Post by Rupert Rhodes on Sept 6, 2016 3:58:28 GMT -6
Rupert was somewhat attached to his War Machine armour. It was something of a legacy from his father, even if it wasn't the same suit. It was essential to his role as a SHIELD agent. It gave him something of a presence, and it permitted him to carry out the will of the US Government. The only problem was that Ginnie, as generous and as much of his friend as she was, was so paranoid she'd made the damned thing so impractical for anything other than a planned operation. Not that he could blame her. Having an Iron Man suit loose of her control was sort of like leaving a nuclear warhead laying around. A brand-owned nuclear warhead. So he understood her concern, and accepted that it had a specific role, and had at least two backdoors that he knew about. Hell, they were probably more in line with SHIELD regulations than if she'd just given him the walking artillery platform, so it was actually somewhat commendable.
It just meant that Rupert was left a little underarmed if somebody attacked a store while he was in it, such as now.
He'd been in Gotham for a little R&R after a mission that went hairy that he would never be able to tell anyone about. Possibly not the best choice, considering it probably had a higher crime rate than some countries still, despite the best efforts of the Bats, but he liked it. He liked the architecture, the layout, and the fact that most things there were dirt cheap. He didn't like that it left him more likely to be stranded in a crime scene. He'd been in a bookstore he liked, one that sold first-hand, second-hand and probably twentieth-hand books, ranging from 8th century dictionaries to modern adventures, with everything inbetween. Adding in external ordering, you could probably get anything you wanted there.
And then, when he'd been reading a crime novel in one of the chairs on the upper floor, he'd heard gunfire coming from down below. Five masked men had burst in, armed. Rupert hadn't gotten much of a look, but he'd seen a shotgun, a submachine gun, a rifle and at least one handgun. Where the hell crooks in Gotham got this sort of gear he didn't know. He also didn't know why they'd pick a bookshop to rob. Sure, it made a modest take, but they were on a street with a bank. And men with gear like that didn't seem like they'd be afraid of security.
Still, as always, Rupert wasn't there to question. Five armed hostiles, possibly upwards of fifteen civilians. He didn't like the sound of waiting for the thieves to find him and take him hostage, nor of hiding until the police decided to breach the building. So he'd have to fight. But an all-out gunfight would put civilian lives at risk. Not to mention his War Machine suit was many many miles away in New York, and he wasn't carrying a gun. That would have to change. Of course, not that Ginnie would necessarily have been much better off in this situation. She didn't always carry a suit on her, but she at least had access to suitcase-portable suits, suits she could remotely summon. Even if his had been in the building with him, it'd have taken several minutes of standing helpless in a frame. Still, not complaining. He'd just have to do this the hard way.
He crept closer to the stairwell as he heard orders being barked. This wasn't how he was used to doing things. Sneaking was for people like Dean. Still, his bare fists wouldn't do much unless he was smart about this. His first priority was getting a gun. He heard somebody snap for one of them to move upstairs, and darted over to a stockroom with a wall of metal lockers, pressing himself flat against the inside wall. His heart sinking, he saw a man with a submachine gun approaching the very room he was in.
As soon as the man was close, Rupert leapt out and grabbed him, swinging him into the room. What followed was short and ugly. He was trained in kickboxing and combatives, neither of which led themselves to elegant combat. He took hold of the man's gun and kicked him in the gut, knocking him back and gaining control of the gun. As firing would give away his position and the gun's butt was no good to hit the thug with, Rupert discarded it and slammed his fist into his gut again. He next delivered a power slap to the man's nose, driving in the heel of his hand. It crunched under the impact. A kick to the knee, a power slap to the jaw, and Rupert followed it up by slamming his head into the locker. The would-be robber slumped against the wall, and Rupert briefly pulled open an eyelid to check it still dilated. Good, he was alive.
And then his problem became apparent. With quite some force, he'd just slammed the hardest bone in the human body against the loudest and most dramatic object known to man: a metal locker. He'd been caught up for a second, but now he realised that the sound had most definitely been heard by the others, and more orders were being barked.
"Son of a bitch," He muttered as he grabbed the SMG and liberated the unconscious man of some clips of ammo. Ugly, imprecise and in the habit of emptying as many bullets into an area as possible, it was arguably the worst weapon for a situation with civilian hostages, but it was all he had.
It just meant that Rupert was left a little underarmed if somebody attacked a store while he was in it, such as now.
He'd been in Gotham for a little R&R after a mission that went hairy that he would never be able to tell anyone about. Possibly not the best choice, considering it probably had a higher crime rate than some countries still, despite the best efforts of the Bats, but he liked it. He liked the architecture, the layout, and the fact that most things there were dirt cheap. He didn't like that it left him more likely to be stranded in a crime scene. He'd been in a bookstore he liked, one that sold first-hand, second-hand and probably twentieth-hand books, ranging from 8th century dictionaries to modern adventures, with everything inbetween. Adding in external ordering, you could probably get anything you wanted there.
And then, when he'd been reading a crime novel in one of the chairs on the upper floor, he'd heard gunfire coming from down below. Five masked men had burst in, armed. Rupert hadn't gotten much of a look, but he'd seen a shotgun, a submachine gun, a rifle and at least one handgun. Where the hell crooks in Gotham got this sort of gear he didn't know. He also didn't know why they'd pick a bookshop to rob. Sure, it made a modest take, but they were on a street with a bank. And men with gear like that didn't seem like they'd be afraid of security.
Still, as always, Rupert wasn't there to question. Five armed hostiles, possibly upwards of fifteen civilians. He didn't like the sound of waiting for the thieves to find him and take him hostage, nor of hiding until the police decided to breach the building. So he'd have to fight. But an all-out gunfight would put civilian lives at risk. Not to mention his War Machine suit was many many miles away in New York, and he wasn't carrying a gun. That would have to change. Of course, not that Ginnie would necessarily have been much better off in this situation. She didn't always carry a suit on her, but she at least had access to suitcase-portable suits, suits she could remotely summon. Even if his had been in the building with him, it'd have taken several minutes of standing helpless in a frame. Still, not complaining. He'd just have to do this the hard way.
He crept closer to the stairwell as he heard orders being barked. This wasn't how he was used to doing things. Sneaking was for people like Dean. Still, his bare fists wouldn't do much unless he was smart about this. His first priority was getting a gun. He heard somebody snap for one of them to move upstairs, and darted over to a stockroom with a wall of metal lockers, pressing himself flat against the inside wall. His heart sinking, he saw a man with a submachine gun approaching the very room he was in.
As soon as the man was close, Rupert leapt out and grabbed him, swinging him into the room. What followed was short and ugly. He was trained in kickboxing and combatives, neither of which led themselves to elegant combat. He took hold of the man's gun and kicked him in the gut, knocking him back and gaining control of the gun. As firing would give away his position and the gun's butt was no good to hit the thug with, Rupert discarded it and slammed his fist into his gut again. He next delivered a power slap to the man's nose, driving in the heel of his hand. It crunched under the impact. A kick to the knee, a power slap to the jaw, and Rupert followed it up by slamming his head into the locker. The would-be robber slumped against the wall, and Rupert briefly pulled open an eyelid to check it still dilated. Good, he was alive.
And then his problem became apparent. With quite some force, he'd just slammed the hardest bone in the human body against the loudest and most dramatic object known to man: a metal locker. He'd been caught up for a second, but now he realised that the sound had most definitely been heard by the others, and more orders were being barked.
"Son of a bitch," He muttered as he grabbed the SMG and liberated the unconscious man of some clips of ammo. Ugly, imprecise and in the habit of emptying as many bullets into an area as possible, it was arguably the worst weapon for a situation with civilian hostages, but it was all he had.