2019-04-15 - Stalking Mission

Summary:

Clint and Ian run into JP while training

Log Info:

Storyteller: NA
Date: 04/15/2019
Location: Disaster Zone

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Theme Song

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ianclintconstantine

"Wow…" Clint's voice doesn't so much echo in the wreckage of what remains in the restricted area of the Bowery that was just…just demolished, man. He just had to see it with his own eyes because—

"You know, Mittens' description really didn't cut it." Barton interrupts his own narrator with a ridiculously understated kind of impressed. The sort that actually just deserves a small golf clap, rather than a standing ovation.

Standing on top of a decaying building with decent height on it, though the state of its stability is honestly questionable with every pigeon that decides to join them, Barton shakes his head slowly.

Dressed in his civvies, there was no reason for him to draw too much attention with his gear, today. The duffle bag he was smuggling made him look suspicious enough, he didn't need to add to it with full body armor, though he didn't spite his protege for it if he decided otherwise.

Holding up a spotter scope to his eye, "This should be fun. You ready, hop-along?"

Ian is heavily armed. That much is clear. He is short, but he makes up for it in sheer firepower. There are handguns, knives, a sniper rifle, a /grenade/ for fucks sake, clips stuck in all his pockets, and he's also carrying a duffle bag. Its going to SOUND like WW3 is starting if he really gets to shoot all these. Whatever Clint has planned…Ian is going to be eagle scout level of prepared…if the boyscouts were really into guns. He's wearing his tactical armor, though with a hoodie over it…which only hides it from people paying attention only to their phones. "Yeah." he answers to Clint. "ready to do some hunting."

|ROLL| JP +rolls 1d20 for: 6

Somewhere behind a row of warehouses all caved on on one side leaving them a crumbled, pushed in pile of bricks and twisted metal, and broken glass from windows that are no longer holes in structures but shadows of an idea somes the sound all too familiar to teh SHIELD boys: a ruckass.

Feet beating against wet gravel strewn pavement. Two shots go off. Oh boy. Another quiet day in the bowery. A car door slams. An engine starts as there is yelling. Tires squeal on pavement ramping up speed and turning a corner way too fast and too close to where Team SHIELD (or Strikeforce Kiss Kiss Bang Bang as Fitzy called it) is standing. A gold 84' Grand Prix starts to build up some speed before slamming into one of the brick buildings at about 35 with a sudden stop.

|ROLL| Ian +rolls 1d20 for: 16

"Yep," Clint cuts off his quiet joy over 'the fuq' happened here and how marvellously screwed up it all is. "Try to keep your boner in check, Rambo. You ever play HORSE, or whatever the Russian equivalent is?" Barton tucks the spoter scope away and kneels down next to his duffle bag, pulling open the zipper and rummaging around in all the remainder toys that the eagle scout of death over there didn't take out of the cookie jar.

"Russian HORSE," Clint ponderously hums as he deftly puts together a sniper rifle and takes a biscotti out of the package in a series of smooth motions. Biscotti in mouth. Rifle on a low stand. Crunch! Clint doesn't look up as he continues to run his mouth, "What'd that be? Just…HORSEski?"

The concussive sound of gunfire in the area, rubber on pavement and the general smell of 'trouble' in the air draws Clint's head around casually. The gunfire wasn't aimed at /him/, so his reaction is admitedly lackluster. "Someone's having a bad day." Blue eyes flick over to his eager companion. Stalemate glances. Barton then groans and pushes up from his knee, shouldering the rifle. "Yeah, yeah, let's go s—"

The world shakes a little bit and Clint bristles as a goddamn car plows into a brick building! "The hell?" Sudden alarm, he first checks the roof of the decaying building they're on, holding his breath, like that would somehow make them lighter and the building less likely to start crumbling if it had a mind to.

|ROLL| Clint +rolls 1d20 for: 13

|ROLL| Ian +rolls 1d20 for: 11

Ian crouches low at the first gun shot, hears the car rumble through, and there is suddenly a whole lot of clicking from Ian as guns are readied. "Horse? Is that like tag? You remember I didn't get to be a kid, right?" He teases, looking at Clint for a moment with his small eyes. "Car is missing something…but…I bet it can't go faster without wheels. Or a dash." He boops a broken brick out of the way and then looks through his sniper scope to just look around, see if he sees any actual people moving.

It won't. Funny enough cars do need parts in order to operate effectivly. There's still room given to the scuffle a ways off. Those who are still here passivly just close windows and doors. These are the unfortunates that couldn't afford to move out.

"Adults play HORSE," Clint defends conversationally as be breathes a little easier and takes out the spotter scope again. "I caught Rogers two weeks ago playing it—actually never mind. That doesn't help my case." Maneuvering a few steps at their current high ground, Clint's brow furrows. "Huh. No driver. Someone must've weighted the gas peddle down and drove it into a building. Usually, they drive it into something softer in those cases. Like the bay."

"Don't engage, yet. We don't don't need to make this our fight until we know what's going on here," Because apparently Clint has forethought when he has a rookie with him? That seems out of character. His chin lifts subtly, watching some older person close their window passively, sensing the end to a nice spring day in probable bloodshed. His eyes go up to the building the car struck to check for signs of life. OH RIGHT! People live here. "Signs of movement from the car?"

"Nothing yet on the car. But…the gunshots came from up a ways." Ian aims the scope in that direction. "I've got a dog on the street corner. Looks like an actual dog. And I've got a fleeing older woman. Something is going down beyond that building at 3 o Clock." He assesses softly, efficiently, then wiggles his body against the gravelly rooftop, shifting his position in that snug armor so he has a solid view.

|ROLL| JP +rolls 1d20 for: 14

The reason the car has no driver becomes apparent at least to persons in the know when the dark haired Cajun maes an appearance between a couple of those buildings near the point of the crashed vehicle's origin. He hops from the top of a dumpster up to the fire escape to clear the boxes and debris in teh space between the two former establishments. Steel grating, rusty or not, is loads better than shifting bricks. Hand hits the railing and he vaults landing on the hood of the now crashed car, both feet together, so he can tuck-roll down the back windo and off the trunk. He stops as the trunk opens for him where he pulls a duffelbag out of it: medium to large, and built for utility, not gym clothes. He turns to make the break across the street. The vehicle with no drover strains as it backs up to block the alley where six dudes seem to be runnin; not cut off, but with the obstacle.

"All right. The building looks like it's holding and I don't see signs of inhabitants," Clint's folly of a tone drops and his Business Voice comes out to play. Not that that'll stop him from making stupid commentary, buuuuuut.

"Moving to 3," Clint moves quickly and efficiently, fully aware of his body and lacking MOST of the signs of his lackadiasical swinging of arms, limbs, give a damn, and so on as he crouches down in another location off Ian's right and shifts the rifle on his shoulder the way he would his quiver.

Spotter scope up he takes a peek in the direction of the sourced ruckus.

His whole body goes cold, and numb. Shit-shit-shit. Clint relocates swiftly a second time for a better angle to follow JP around as he pops that trunk and retrieves a duffle bag. "Hold." He reminds Ian with an emotionless coldness in his voice, lest his companion get trigger happy.

He follows the retreat. The vehicle moving on its own. The six men in persuit. Hawkeye's jaw tightens and he puts down the scope, rifles through his bag to switch out his rifle for his bow and an arrow with a rather large payload on it, compacted into a slender staff, he snaps it open with an aggressive movement and stands up to his full height on the building.

Nock. Pull. Shoulders drop. Back tightens. Clint takes a steadying breath and lets fly. Without watching, he turns around immediately and starts shoving things down into his bag once more. "C'mon. Gotta relocate. Getting a little crowded in here."

Behind him, the arrow connects with the trunk of the car and explodes. Not with fire, but with a stringy, ickorous, viscous, black substance, sticker than getting stuck down in the ol' tar pits. Engulfing the vehicle, the doors, the first two men and anyone else who tries to climb over it.

Putty Arrow, Bro!

JP does an app too since he responded. woot

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