4763/Deadly Dockyard Damage

Deadly Dockyard Damage
Date of Scene:	17 January 2021
Location:	Tricorner Docks
Synopsis:	Slade ensures an accident on a Moroccan party Yacht for Carmine Falcone after the owners refuse to play ball.
Cast of Characters:	Carmine Falcone, Slade Wilson

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Carmine Falcone has posed:
     It's the dead of night and a cool breeze blows across the docks. Many a ship comes and goes but one stands out for its opulence. Waving the american flag and blaring loud dubstep it looks like any other sort of party yacht but there's a clear distinction in the crew aboard.

     The boat rolls into port with a loud rumble of the engine 6 decks of luxury and respect as it rolls into its own private spot on the massive rows and rows of automated loaders and unloaders. On the topside of the ship various figures fill the parting atmosphere as they dance about.

     The ship whirrs into place as the rain begins falling down in thick blankets of acid down onto the wooden planks that mix with modern technology to form a wide disparity in all directions. Dockworkers set in the shadows of the doorways with signs begging for further work in the dead of night homeless mixed in their ranks. Smugglers abound in all directions as much as the legal cargo in many cases.

     This was business as usual and for many of the people here no one really cared how loud this group of tourists were being.

Slade Wilson has posed:
    The scene was loud, which would only serve to benefit the lone figure stalking along the docks. Or is there a figure there? With the rain pouring down, it seems like there could be someone there, but if one were to focus hard enough, the figure seems to shimmer out of sight.

    As Deathstroke makes his way to the party ship, he checks his gear. A couple of silenced pistols, his trusty sword, and a couple of knives along with the small satchel of explosives he would need to carry out his mission. It would be rather routine, considering the things he's dealt with in his past, but he needed to keep his skills sharp. And, well, Falcone was certainly good for the price he would ask to take care of this on his behalf. And so he makes his way, the black of his outfit aiding him and the orange being non-reflective enough to add to his masking.

    He's quiet, quick, and professional, and if any of the smugglers aboard the yacht knew just what they were in for, they would likely want to be anywhere else than they were right now. But that's part of his calling card, isn't it? You don't know Deathstroke is there until he wants you to know he's there. And by then it is far too late.

Carmine Falcone has posed:
     Over the side of the ship a lone figure looks into the darkness of the acid rain holding an umbrella. He's an overweight figure dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and holding a cigar. Colombian not Moroccan, but then again with most Moroccan operations morocco was only a through port for the goods. A middleman that most investigatory organizations wouldn't think to check for the usual drugs.

     The orange glow illuminates his face as he looks out into the darkness a look of disgust on his face as he looks into the darkness. In a foreign language he speaks to himself. "This place is disgusting." He spits on the ground. "Sooner I put it behind me the better." He takes a long drag from his cigar.

     Down on one of the lower levels a chainsaw revs above the music for a moment the window blinds into the room closing down as what follows mixes into the sounds of the ship. Business as usual on the six floor yacht.

     The gangplank lowers down onto the docks as half way up the side of the ship opens just a short way from said window crew begin to walk their way in ready to unload the payload from this luxury liner.

Slade Wilson has posed:
    Slade takes in the situation, face blank as he hears the distinctive revving of a chainsaw. On a party ship, especially one of interest to Falcone, that was likely a bad sign. There's a flash in the darkness, and there's the dull, high sound of a silenced pistol to those close enough to hear it. Which are soon falling over the gangplank as Slade catches the shipment and stops it from going over the side as well. The sounds of bodies splashing into the bay is likely masked by the sounds of the yacht, but the larger splash would likely cause an investigation. He drags the shipment up, then lets it slowly slide to the bottom of the ramp before making his way onto the deck. He closes his eye for a moment, then makes his way quickly below deck, a knife in one hand and a silenced pistol in the other. He hugs the walls, keeping himself alert as he makes his way down. The sound of the tool is loud, but the music and sounds otherwise help mask it. It's only as he grows closer that he can zero in on the sound, but he's sure it's only a matter of time before another group moves to unload.

    But Slade is a professional, and no doubt a bunch of smugglers will be child's play to one with his abilities.

Carmine Falcone has posed:
     Slade makes his way into the ship and it is loaded down heavily with all manner of cargo from firearms to narcotics and everything between. Much of the ships facade as a yacht is apparently just that with so many of the floors having been long since hollowed out to allow for the maximum amount of cargo possible with a minimal facade for any pesky investigators.

     On the side of several boxes read the lable SAVAGE LANDS HANDLE WITH CARE. Airholes along the sides of the box to ensure the precious cargo is treated with all the care it deserves.

     The guards here are numerous but poorly trained for one as skilled as Deathstroke The Terminator. An easy swath cut through their number as he makes his way further and further.

     "It's just business my brother, surely you must understand?" A voice calls out from one of the nearby rooms followed by a deep belly laugh over the sound of the chainsaw the side room guarded by two men armed with AK-47's and dressed in kevlar vests.

Slade Wilson has posed:
    Slade is quiet, calculating, and ruthless, putting down guard after guard while hardly breaking stride. He knows the bodies will draw attention, unless he manages to get to the head of the ship and put him down. Cut off the head, after all, and the body falls. And what more fitting a place for the leader to be right now than overseeing the execution of what must no doubt be a traitor to the captain? If he wasn't wielding the chainsaw himself, he would guess he would want to be present to ensure the job was done properly.

    He hears the voice and the revving of the weapon, and Slade's grip on his weapons tightens. He's seen a multitude of nasty things. He's DONE a multitude of nasty things. And he's prepared for whatever may come as he moves toward the door, steadying his grip as he moves to kick it in. If the one member of this ship that Falcone wanted to survive the night is the one being threatened, no doubt the splintering of the door's frame and the appearance of Deathstroke on the threshold would be enough to save his life. Thank goodness for villain speeches, right?

Carmine Falcone has posed:
     The door kicks in sending splinters in all directions. The chainsaw goes wide just barely missing the side of a man who is battered and beaten and bruised. Pools of crimson rest on the floor, a car battery, pliers, gasoline. It's far from a pretty sight and so is the familiar face from the photo. Babyface Mustapha looks a lot less pretty then he once did but thanks to the actions of Slade he's still in one peace as the chainsaw slams to the floor teeth grinding against the metal as it cuts into the rope that had been holding his feet in place.

     Mustapha uses what little strength he has to kick his legs up into the air wrapping them around the neck of the goon who had been holding the chainsaw just a moment prior.

     The captain holds his face bits of wood having splintered into his face from the door. He fires blindly in the direction of Slade and Mustapha four shots from his gold plated pistol which fade into the sounds of the heavy thumbing of the music going on above deck. Two rounds go into the chest of the man who had been holding the chainsaw causing him to go limp in Mustapha's grasp the other two go towards Slade.

Slade Wilson has posed:
    Slade steps into the room after the door, noting his mark and nodding before turning to address the man with the golden gun. As he drops his own henchman blindly, two shots find purchase on Slade. However, 'finds purchase' isn't too much of a pain to the mercenary, the bullets falling to the floor after being robbed of their energy by his armor. Nonetheless, Slade is quick to aim to put the man down, a single shot ringing out from his pistol before a knife follows it, one aiming for his head and the other his heart. It wouldn't be much of a loss, that dagger, as the Terminator tosses an explosive toward the gasoline that had been used to torture Mustapha.

    "You. Get up and get out. Stay on the dock until I'm done."

    He doesn't seem to need to say anything else, turning and making his way out of the room. Mustapha had indeed been lucky by the looks of things, but he would no doubt realize just how lucky when he finds the bodies along the escape route. Slade, for his part, still had a bit more work to do, and that would require clearing a few more levels of the ship, or at least planting more bombs along the way.

    "And make it quick," he adds as a side note, "I've got a paycheck riding on you, and I'm sure I've got more than a few of these bastards looking for me. So just keep your head down."

Carmine Falcone has posed:
     Babyface Mustapha lifts himself off the ground cracking his neck back into place. He has a hard time lifting himself back to a stand as he holds his hand against his gut to support himself.

     "I will never forget what you have done for me this day." He makes his way for the door limping along as he drags his ankle behind him. "May god watch over you."

     The words are difficult to understand with some of his teeth missing but the point comes across as he moves out of the room all the same. No doubt he's going to get the bigger picture as he makes his leave of the boat.

     On the top deck the music carries on as normal having been cranked up louder to cover over those four gunshots. Apparently the DJ had been expecting to hear them at some point in his routine and simply adjusts accordingly. People roar and cheer as the music gets louder thumping and thrumbing filling the boat as the dancing continues.

     For Deathstroke clearing this boat is going to be childs play. There are a LOT of security, and now they're on high alert, but for the most part they're using low caliber weapons designed to be quiet enough that they won't grab the attention of the dock security which would be more then enough for a DEA raid, but against the armored assassin... they have no chance even as they swarm down towards the lower decks in their masses.

Slade Wilson has posed:
    The music, for its part, is a perfect cover for the violence Slade is visiting upon the crew of the yacht, planting his bombs and ensuring that, should the matter be investigated TOO heavily, that it would look like an accident. A night of partying gone wrong. Or at the very least a smuggling gone wrong, but without tying it to his patron for the evening. The bodies hit the floor, almost silently under the beat of the music overhead. Anyone less professional might be annoyed, but Slade seems almost preternaturally able to tune it out, using it as cover for his actions as things go to hell for the smuggling crew.

    By the time he emerges back above deck, he's acquired one of the smuggler's own weapons and has been using it to put down his fellows, tossing it back to the floor behind him as he draws to full height. The assassin glances toward the dock to ensure that Mustapha has made it off the yacht before glancing across the deck. The party rages on above him, and he straps the last of his explosives to the floor as he readies his triggers.

    An accident. That's what this was. A night of partying gone wrong. And unless there was a full blown investigation, Slade's work would look like any number of possible tragic events. That would no doubt satisfy his payor, and with that on his mind, he steps off the ship, kicking the ramp into the drink as he listens for the beat of the music. He guides Mustafa down the dock and toward the buildings on the pier, holding four triggers in his hands and seeming to wait for the beat to drop before her flips them in time.