewhat, but that's mostly because the Black Spider is no longer alone in his happy little web. Rose plowing her route through the rooftop isn't quiet and neither is he fully without his wherewithal. Dick is already bloody and another shot seems egregious, so he exchanges crossbows for guns, a pistol on his wrist anyway. Something twangs as she forces her way through, and of course, the fellow is in a dark suit and totally masked with goggles probably giving enhanced vision. So unfair. The square space at the top of the tower isn't exactly wide, and he doesn't even apologize. "You're contributing to corruption and sins in this city," he rasps at her. "Turn away from it and you might live."

And if she advances, he shoots her. Like you do.

Tim Drake has posed:
Inside the building it's not terrible hard to slip out of the mass of confused and fearful party-goers. Tie off and shoved in a pocket, Tim acrobatically snags a hanging ladder near and mostly behind a large distilling vat, climbing it up to a sturdy catwalk over a dozen and a half huge copper distilling vats of whiskeys, the heady smell of mash and rye wafting up in an alcoholic shimmering haze above them.

Slow and quiet? Fast and noisy? It's a split second as Tim considers his options, but decides speed is more important than discretion-- besides, the folks below are loud enough with their wails and cries of fear to drown out the sound of dress shoes pounding down the metal catwalk.

And so he runs, fleet and light of feet. The 'worst' of the Robins is still a Robin... trained relentlessly, and almost fearless. He reaches the heavy, metal door that opens into the crossover between the buildings, shoving his weight into slamming it open, heedless of what's on the other side. He skitters into the crossway "hall", still moving fast, heading for the door to the tower.

His phone buzzes in his shirtfront pocket. He flips it out as he keeps moving, reading the text. "Black Spid--" He slows as he hits the door into the tower. He fires off a text back to Alfred-- and Bette. <<Don't let any of the targets get away. Get names.>> Excellent, and Bette has a phone's data being added to the Bat network. Too bad he doesn't have his computer! But he'll have data to skim through later.

The door is heavier than the other, banded in metal... and doesn't look like Rose has been here yet. He can't decide if that's good or bad, but he takes a breath and yanks it open with effort.

Stairs. Damn, he'd rather climb walls. But it's up the stairs...

Julia Pennyworth has posed:
    Julia gets the table down in front of Alfred and Roger and spends a moment trying to adjust her dress. It's ankle-length and despite the slit, not the best for a skirmish. "I was in th'army, grandfather..." she consoles Alfred, lightly touching his shoulder. "Y'know full well as I the risks there. I suppose the point is that we're not supposed to be in the line of fire here, yeah?" she gives a sideways grin to the older man and then hears the 'I've been hit' coming from Dick. "Stay here, I'll get 'im," she nods and gets back up. She snags one more glass but doesn't take a drink.

    One hand pulls her skirt up some, the other balances the whiskey, and she zig-sags her way across the yard to Dick, slowing occasionally to urge people still stuck in the open to either get under cover or head for the distillery. "Julia Pennyworth, hold this?" she introduces quickly, foisting the glass of whiskey on the man and reaching down. She grasps her skirt and pulls at it, ripping off a long strip of cloth and nodding to the bolt. "Hold still real quick," she urges and starts to hurriedly use the cloth to wrap up that shoulder, taking care to ensure the bolt is held steady and pressure is applied, not wanting to jostle it too much.

    "Annnd that..." she snags the drink back and does the work of using the alcohol to disenfect the wound. "Good welcome to th'family, yeah?" she gives Dick that bright grin and tries to urge him towards some cover.

Bette Kane has posed:
Her girlhood crush, but also that guy she just rather likes now as a colleague and friend. Dick, shot. Her eyes widen and she calls out, "Dick!." Bette watches with both delight and amazement at Julia's bravery. It must run in the family.

Bette turns to see the banker poking his head up and quickly rolls back to him and pulls him down firmly on to his side, "I said stay down sir!" Inside her head, she's counting - it's been exactly 4 seconds between each bolt shot, but now they've stopped. She very carefully peers out behind the cover up at the tower, then checks the buzz on her phone - Black Spider. Her eyes dash over to Alfred, but he's dealing with Roger going in to shock. No bolt shot, she springs over the tables and starts her run toward the tower too.

Rose Wilson has posed:
"Never let it be said that I don't see the irony of this..." And thankfully no Bat is around to hear the next words come out of her mouth. "But you're shooting random people, and even if you had a target, veering from target to take out bystanders means that you are just as corrupt and sinful."

Rose then starts to move forward, "Plus, you're just a shitty, cut-rate wanna be." Wanna be who? Her dad! Her? Someone. But the threat of being shot doesn't scare her from her goal, and she moves forward towards the Black Spider, sacrificing herself to take the hit from his bolt just so that she can get in close to the man. As crazy as she is, though, she's quick to take that bolt somewhere //not// super dangerous. Like an arm, or somewhere she doesn't have a vital organ that she needs to use to keep breathing and functioning right now.

Dick Grayson has posed:
"Son of a," Dick grumbles until Julia arrives and helps with the bleeding. "Dick Grayson, can do." He says as he holds the glass and pressure is applied. Dick winces as it is still not exactly pleasant, but it should help. He hands the drink back, "That should help a bit. At least until the doctor sees it, but it shouldn't be too bad, I hope." Dick gives another nod, "Thanks again."

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
Alfred holds on Roger's companion with a flat, scathing look for several seconds, before asking, "And did this piece of exercise equipment have a name, or shall I call her 'Callie'?" For 'calisthenics,' naturally.

Then, because he's annoyed with these men, Alfred demonstrates an important distinction between a combat medic and an actual doctor. That difference is the Hippocratic Oath.

With a sharp, sure motion to minimize tissue damage, the butler yanks the bolt out of Roger's side, cauterized or not, and immediately sets to work stanching the now much more serious bleeding.

Julia Pennyworth has posed:
    "Long as it isn't poisoned," Julia grumbles. "Don't know who's the sort to fling crossbow bolts but..." she grunts and downs what little remains of her glass. She shakes her head, "This normal?" she asks, even though she'd already asked Alfred. She waits for an answer, briefly, and then sets off to make sure there's no more civilians lollygagging in the open or paralyzed in fear. "C'mon you lot, stop gawkin' an' get in the building!" she practically bellows out. It might be a touch of the alcohol bolstering her and warming her but she's got a good set of lungs.