4048/Flashback: Fugate's Time Crime

Flashback: Fugate's Time Crime
Date of Scene:	06 November 2020
Location:	The Macklemore Building, Metropolis
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Temple Fugate, Dick Grayson, Donna Troy, Rachel Roth

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Temple Fugate has posed:
It is now time to rewind back to the summer of 2016 in Metropolis. That year Metropolis was plagued by a new crime wave perpetuated by men dressed in black sweaters with clock faces on the front, black slacks, and flat black caps. Besides the rather goofy costumes they wore, these men were expert criminals, pulling off well-timed heists that flowed like clockwork, almost like a well-timed clock, often with the aid of weaponized time pieces. Those in the hero community knew immediately who was responsible, Temple Fugate, or the Clock King as he was now known as. This former efficiency consultant turned criminal was obsessed with time and schedules, using his keen analytical mind to help execute his crimes, even predicting was surprise accuracy when the police or superheroes would arrive, allowing his men to be long gone by the time they arrived. To say this man was a danger was in understatement.

However, a time themed villain did not stop the Macklemore Group, a corporation that made clocks and watches from holding their annual charity drive, where they rose money for a rather-large charity dedicated to helping increase literacy. The party was held every year in the Macklemore Building, in the final three floors of the building, with the rest of the skyscraper being closed down for the night. This years party was the biggest one of all, with all three floors being occupied by Metropolis' elite, including the Board of Macklemore themselves. These partiers had no idea of knowing at the time, but they were about to be in grave danger.

Just this morning, exactly at 9:15 AM on the dot, three new janitors installed new wall-clocks in the office floors. These clocks, despite having a rather loud tick, were very accurate, getting the time right down to the last second. However, no one expected these benign clocks to be holding three canisters worth of Knock-Out Gas, enough to fill an entire office block. The party was at full swing as 10:00 PM loomed closer and closer, the executives had decided to go with a Toga party theme this year. Revilers dressed as ancient Romans partied all over the three floors of the office building, with the final floor containing the rather big donation chest, which was now filled with cash and checks, all from Metropolis élite. The clocks above the partiers kept on ticking, ticking, approaching the gold hour of 10:00 PM.

As the big hand landed on the 10 and the little hand approached the 12, a loud chime filled the air, a chime loud enough to drown out the music of the party. The clocks chimed ten times before suddenly stopping, then bursting open, flooding the rooms with blue gas, knocking out everyone in there with seconds. The room was eerily quite, with only the music of the party playing for an audience that could no longer enjoy.

Suddenly, the door the 9th floor flew open, revealing a group of the sweater clad men, accompanied by another, much more bizarre man. He was clad in a brown tuxedo jacket covering up a white dress shirt, a black tie, well-pressed white formal pants, black shoes, and a bowler hat. He was also wearing glasses, but with frames that were themed off of clock faces. This, of course, was Temple Fugate, or the notorious Clock King, and he was here for the donation chest. He grunted before pulling out his pocket watch and looking at it closely, with a arched brow. He then straightened out his jacket and said to his gathered men,

"Second Hands! Our Knock-Out gas was exactly on time. We have approximately 20 minutes and 5 seconds before it wears off. This should give us plenty of time to take the chest and flee. Now, let's move! We have a schedule to keep!" The men then began to climb up a spiral staircase in the center of the room, intending on reaching the 11th floor, and the chest. They were protected by the fumes of the gas with gas masks.

Dick Grayson has posed:
Even the best henchmen have to be recruited, and Nightwing had a few leads in that area, knowing when people were moving and hiring personnel. So he expected something to happen tonight, even if he didn't know when. When the gas began to pour out, he barely had time to respond, his guise as a cater waiter letting him slide underneath one of the trays with a metal covering. He had his gas mask on in time and spoke into his signal watch. He didn't know what he was going to be facing tonight.

So he didn't come alone.

"Please tell me you guys made it here."

Donna Troy has posed:
    2016! What a time to be a Titan. The earliest years may have been a little rough and ready, but now the team has a few years of experience behind them, a brand new high-tech headquarters on St. Martin's island and an almost rock-star media profile. It's almost intoxicating, at least for Troia. She's living the dream, being the hero that she intended to be when she left Themyscira for the outside world, but it's nothing like anything she'd imagined. Themyscira doesn't have much of a media, after all.

    Not that her media profile ever mentions any such place as Themyscira. Troia, as far as the media and indeed the other Titans know, is a mystical warrior-hero trained by the mysterious and secretive 'Order of the Knights of Ilium'. Nobody had heard of this order before, but there's little reason to doubt the story, for most at least. She patrols in a distinctive suit of armor in an ancient Grecian style, black enamalled with silver stars, and goes armed with a sword (though that rarely gets used against people). She can fly, and she can punch holes through walls, so that pretty much covers the mystical part too.

    She's also a college student. The once teens are just Titans now, and sometimes balancing the life of a high-profile hero with an attempt to lead something approaching a normal life can be tough. As much as she loves heroing, there are times when she wishes she was /attending/ the party, rather than guarding it. Nevertheless, when Dick comes through with a hot tip, she's got to be there.

    And there she is, outside the building, hovering outside the 11th floor, keeping an eye there when Nightwing's call came through. "In position Nightwing," she replies via the comms. "No sign they're entering up here yet. They working their way up? What say you give them 30 seconds then follow them up, I'll head down and we trap them in the middle?"

    Donna unhitches her shield and draws her sword. "Rae? What are you seeing?"

Rachel Roth has posed:
    Four years ago, Raven was... Basically the same person that she is today. No odd changes in secret identity. No hidden secrets about where she comes from. Eerily, Raven has not particularly physically changed at all in those four years.

    She did stop wearing that otherworldly sorceress outfit a few months ago for personal reasons. That... Probably counts. Right?

    Regardless, on the eleventh floor, amidst a silently swirling maelstrom of gas that seems directly- and impossibly- pressed to the floor in a thin mist. It parts around a figure in that floor's kitchen, unable to venture high enough to reach her face, nor seemingly come within a foot of her. The trained eye might see a small ring of black anti-light just barely visible beneath the fog.

    She stands there, glaring death at a drip coffee machine, as if there was some offense committed- as if the encroaching criminals were not the real problem here.

    She speaks, though it isn't into anything that's visible, her hood up around her features, hiding it in a thick and impermeable darkness. "Bad coffee." she comments, answering Donna.

    Thanks, interdimensional demon princess-witch. Real helpful.

Temple Fugate has posed:
The gas started to dissipate a bit as Fugate and his men climbed the stairs, not even bothering to stop on the 10th floor, but continuing on their way to the 11th floor. The sounds of footsteps stomping up the stairs were heard as the current song ended, heralding the arrival of The Clock King and his Second Hands. They immediately stepped off the stairs and began making their way towards the money chest in the middle of the room, seemingly not noticing Raven. As they walked they stepped over the prone bodies of unconscious party goers. While the mist appeared to be dissipating, a large amount of it was still all over the floor. Fugate, once laying eyes upon the chest, once again pulls out his pocket watch and eyes it very carefully. He then snaps his fingers and says,

"Gentleman, grab the chest."

Immediately, two of the more burlier Second Hands rushed over to the the chest and, with a grunt, managed to lift it up.

Dick Grayson has posed:
Those burly men yell out in pain as a pair of wingdings hit each of them, rapidfire shuriken with a hint of bat shape with points sharp enough to pierce flesh but not do serious damage. By this point, Nightwing's making his own presence known, rolling out from under the cart to release his throwing blades, then backflipping up onto the bar.

"So, you're new to me. Not sure what name you're using. Boring Man? Stiff Upper Lip? General Malaise? Regardless, allow me to introduce myself. I'm Nightwing and I'll be kicking your butts this evening. No applause, please."

A momentary stand-off.

"Really, you're ot going to applaud. Guys, we're never going to get this showbiz thing down if you don't follow your cues. Oh well," he says and then draws his escrima sticks, crossing them inf ront of him. "Since the comedy isn't working, let's try dancing. Oh, and Raven, please, I know you're going through a significant fifty five year emo phase, but try to do something, huh, just for me."

Donna Troy has posed:
    "We discuss arresting the coffee later Rae," Troia says into the comm, a smile of amusement crossing her lips. "Let's concentrate on the criminals for now. I'm coming in."

    Troia's useful to have on the team. She's well-trained, a skilled fighter, she's fast, she's strong. On the other hand, she can be a bit impetuous - she may be able to compete with Nightwing for the amount of training she's had and may be second only to him at tactics, but she's just rather /enthusiastic/. She's a little prone to causing a bit too much property damage. She also loves an entrance.

    There's just enough time for Nighting to make his presence known before Troia makes her presence known too, by flying straight through the glass of a window and coming down to the floor with a crash in front of the two burly men, giving them something to pay attention to from the front as well as from the back.

    She rises up from her landing crouch with shield held out, sword drawn, and a grin of battle-lust on her features. "And I'm Troia. While my colleague is kicking your butts, I'll be kicking your faces. Your only way to avoid that fate is surrendering. So decide if you want to go straight to jail, or would prefer a trip to hospital first. And think quick 'cos we're gonna start kicking anyone not lying down with their hands on their heads in exactly four seconds."

Rachel Roth has posed:
    Raven departs from the coffee machine after another momentary standoff. "I am concentrating on the criminals." It's a cryptic statement. She probably means the coffee.

    Regardless, the other two make flashy entrances, and after a few moments or so of pointed silence between the thugs and her teammates, Raven walks into the room as if it isn't the prelude to violence- arriving casually and, frankly, rather flippantly. Her hands are in her pockets.

    "I want to make it known that she is better at hurting people than she is at banter. This is going to go poorly for you."

    Raven takes up a spot near enough a desk, and much like the other two don't, she merely looms there, altogether as menacing as she looks- which is to say, not very much at all... Though the trio of them do form some solid chunk of the Titans, which does mean that they're a known quantity- at least in as much as they're all heroes, who all have powers.

Temple Fugate has posed:
The Clock King's Second Hands seemed to be intimidated, some shaking, while others swore silently to themselves. Fugate on the other hand, did not seemed intimidated at all. Instead, he looked at each of the Titans with a unimpressed, but calculating look as if he were studying them. Clock King then took out his pocket watch and begun to spin it idily. As he did this, he turned his head to the group and said,

"Ahh, the ever famous Titans. I supposed it was only a matter of "time" before you managed to track me down. My name is Temple Fugate, but you may call me The Clock King."

Fugate then turns his head towards Nightwing and says "Impressive throw Nightwing, it took you exactly a 5th of a second to throw those biradrangs at my men. Rather fast actually."

He then turns to Troia and says in the same calculating voice," That entrance was also impressive Trioa. Assuming you were waiting for me at the 11th floor, that entrance took you a 12th of a second to employ."

Clock King then grins and says," However, this will only take me a 3rd of a second.!'

Suddenly, Fugate hurls his pocket watch onto the ground, releasing a thick smoke screen into the room. Out of the screen, the two burly men rushed Nightwing, swinging their fists, seemingly ignoring the pain. Meanwhile, a scrawnier Second Hand charged Donna swinging his fists at her. Meanwhile, Fugate, taking advantage of the smoke, pulled out his rapier and, instead of fighting, began to observe how the Titans fought his goons. After all, if he is to fight them, he need to know how fast they were in a fight.

Dick Grayson has posed:
Nightwing looks over at Troia, "See, I told you we shouldn't have given them four seconds, there's just no point, they never surrender and apparently this guy is...wait, Clock King? What kind of name is..."

And then the goons are on him and his witty banter is taken up with fighting, elbows and knees working in tandem, striking back and forth, driving the enemies back. He's glad he still has his gasmask in place as the King's throw gives out a fresh spurt of some kind of gas.

"Raven, please, pretty please tell me you can cut this dope off at the pass?"

Donna Troy has posed:
    Though her eyes stay on her attacker, Donna does not immediately move in response to her attacker. "Crock King, did you say? Never heard of you," she says. "Crock King? Did we hear anything about a Crock King, Nightwing? Raven?"

    As she talks, she allows her attacker to close in, and waits for the first punch to be swinging at her before she ducks below it and sweeps a leg out, sending her attacker crashing hard to the ground. She sheathes her sword in the same movement, and follows the sweep of her leg to swing around and take hold of the red security rope, running through a series of short metal stands, that had been put in place to mark off the spot the chest had been in.

    With a powerful yank she swings the rope and the metal stands around, scything it through the smoke in a wide arc at knee-height.

Rachel Roth has posed:
    To say that Raven is in many ways a living Bad Day may be a degree of understatement, depending on the day. An empath of the highest order, Raven can not only detect and sense aggression, but also its outlet- in this case, she is acutely aware that the three oncoming goons seem to have no interest in her.

    This means that she has all the time and freedom to work- and with the gas in the room, though she doesn't know it, observing how her soul self manifests will be difficult. Because, specifically, it begins as an extension of her shadow, moving across the floor of the room swiftly and silently.

    The horrifying sight of an at once somehow two-dimensional and three-dimensional bird bursting from the smoke and floorbound gas to envelop and utterly disappear one of the larger goons is one that may haunt the others for a long, long time depending on their individual constitution. The one that -gets- swallowed has a harder time of it, as being teleported so unceremoniously by Raven has a tendency to leave one feeling as if they've been temporarily rendered a mobius strip on a metaphysical level, worse still when he emerges outside of the third floor window, positioned such that when he hits the ground it won't be particularly deadly or permanently crippling, but it sure -will- hurt.

    "A clock pun. That is what my night has sunk to. I blame this on the both of you."