- Abandoned Shipyard, Gotham
"Goddamn scavengers..", Derrick thought to himself as his bare feet touched the hard concrete. The ringing in his head faint, but still present. The medics at Arkham had really yanked his head around. Come to think of it, Derrick never actually understood the function of Arkham Asylum. They sent the Joker in years ago, and he came out of it with a new mischevious companion - Harley Quinn. Whatever was done to those criminals within the borders of that facility was in no way leading them towards reformation. Because Gotham's rich gallery of the criminally insane cannot be reformed. Yet, the higher-ups in charge of that shithole continuously insist that Arkham is necessary, and everyone nods in agreement as they sweep the years of failure and misconduct that place bears under their bloody rug. Of course, that's only a thought. Derrick is not even close to being the noble crusader that will one day free the tormented souls within the walls of that Asylum. He only wants to put a stop to the recurring nightmares, which seem to serve the purpose of reminding him how far he is from accomplishing his one and only goal; kill the Bat.
Derrick snapped out of his thoughts at the sight of a bonfire, the only source of light in a coal black background, a goth kid's wet dream. The shipyard was huge, as shipyards ought to be, but security was more concentrated on shielding the East wing. Didn't take a genius to figure out that's where the big guy is. Now it all came down to the question;
how? How could he enter and exit the premises with his head intact? He could go commando and try to slaughter everyone in the base, but then again he could also play Russian roulette with a clip loading pistol. No, he had to find another way. After a brief moment of pondering, his index finger caressing his chin in co-operation with his thumb, a metaphorical lightbulb lit up on his head. He pulled his white blouse, now mostly stained brown due to the dirt, and revealed his dual pistols; FN Five Seven, arguably the best tactical handgun ever made. Sadly, he wouldn't get to use them tonight. Hiding them under his pants was impractical to say the least, but he left his house in a hurry. Derrick slowly stacked the weapons on top of each other in one of the containers, and threw a grubby newspaper over them so as to put them out of sight. Then, he began walking. Not away from his point of interest, but rather towards it.
There were five guards in the ground, two near the bonfire and three of them a few feet further. There were four on top of the abandoned ship, all seemed to be armed to the teeth unlike their 'comrades' on the ground who were equipped with mere pistols. It didn't take too long for one of those leather jacket admirers (seriously, what was with Russians and leather jackets?) to notice a homeless looking person coming their way. Even in the dark, Derrick could still make out one of them tapping the other on the shoulder, prompting him to turn his head and face him. He'd gotten their attention. At no point did Derrick flinch, as the two guards came close to a dangerous distance. One was below average height, bald, weary eyes, exactly as you'd expect a Russian to be. The other was even more so; built like a brickhouse, facially scarred, probably a former-Spetsnaz, made even Derrick look like a kindergarten child.
"What do you want, American?", the small Ruskie skipped straight to the point, his heavy accent grinding Derrick's ear.
"I want a meeting with your boss. I'm a potential buyer.", Derrick calmly replied.
Small Ruskie did a double take, his eyes following an invisible trail starting from his bare feet to his filthy blouse. He seemed to relay what Derrick said to his hulking buddy, who didn't seem to speak or understand an ounce of English. They both shared a laugh.
"You think I'm stupid, American? You look like you don't have money to buy a sandwich.""Looks aren't everything, comrade. You'd think I'd waltz in with a bag of greens and just hand them to you? Get me a meeting with your boss, or else you're gonna have to explain to him how you accidentally wasted his chance of making some good money."The determination and coldness on Derrick's tone seemed to hit the dwarf hard. Derrick could even see the exact moment that he realized there would be no harm in sending an unarmed guy into their base of operations. He spoke something in Russian to his big fella, and they both nodded.
"Alright, American.", he said, motioning with his hand for Derrick to follow him. He climbed the stairs leading to the cargo ship's deck. Ignoring the stares he got from the mooks and the pricking the rough surface caused to his bare feet, they both finally arrived to the main room. It appeared like the room was some sort of a storage facility, a vessel for the precious cargo, but re-modeled to look like a living room. There was even an open bar. There were about fifteen guards, five sitting in one of the couches, two of them playing cards in a table a few feet further, one in charge of the bar and the other seven had been scattered around the room. All their eyes were on Derrick. They were waiting on him, no, HOPING he would do something rash so that they'd have a reason to grill him. On the center of the room, sitting on an armchair, was the one in charge. He had two prostitutes by his side, one a redhead the other blonde, both looked like they were imported from Russia. They called him
The Scavenger. He ran a business that was solely based on racketeering and what he called, scavenging; waiting for something bad to happen - a gang war, a tussle, the death of someone of importance to the Gotham underground - at which point he sends his lackeys to scavenge the valuables. It's a pretty good form of a low risk, high reward business. Hell, word on the street is he was all over the place when The Joker died, trying to find his corpse or any other type of keepsake from the now-deceased psychopath.
Physically speaking, the Scavenger appeared to be very inactive. He was overweight, his thinning hair slicked back probably in a desperate attempt to cover the bald spot on his head. He had a mole near his nose, and rotten blue eyes. Definitely around his early 60s, late 50s.
His attention shifted from the voluptuous, scantily clad girls, to his henchman as he called out for him. They had a talk in their mother tongue, which concluded with The Scavenger throwing a look at the elephant in the room, the only afro-american in a nest of white communist trash. Derrick could feel the silent judgment, but he also has to live with a heavy weight on his head, so he didn't mind.
"We don't sell shoes here, yankee.", The Scavenger spoke. He told the girls to hit the bar while he discussed business. Derrick took that as an invitation, and walked towards him, but he was stopped by one of the guards.
"Not here to buy shoes. I'm looking for a suit. A suit of armor."Derrick's request seemed to have piqued his interest. He waved his hand to one of his guards, and spoke something to him in an aggressive tone, or so it seemed. Everything that was spoken in Russian sounded aggressive.
"I think I have just the thing for you.", he said to Derrick, his speech manner a little bit ominous.
Shortly after, one of his henchmen dragged the suit in and threw it right down Derrick's feet. Another thud was heard, and next to it as the mask. The mask came separately.
"That suit's got a rich history, American. It was-""I care very little about the suit's history, boss. How much?"The Scavenger smirked.
"Right down to business. I admire that. You'd pass off as a legit Russian, if your skin tone wasn't a dead give away."There were fits of laughter in some parts of the room. Some of the henchmen who did understand the language actually found the remarks funny.
"Three point four, American.""Million?, Derrick queried. The Scavenger nodded.
He attempted to kneel down and take a close look at the suit, but The Scavenger's henchman grabbed him by his clothes.
"What are you doing?", The Scavenger spoke.
"I need to make sure you're not selling me a cheap knockoff."The Scavenger motioned to the guard to let Derrick go. Derrick knelt down and began inspecting the suit. He knew all it's inner and outer workings. His 'inspection' was simply an attempt to find the right timing, for when shit hits the fan everyone's gonna get splattered.
"How do you put it on?", Derrick made yet another question.
"I don't know."Derrick did a double take at the fat slob sitting on the center of the room.
"You don't know?""I sell them. I don't make them, tovarich. If you're gonna buy it, buy it. If not, then please place your hands on the table so my men can break all your fingers for wasting my time."Derrick didn't move his eyes from the suit, pretending he didn't hear the threat that was aimed at him. He moved his hand down the exosuit's feet and pressed a button, causing the armor's chest to open. Shit had made impact with the fan now. He had to act fast. In a precise and swift move, he reached for the 9mm on the russian's holster and shot him in the head, blood and brain matter squirting from it. He then rolled on his back on top of the exosuit and the armor automatically embroiled him. Before he could reach for the mask, however, shots were already being fired. He took cover behind one of the tables and rapidly made an attempt on The Scavenger, the bullet successfully penetrating his thick skull. The two prostitutes tried to leave, but they dropped down too, although Derrick wasn't sure if it was one of his bullets that killed them. A couple of minutes later, and the coast was clear. It was a bloodbath, but there was not a single drop of his blood. All those months in Arkham had done nothing to slow Derrick - or rather, Black Spider - down.
He reached for the mask laying on the ground, then hid behind the open door leading to the storage. The guards in the ship's deck heard the commotion. There was a hail of footsteps originating from the stairwell. The unsuspecting guards, armed with machine guns, came to investigate only to be momentarily distracted by what they saw. Derrick got behind the first one, and then landed a hit on his hand, effectively dropping his AK-47 on the ground and then another one right to his neck. He grabbed the machine gun and mowed over the guards coming from the stairwell. Not an ideal place for a combat, since there was little space you could maneuver. He dropped the AK-47 and grabbed another, fully loaded one, that he took from one of the dead bodies. The waiting game was his only strategy. He waited for the remaining five to drop in and investigate, then killed them all too. They stood no chance, considering their artillery was weak compared to his.
He dropped the machine gun on his way out and then made it to the container where he'd stacked his weapons of choice. He wouldn't admit it if asked, but he was sure glad to be back.
Member
FourtyTwo
