[Location: Pikeman's Circle Drive] "You wanna say that again, freak?" "Nah, that'sch okay. I'll let you usche your imaginaschion. Thank me later." "You stupid somebitch. I *heard* you. You insulted my girlfriend!" "No, I aschked for her phone number." "*That's* an insult!" *SOCK* Blake reels backwards from the punch to land painfully (and noisily) in the trashcans lining the alley behind the pub. His assailant, a cheesed-off guy in a Gold's Gym t-shirt, advances on him, backed up by four other guys. "Stay away from my woman!" he growls. Mike steps out of the Oscorp building, having actually turned up to work and found, against all expectation, that he still has a job. He sits on the steps and digs around in his pockets for a cigarette. He does hear the commotion, but thinks better of interfering. Life in Beacon has more or less pounded that inclination out of him. Of course, he doesn't know it's Blake over there. Yet. "Hup! Ha! Here we go! Up and at 'em!" The Disinfectinator has taken to saying "inspirational messages" under his breath (they're hiding, you see) as he patrols the rooftops. He would cut a dashing figure if it weren't for the fact that he's actually *dashing*, which causes him to have to take a rest every so often, detracting from chances to strike heroic poses. (Ah, keeping the city safe from the unkempt vermin of the underworld! This is the life!) Ian has not yet noticed the altercation in the alleyway a few rooftops ahead of him. Blake rolls out of the trashcans, trying to scramble away. "Didn't you ever learn how to schare? Didn't you ever watch Romper Room?" he blurts, slipping in some eggshells. "Oh, man, are you ever dead," gloats one of the flunkies as the Gold's Gym guy seizes Blake by some fringe on the back of his jacket and hauls him back. "Hit him now, Rich," chimes in another guy. "Yeah, bust his nose," slurs another one quite drunkenly. "All right, all right, geez," grunts Rich. Mike frowns, his head coming up..that sounded kinda like...oh, please no. He jogs down the steps and crosses the circle, moving around to see into the alleyway. "Blake?" he calls. Disinfectinator skids to a halt on the edge of a rooftop. Right, a definite disadvantage to rooftops: They're, well, high enough for you to fall! But it just isn't heroic enough to walk down the street. Dis peers over the edge of the roof, putting himself in a precarious position, and his eyes widen. "A crime in progress!" he breathes. It's just like he dreamed. The noble, brave superhero shalt save the hapless citizen from the ignoble vagabonds. In his deluded fantasies he doesn't notice that he's beginning to slip. "Come on you guysch, give me a break," Blake whines, looking between the five faces surrounding him. "I didn't know what I wasch schaying. Aliensch made me do it. I have amneschia. I uh...I've been given six monthsch to live--no! Two! I--I--Hey, what'sch that?" Rich scowls, ignoring the figure above the alleyway that Blake points to. "It's too late, freak, say goodbye to your ugly face." He draws back his fist... Mike breaks into a flat-out run towards the alley, and yells as loud as he can. "HEY! HEY, LEAVE HIM ALONE!" Suicidal? Possibly. But there's nothing else to be done. Disinfectinator is suddenly re-introduced to his old friend, Mr. Gravity. As he plummets towards the alley, his lightning reflexes try to make this look good. "Stop in the name of the-Unh!" He hits the ground and slides along it, finally stopping when he bumps into Rich's feet. ".....law...." he manages, raising one arm up heroically before collapsing back into the Great White Heap. Rich is surprised by the delivery from the sky, but he keeps his grip on Blake's jacket, and actually becomes angrier. "You tryin' to distract me?" he yells at Blake, socking him across the jaw and sending him crashing down on top of the Disinfectinator. Then he blinks. "Did someone say something?" he asks his friends. "It was that guy," says one helpfully, pointing in Mike's direction. Mike skids to a stop in the mouth of the alley, and attempts to sound authoritative. "You leave him alone!" he yells, incensed. The guy falling from the sky really seems kinda ordinary, these days. Disinfectinator manages to get to his feet. "Halt, miscreants!" He pulls out his mop, in the process drawing his cap over his eyes. "Blast. Could you give me a moment?" Dis finally manages to bring his cape around, but by now the effect is ruined. "Right, unhand that man!" He declares, trying to keep the embarassed tremor out of his voice. Rich stares. "*Unhand* him?" he roars. "I haven't even *got* him anymore! But if it'll make you happy..." He lunges for Blake, who hadn't even yet begun to sneak off, and throws him back into the garbage cans. "There, he's unhanded. Now it's your turn." He jumps at Dis. Meanwhile, the other four guys have lined up to meet Mike, forming a barricade across the alley seperating Mike from Blake, Rich, and Dis. Mike is totally lost for what to do, here, and waves a finger at the four, still successfully managing to keep his voice steady. "I'll call the police! You back off!" A fist slides off of Dis. "Ha, child's play to get out of the w-" *SMACK!* One punch catches his face dead on. (Alright, felt that one.) He decides the offensive would be prudent and begins to lay about the ruffians with his mop. The four guys snort with derisive laughter and quickly surround Mike. "Better call 'em quick," remarks one guy. "Oops, outta time." They all jump at Mike at once. Meanwhile, Rich is getting swatted about the head and neck with the mop. "Ow! Ow! Hey! Knock it off, you psychopath!" he complains, stumbling about, trying to avoid the blows. He trips and ends up in the garbage cans, which Blake had just climbed out of for the second time. "I *really* need to quit aschking these biker chicksch for their phone numbersch," Blake grunts to himself. Waitaminute. That work uniform looks familiar. Oh no. "Dammit Mike, you idiot," he mumbles as he rushes the four guys. Mike barely has time for a yelp of alarm and goes down fighting. Not very *well*, but he's doing his best, and he's not bothered about fighting fair, either, kicking and struggling. Disinfectinator aims the mophead for Rich's chin. Right, time to test if this works. He depresses the lever on the mop that propels the mophead with a blast of a soapy water. Rich receives a high-speed bundle of wet cotton right in the kisser. He chokes and gags, struggling in the garbage, making quite the mess. Blake launches himself at one of the four guys, landing on the guy's back and hauling him off of Mike. He wastes no time kicking the guy in the kidneys and grabbing another guy by the hair and yanking him backwards. "Four on one ischn't very schporting," he remarks, driving a fist into the second guy's face. That's gonna leave a mark. Mike isn't all that used to fighting, not even with nine months spent living in Beacon Harbor, and two guys is still more than enough to keep him occupied. One blow catches him on the head and he yelps again, curling into a defensive ball. Disinfectinator would continue his assault on Rich, but those around him need help too. Why, just look at those poor thugs! Then he realizes that the alley he's standing in is FILTHY! Ick! Garbage cans and yicky stuff everywhere! He decides to try and pacify everyone and clean the alley at the same time. Dis reaches for his belt and pulls out what looks like a white grenade. He pulls the pin and throws the Sud Grenade into the middle of the alley... Blake wraps his arms around the middle of one of the guys still on Mike and pulls him off...when suddenly the alley is flooded with white...stuff, that smells like dishwasher detergent. The one remaining thug tries to get in a final kick at Mike before hurrying, confused, out of the alley. Rich and the two guys Blake had already deterred from Mike follow suit, covered in suds. Blake himself seems too occupied with the last guy to much notice the soap--especially since the guy had gotten free and is now attempting to rearrange Blake's vital organs. Mike grunts as the final kick connects...ow...and, after a moment, scrambles to his feet and stands there swaying slightly, trying to work out what's going on, where everyone went and what's with the bubbles. Yet another plan problem: Dis himself can't see in his own soap suds. He wanders through the cloud of bubbles, waving his mop handle around as if it'll help. He manages to discover a wall (OWCH!) He misinterprets this as an attack and begins to swing around like mad, leaping into an imagined fray, often falling and sliding around. It's a good thing he can't be seen in the cloud right now... Blake disappears into the spreading layer of suds on the ground when the guy lands a solid punch just under his sternum...At about this point the guy (this is the drunk one) notices the soap. He utters a loud swear of surprise and stumbles off, slipping and sliding and yelling for his buddies. Disinfectinator finally staggers out of the alley and rushes off into the night, not knowing exactly where he's going... Mike stumbles and slips over to where he thinks Blake probably is. "Blake? You down here somewhere?" "Ow!" yells a voice from the soap when Mike steps on Blake's right hand, immediately followed by a coughing fit as the bubbles get into Blake's mouth. He sits up, flailing at the soap on his face, hacking and sputtering. Mike winces. "Sorry." He makes a grab at Blake's arm and tries to haul him to his feet. "What happened?" He didn't really see Dis and is totally baffled. Blake knows there was another guy but really hadn't been able to pay much attention to him after his initial appearance. "Don't aschk me, I juscht live here," he grunts, making an attempt to stand and failing. He puts a hand over the bottom of his sternum. "Ow. Dammit." Mike has problems of his own - notably what's going to be a *really* nice black eye, come tomorrow morning - but he still takes time out to worry about Blake. Naturally. "Did they get you?" Blake succeeds at standing this time. "Nah, thisch isch nothing," he shrugs it off. "I'll have a bruische, maybe. Jeeze, Mike. Where'd *you* come from? And what wasch with that war cry thing you did? Hey--they got *you*, wow. You're gonna have a schiner..." Mike blinks and raises a hand to touch his face. "Ow! Um..I was at work," he says, pointing in the general direction of Oscorp. "I never got around to quitting." He doesn't remember what he said to those guys, so he ignores that part. "What was their problem?" "Drunk, I expect," says Blake vaguely, leading Mike towards the mouth of the alley. "Better get out of here before the copsch schow up and blame *me* for thisch messch..." Mike blinks at Blake. "You think they would?" Oh, wait...this is Blake we're talking about. "Yeah, I guess...god, Schullivan, how do you get me *into* these situations?" He doesn't sound annoyed, just bemused. Blake avoids coming up with an answer for that one by fussing over his jacket. "Hey, thisch thing isch dry-clean only," he complains, taking it off and trying to wipe the suds from it. "Ratsch. I'd better get it home and lay it out to dry...Hey, how far are you from here? You think you can make it a few more blocksch without taking another guy'sch punchesch for 'em?" Mike looks back at Oscorp. "Um, I kinda should go back to work...I mean, they didn't *really* hurt me. Coulda been a lot worse." There's a short pause. "Thanks for pulling em off me." Blake glances up from his fussing to shrug. "Well, it wasch four on one. That'sch not right. Okay, get back to work, don't want you to losche your job--Hey, thisch ishn't the schame one you were gonna quit, isch it? The one you can't schtand? The one you'd rather go flat broke over then schtay at?" Mike looks guilty, as if Blake's accusing him of doing something immoral. "Well...yeah. Kinda. I don't think they even noticed I wasn't there." Hey, wait. "I guess I don't *have* to go back in there." Blake snorts, carefully replacing his jacket as if it had suddenly become fragile. "I hope all people aren't as waffly over their jobsch as you are, Nelschon," he remarks. "Well *I'm* going home. I've had enough normalschy for one night." Mike looks off to the south. "Yeah..home. I should go home." But it's a longish way. "Maybe I'll just...sit on the steps here for a while first." Dizzy. Blake frowns at Mike. "They really clocked you, didn't they? You don't look good. And I schould know." He pauses. "Well, I'm not gonna leave you here, the vulturesch might mischtake you for a fresch kill. You going back to work or not? I could juscht schtay here awhile." Mike can't make this kind of complicated decision at the best of times. "Um," he explains. Blake raps Mike on the forehead. "You going back or bailing out?" he clarifies. Mike winces and takes a step back. "Blake, ow!" But it helped. Kinda. "I'm bailing out, hell with em." Blake looks skeptical a moment but doesn't dwell on the issue. "Scho you need a timeout? I can wait for you a little while, then I'm walking you home. I don't feel right juscht leaving you out here, keep envischioning you falling into the schewersch or schomething." Mike attempts to be indignant, but he knows it's true. "I would *not* fall in the sewers. They got rats down there the size of...really big rats. Okay, I need to sit down." And he does, right where he is, in the street. Blake blinks. "Woah. Okay, that tendsch to be a high-traffic area..." He trails off, looking around the dark, deserted street. "Well, okay, not scho much at night," he admits. He sits a few feet away, on the curb, wincing only a little. At least they didn't damage his uh...well, bread and butter. "Hey, you think you can keep the jumpschuit?" he asks Mike brightly. "It'sch a faschion schtatement." Mike grins weakly at Blake. "Yeah, it says 'look, I am nobody at all'. It's comfortable, though, I could live in it." He shakes his head to try and clear it, and finds that was a bad idea. Whoa! Spinning.. "They were just drunk, huh?" Blake seizes yet another convenient opportunity to change the subject. "Okay, I'm offischially changing my mind, timeout'sch over. You're going to my plache with me. At leascht there, if you passch out, you'll look more natural." Blake jumps to his feet and attempts to haul Mike up off of the ground. Mike is reluctant. And heavier than Blake by a long way. "Schullivan, come on, you don't think I deserve to know what that was about?" Blake grunts and strains and makes a big show of not being able to budge Mike. "A little help, here?" he ignores the question. Mike looks up at Blake, frowning. "I'm not an idiot." Blake sputters and lets go of Mike's arm. This guy is really persistant--noone else seems to care when Blake doesn't want to talk about himself. "I juscht aschked a girl for her phone number," he says truthfully. "Sche wasch at the bar all alone and I schtarted talking to her and sche wasch nische, okay? Sche liked my jacket. Hersch waschn't bad either. I juscht wanted her phone number. But it turned out sche was dating Magilla Gorilla back there. That'sch not *my* fault, isch it?" he demands. Mike considers that for a while. "Well...no. It was her fault. She shoulda told you." Pause. "Thanks." Blake seizes Mike's arm again and pulls. "Now get up before the schtreet-schweeper comesch. That guy *aimsch* for people." Mike finally does get to his feet, more under his own power than because Blake is pulling him. "He does? Wow..someone should write a letter or something. Where are we going?" Once assured that Mike's not going to go crashing back down to the ground (at least, not right *now*), Blake lets go of him and starts off towards the docks, at an arrested pace. "My plasche. You'll love it. There'sch no TV, no food, and you get to hear the schipsch horns blaschting all night. Come on, it'sch thisch way." Mike trails along after Blake. "Um, okay. I *can* go home, I know you, uh, you like your privacy." He doesn't mean it at all. Blake shrugs. "Nah, it'sch not all that private," he confesses. "People coming and going all the time to schee if they want to buy my schtuff. When I really want to be alone I go find a nische, big crowd of schircusch people to blend into." Mike takes a few seconds to work that one out. "Where the heck do you find circus people at short notice? Is there a recruitment agency?" Blake glances around as he walks. "The temp plasche," he deadpans. "You schould try it. They'll take *anybody*." Mike snorts. "I don't think so. That place gives me chills just walking by. Have you *looked* at it?" Blake nods. "I did. What they need isch like, a great big twelve-headed hydra painted on their front window. It would schomehow fit right in." Mike shivers and picks up his pace a little to walk beside Blake, rather than behind him. "Yeah. I bet it's run by some weird old guy with no hair. It just looks like that kinda place." "Yeah, they probably got people on schlabsch in there inschtead of schecretariesch. I live down that way," Blake adds, pointing down the docks, past the rows of fishmarkets and the cannery. Casmus Docks The vast stretch of the Casmus Docks drives north into the waters of the Beacon Harbor Bay. All matter of ships are at rest here, everything from vast cargo haulers, military transports and pleasure craft. Most of the cargo is hauled via truck down Pikeman Circle Drive to Beacon Harbor's industrial centers. Traffic flows rather heavily from the heart of the city to the south. Across the bay, far to the north east, a lighthouse can be seen out on the Point. Its light pierces the thick fog that often plagues the bay in the early hours of the morning. A thick band of rubble, rocks dredged up from the bottom of the bay when the docks were constructed, forms a barrier between the shipping lanes and the long stretch of beach to the east. Mike looks around at the docks with some interest. "Y'know, I think Sorcha lives around here somewhere." The thought of Sorcha cheers him up a little. Blake can't put the name with the face, and he doesn't inquire into it. "Yeah, there'sch a few of usch crazy enough to live down here," he says. "Here we go." Blake starts towards what was clearly once a dockside bistro, the fading on the wooden sign outside revealing the letters that had been removed had once read 'Cimonelli's'. There's little lighting around here: the building's own outdoor lighting is either off or taken out. Mike looks doubtfully at the building. "Jeez, Blake, it doesn't look like anyone lives here." He doesn't say 'it looks like it needs condemning'. Blake opens the front door, which apparently he doesn't bother locking or something, and takes a step inside. "Well, I don't really live here, I guessch. I juscht work here, and every onsche in a while I schleep. But that'sch it. Come on." Mike follows him, still looking doubtful as to the wisdom of this. "What do you do the rest of the time?" There is a small foyer or waiting area just inside, where apparently customers waited to be seated, divided from the rest of the place by a beaded curtain. "Oh, you know," says Blake, first closing the door, then opening a fusebox and flipping a few switches. "Wander around and get into trouble." Lights flicker on in the foyer and main room, and Blake steps though the curtain. Mike plays with the curtain for a moment or two, then sticks his head through. "You could put a door in here." This former restaurant is divided into a big main room, a kitchen (through the big silver swinging doors behind the bar) and the bathrooms, over by the pay telephones in the corner. Again, there is a bar in the back (currently serving as a storage area for paints), a podium at the front (Blake carefully lays his jacket on this), and there are booths along the wall on the left--looks like the ones on the right have been taken out. There are all kinda of works-in-progress all over the place: sketches taped on the walls, half-finished plaster deals, wire sculptures, and all kind of art materials (and plenty that *doesn't* look like one could make art from it) takes up all of the booths save one and much of the floor space. Mike looks around, stepping through the curtain. "Wow...this is pretty cool." He really means it. "You *live* here?" Blake glances around, although he does look pleased. "I told you, I only *kinda* live here. But yeah, thisch isch my plasche." He pulls his rings off of his swollen fingers (don't ever fight with rings on) and tosses them onto the podium. "Go sit down," he instructs Mike, indicating the uncluttered booth. "You want uh...schome water?" Mike wanders to the empty booth and takes a seat. He *does* want water. "Wow, yeah. That'd be great." He stares around, trying to take in everything at once. "How did you get this place? Is it expensive?" Blake walks back to the silver doors, pauses, pushes one open slowly, peering inside warily. The coast apparently being clear, he disappears into the kitchen. "Juscht the utilities," he calls out as glasses clink. "And it wasch payment for schome work I did a long time back." The tap runs. Mike gets up again and wanders over to a wire sculpture. He calls, "Still this is *much* more interesting than my place." He poings a sticking-out part of the sculpture, in the spirit of scientific enquiry. Blake emerges from the kitchen bearing two oversized coffee mugs. "Yeah well I bet your landlord doesch't let you play with chainschawsch in your apartment." He sets the cups on the booth table. "Not that I've had much luck with chainschawsch. But they're fun to play with." Mike continues to poing the sticking-out wire. Because it's entertaining. "Chainsaws? Wow, imagine the damage I could do with a chainsaw. I think Amy would discourage it." Blake sits at the booth and spins a pencil that's been left on the table. "How'sch Amy doing?" Mike leaves the statue alone, finally, and wanders back to the booth. "She's okay. She's doing really well in school - she's scary-bright, sometimes. She said to say hi when I saw you, so: hi." Blake raises his eyebrows. "Oh, sche'sch going to school? Er...not college, right? Isch sche in college?" Mike blinks at Blake. "She's fifteen," he points out. Then pauses, thinking. "Actually...I don't know if she goes to school. But she brings a lot of books home. I just assumed." Blake nods. "Yeah, I hear a lot of roommatesch don't know what the other'sch up to." He fiddles with the pencil some, then turns and, taking aim, flips it at the wire sculpture. It impales it and sticks there. "Sche schtil working?" Mike blinks at the pencil. "Wow. Um...yeah, she is. Her paper route...she likes it. I still dunno whether it's safe, but she can take care of herself." Blake nods again. "Well, schome people find waysch to take care of themschelvesch..." He frowns at Mike. "Um, you want schome ische?" Mike blinks. He's doing a lot of that today. "Ice? Uh, no thanks." He looks around. "Some of these things are kinda creepy. I bet you don't get burgled a lot." "Thank you. I don't." Blake pauses. "You schure you don't want any ische? That bump cropping up on your forehead doesn't look very pleaschant." Mike carefully touches his head. "Ow. Um..maybe I do need some ice. Did he kick me, or something?" Blake gets up. "How schould I know, all I saw was a bunch of fischtsch flailing around, and then the...schoap, I guessch it wasch." He heads for the kitchen again. Blake disappears into the kitchen. More glass clinking sounds. "I don't know," he calls back. "Maybe thisch town has a Sud Demon. I wouldn't be too schurprisched." Mike gives that due consideration. "Wow, a Sud Demon. Death to all mud, huh?" Blake reappears with another mug and a towel. "Well, I'd like to schummon him to clean my bathroom," he says, placing the mug of ice and the towel before Mike. Mike tips the ice out onto the towel. "Yeah, me too. Um, if it weren't for Amy. She's good at that stuff. And she's good at telling *me* to do that stuff." Blake starts moving about the room, idly inspecting the unfinished sculptures of various sorts. "Sche doeschn't cook for you, doesch sche?" he wonders. There's a quiet sound on the roof. It's not really *that* quiet, but it sounds like it's trying to be. It could be raccoons, or gerbils for that matter, but it could also be a young ninja-girl trying to steal idustrial secrets. Who knows? Mike starts attempting to tie the towel in a knot. It's harder than it looks. "No! No, she doesn't. She cooks for herself. She wanted to cook for me, but she likes all this..Japanese stuff. I don't like sushi. Does that count as cooking? When it's not cooked?" Blake critically examines a half-painted cartoonish satyr posing on a pedastal. "Well, it'sch schtill work. But I guessch you don't call it cooking. *I* like Japanesche food," he feels obliged to point out. "But then my schensche of taschte ischn't what it usched to be." Anyone with animal-level hearing would make out the sound of little feet tip-toe-tip-toe-ing across the restaurant roof, searching for a subtle point of access. Anyone with normal hearing might hear the shifting of the roof's weight. Anyone as stupid as these two wouldn't notice there *was* a roof. Mike looks over at Blake, puzzled. "It isn't? Why not?" No, he can't work it out for himself. The satyr gets a brief glance. But it's weird. Blake steps up next to a large sketch taped on the wall of a gargoyle- sorta-thing. "Um, you ever hear of Death schigarrettesch?" he asks. "They were popular on the West Coascht for a while, were schupposched to have the highescht tar content of any schigarrete, ever?" Outside, a large, white avian shape flaps over the water on its way to Beacon Harbor. Harpo had been roosting on a nearby island with the other geese, but had suddenly found himself in a mooching mood, so he decided to go visit that funny-smelling human who fed him sometimes. So what if it's the middle of the night, it's not as if the guy keeps any kind of schedule...But Harpo spots something out of the ordinary as he approaches: somebody's on the roof of the restaurant! He honks once, loudly, and continues his descent. Mike nods. "Yeah, I heard of em..you didn't. They taste like a factory." That somebody's not just on the roof, she's perched on the edge, trying to get a peek in a window. Having come a ways from her more rural roots, Tasha mistakes the honk for a faulty car horn and thus shrugs it off as background noise. Pulling a thin rope and hook from her bandolier, she attaches it to the roof's ledge and prepares to descend, Mission Impossible style. Blake shakes his head. "No, I didn't. But there wasch thisch other company, on the Eascht Coascht, they made Schuischide Schigarrettes-- red paper inschtead of black--that were schupposched to be worsche. I went out of my way to mail order thosche. I wasch like a chimney when I wasch a kid. 'Coursche I only schmoke filteredsch now. But it messched up my schensched of taschte and schmell. No big losschesch, really." [Here's another continuity error on my part: Blake really only smokes unfiltereds. Maybe he was just lying, here. :)] Harpo is outraged! How dare someone intrude on *his* home! He honks again, rapid-fire style, and lands on the roof behind Malice. He pumps his neck up and down, hissing a challenge, while his powerful wings beat the roof like a drum. Mike is surprised. "You smoked as a kid? I didn't start till I went to college." He thinks for a moment. "I guess the smell thing is useful, huh? Or are you, y'know, immune?" Tasha turns sharply at the sudden noise, her hand streaking into the air behind her as the invisible katana in her grasp slashes at the unknown assailant. Fortunately, she'd been expecting a fiend in the taller variety, so the blade passes harmlessly over Harpo's head, then dissipates into nothingness as Tasha sees just what it is. She narrows her eyes in annoyance and waves her currently non-lethal hand threateningly at the bird as she harshly whispers the ancient Banishment Of The Unpleasant Creature incantation, "Shoo! Shoo!" Blake is about to answer Mike's question, but he knows Harpo's voice when he hears it. "Oh, uh...wait there," he says, dashing outside. Harpo continues to bob and weave, making false lunges at Malice's waving hand, emitting a loud *HONK* every two seconds. Blake appears at the side of the restaurant. "Harpo!" he yells, hands cupped around his mouth. "Get off the roof, you schtupid twit!!" Mike blinks, gets up and follows as fast as he's able. Which isn't very. "You got a Marx brother up there?" Tasha grrrs softly as the stupid bird reveals her position. Feeling inwardly chagrinned at having to use her powers to deal with a bird, she goes to whack Harpo in the general torsal reason with a force- projected invisible broom. Not because it's a combat weapon of any acumen, but it seems like the right tool for the job. She doesn't do it hard, mind. She just wants to either discourage the honker or knock him off the roof. I don't know if you've ever seen a surprised goose, but this one is about as surprised as they can get. With a very un-gooselike squeal, Harpo actually *rolls* off the roof (apparently forgetting all about his wings) and lands extremely awkwardly in Blake's arms--Blake having had to perform an actually rather impressive running leap in order to catch him. The catch succeeding, Blake further manages to trip on a speck of dust or something and fall forward, forcing him to thrust Harpo away from his body so he doesn't injure the bird. Harpo, still in a state of utter confusion, continues to forget all about his wings and scoots, stumbles, and flops right over the dock and into the mud below. Mike stares. "Blake? Was that a goose?" He's really not keeping up very well. Tasha gives the peeking-through-the-window plan amiss, what with the people she would have spied on now being outside and all. She crouch- crawls across the roof and peeks her head cautiously over the edge, wondering just what all that commotion was. Because her days in the Girl Scouts taught her to be prepared, she draws her full-auto .22 personalised uzi. Blake pushes himself to his knees. "Yeah, I...dammit." He gets up and walks to the edge of the dock, still not realising that Harpo had been honking at *someone* up there. "Now I don't schee him...Dunno where he went...Oh well, he'll schow up, I don't think he wasch hurt." He walks back to Mike. "Schorry. You were schaying?" Mike is busy frowning up at the roof. He thinks he might be imagining things. It looked for a second like there was somebody up there. "Why did he jump off the roof?" Two plus two equals..um...six point...carry the three... Tasha's eyes narrow behind her facemask (and the infrared attatchment to it) as she sees Mike frowning at the roof. It would probably be bad to kill him. She still doesn't know what he's up to. Holstering her gun, she crawls across the roof to her trusty rope, feeds out the necessary slack, and swings with silent grace through the open window. ...only to fly headlong into some sort of sculpture. It's not broken, but it makes a hell of a lot of noise falling over. The instant she can disentangle herself from the artwork, she dives behind the bar. Blake blinks. "The...hell? Guessch Harpo flew around and got in through the window...Schtupid bird. I schould donate him to the Charlesch Disckensch Recreaschion Schoschiety for their period Chrischtmasch dinner..." He reenters the restaurant and flings the beaded curtain aside to see what Harpo broke *this* time... Mike follows Blake inside, *much* more nervously. "Um, I don't think he...be careful." Like a malevolent succubus just out of waitressing school, Tasha lurks behind the bar. Blake glances idly over his shoulder at Mike. "Oh, he'sch juscht a schtupid bird...Oh good, it'sch not broken." He rights the affected sculpture. "Hey, you'd better put schome ische on that lump, I mean it," he chides Mike. Mike relaxes. Blake's not worried, so there mustn't be anything to worry about. Right? "I dunno, I think it's a bit late for that. I probably shouldn't go to sleep any time soon." Tasha looks about behind the bar, hoping there's no freezer back there. She crawls silently along the bar's length until she comes upon a pile of paint jars and brushes and whatnot to sufficiently obscure her as she peeks over the bartop at the room beyond. Blake frowns at Mike as he heads back to the booth. "You make me worry about you, Nelschon," he says. "...Knock it off," he adds, having a seat and reaching for his water. Mike blinks at Blake. "Sorry." He regards the ice, which is now very...waterlike. "Blake? Can I get some more ice here?" Tasha continues peeking, becoming a little confused as to just what this whole illicit meeting is about. As she catches the dialogue, she smiles. Ice. The Oscorp man is a crack cocaine dealer. Or perhaps the lisping one is, and the Oscorp man is a buyer. Excellent. Blake rolls his eyes and grunts. "Okay, okay," he says, getting up. "But you'd better not *waschte* thisch batch." He picks up the mug (and the soaked-through towel) and heads towards the kitchen. Mike makes a face at Blake behind his back. Bah. "Okay, okay." Tasha frowns as Blake approaches. She reaches for her gun, then stops herself. No, not yet. She glances about the room, her eyes fixing on the front door. Her wrist flicks forward beneath the bar, causing a force-projected hand to hammer loudly and suddenly on the door. Should Blake keep going toward the kitchen, it'll continue in a very persistent manner, verging on knocking the door off its hinges. Blake pauses mid-step, eyes widening. "Oh, God*damn*it!" he swears, swinging the towel, which streams water everywhere. "That'sch a cop knock!" He practically slams the mug on the bar--it tips over; the melted ice sloshes over the edge and onto the floor. Keeping a grip on the towel, he storms for the front door. "It'sch the middle of the freakin' night," he growls darkly. Mike blinks. "Cops? What have you done now, Schullivan?" He gets up, watching the door. Tasha clenches her teeth and tries not to scream as the icy water spashes her. She gives the door an extra hard pound, then turns and ducks into the kitchen while neither of the two stooges are looking. Once there, she begins rifling through cupboards and pantries and anywhere cocaine might be kept. She needs proof. Blake plows through the beaded curtain. "*Nothing*!" he shouts back to Mike, flinging open the door. "You guysch have *got* to schtop doing thisch!" he yells into the night. "You aren't making the Polische Department look very friendly! I'm a Democrat!! I--Hey. The hell?" He blinks around the deserted dockside. After a moment of puzzled silence, he shuts the door and wanders back in, looking baffled. "I have never heard of dockworkersch playing Doorbell Ditch," he says. "Think it might be piratesch?" Mike is not, believe it or not, totally oblivious. "Um...Blake?" he says unhappily. "I think maybe there's someone in the kitchen." Score! "Is it the goose?" Tasha becomes somewhat careless in her searching and knocks over a spoon, which may indeed be what alerted Mike to her presence in the kitchen. She finds the white powder, but does the classic TV-test of tasting some. It tastes chalky, and not at all narcotic. Blake snaps out of his daze, to frown at Mike. "He'sch in the kitchen? Schtupid thing...schould feed him to the scharksch in the bay..." He heads for the kitchen doors, calling out over his shoulder, "He'd better *not* be in the kitchen! He getsch into the coffee." Mike follows Blake, uneasily. There could be burglars! Or..pirates. Or something. "The coffee? You have a goose who eats coffee?" There's a brief noise in the kitchen, like a pot being set on the floor. As Blake walks through the door, he comes face to face with a pair of pistols. One's a sorta Dirty Harry looking magnum, and the other's like a mini-uzi. The wielder stands at Blake's height, and looks very threatening. Odds are, the fact that she's standing on a pot to attain this threatening height will be missed, at least for the moment. Blake stops cold, eyes very wide, face going paper-white. He can do nothing but stare down the barrels of the guns. Mike is oblivious, of course. "Does he *eat* the coffee, or does he just drop it in puddles and then drink it?" Pause. "Blake? Are you okay?" He can't see what the problem is, he's round a corner from the gunslinging person. Tasha sneers behind her mask, the guns remaining level where they are. She speaks with a light Russian accent, because it's more intimidating. Besides, she speaks Russian, so she can pull it off without sounding like Natasha. Well, that *other* Natasha. "Vhere iz de aice?" Though her voice is prepubescent, it's about as evil as a prepubescent voice can sound. Because of the accent, probably, but also because Tasha's been practicing to get that just right evil inflection. Blake is too shaken to register Malice's words, funny accent or otherwise. He takes a step backwards, arms groping behind him for the door. Mike blinks. Yet again. This happens a lot. "Ace?" he says, bemused. Though Blake's obvious fear is at least setting off alarm bells. Tasha realises the guns may be overkill for someone of Blake's resolve. She holsters the pistols and draws a black-bladed dagger in one smooth motion that ensures that there's a weapon of some sort trained on Blake at all times. "I will repeat myself only once; where is the ice?" She softens the accent a bit, partially because her pride was wounded a bit by Mike's mimicking. Blake takes a few breaths, jumping when the weapons are exchanged, then focusing on Malice's eyes rather than the dagger. "Th--The...ice?" he repeats, in some disbelief. Mike finally works out some of what's going on here and backs up, looking around frantically for a phone. Police! Right now! Tasha really doesn't expect Mike's line of reasoning, since she's got him pegged for a crack cocaine user at his dealer's house. She knows he's not the gun-wielding sort, so she leaves him out of the equation for now. She waves the dagger a bit and nods at Blake, "The ice. I want it. Now." Blake holds up his hands. "Okay, okay, juscht schettle down. It...It'sch over there..." He makes a hesitant move towards the refrigerators (yes plural, it is a restaurant ;). Mike can't see the phone. Or anything that vaguely resembles a phone. Dammit, Blake, why don't you have a phone like normal people?! Tasha would sidestep gracefully to move out of Blake's way, but she's standing on a pot. Instead, she hops down in a fittingly childish way, but still bearing the knife aloft, with the pointy end still pointed at Blake's soft bits. Blake blinks as his assailant is suddenly Munchkin-ized but decides to overlook it for now and edges over to the freezer. "Um...You got schomething to carry it in?" he asks intelligently. Mike shoves various arty paraphernalia aside in case Blake is keeping the phone under a table or something. He's making quite a lot of noise out here. Tasha raises an eyebrow behind her mask. There's that much of it? This guy must be a major dealer. Her plan shifts from a simple blackmail mission to some vigilante justice to give Andersen Plc some good press. Andersen Guards Capture Drug Czar. Blinking out of her brief reverie, she shakes her head and calls to Mike in that same accent, "Nelson! Bring me a bag or your friend dies!" Blake stumbles a bit. "Jeez, lady!" he exclaims (calling her a 'lady' seems safe). "If you want ische there'sch a machine that dischpenschesch it at the Pool Hall!" Mike is so totally startled to hear his name that there's an almost fatal (for someone, anyway) pause while he collects his thoughts. "Okay!" he calls, badly frightened. "Don't...don't get tense, I'm coming..." He looks around for a bag. Perfect. Tasha glares daggers, in more ways than one, at Blake. She jabs toward him threateningly with the knife, but doesn't come *too* close to stabbing him. "Don't get cute with me, disco man. Just get the ice." She decides to spare Mike a harsh threat, for the moment. Blake scrambles for the freezer door without looking, finds it, and yanks the freezer open. "All right! Okay! Um...hold out your handsch." He tugs at the bin under the automatic ice machine in the freezer, his body blocking the view of what he's doing. Mike finally finds a bag containing, for some reason, bits of broken glass. He tips them out on the floor, wincing slightly...that's gonna be fun to clean up...and heads back to the kitchen doors. "Um, hello? I got a bag." Tasha frowns at Blake, about to ask if he really thinks she'd fall for that, when Mike appears. She steps quickly backwards, tucking the knife away and drawing the mini-uzi once more, so that she can better cover two men. Waving the gun at Mike, she says "Take it over to him. You," she looks to Blake, "Put all the ice in there. Quickly." Her tone is sharp and generally mean. Blake stares. "*Mike*! Hurry up! Jeez, that coschtume muscht be really hot, or schomething..." Mike has seen a lot of scary things during his time in this city. But there's something especially scary about being on the wrong end of a gun. Bemused and very, very scared, he jogs over to Blake and holds the bag out. "This is different," he mutters. Tasha waits impatiently, keeping the gun leveled on Mike. He's obviously the more dangerous of the two. He's from Wisconsin. Blake takes the bag shakily and puts it over the ice tray, leaning over to Mike. "Sche muscht be schome kind of ische-hating *fire* villain! Look at the red schuit!" He dumps the ice tray upside down, emptying it into the bag. "Don't make her mad--I'm flammable." He turns and holds the bag out. "Here, here, take it, it'sch all I got, really." Mike steps aside so as not to get between Blake and this weird person, absolutely convinced that any second now he's going to inadvertantly do something colossally stupid and get them both killed. Tasha narrows her eyes, training the gun on Blake. "Slide it across the floor. No tricks, or your average looking friend dies." She again points the gun at Mike. "Okay, okay..." Blake crouches slowly, keeping his free hand in plain sight. He puts the bag on the floor and gives it a push sufficient to send the already-damp bag across the smooth tile to Malice. Mike is frozen in place, eyes fixed on the gun. Oh, please, no. Tasha frowns and narrows her eyes at the bag, noticing its moistness. she crouches and opens it, still keeping the gun trained on the two nincompoops, snarling as she sees the contents. She rises slowly, her eyes ablaze with anger. "I told you, no tricks." She kicks the bag, sending ice scattering across the floor. "I see I must show you that I am in no mood for jokes." With that, she shoots Blake in the foot. Fortunately, she really only shoots him in the sole of his platform shoe. Still, she technically shot him. Blake yelps in terror, jumping into the air a good couple of feet; when he comes down, either the shoe or just his legs give out and he collapses on the floor. "AUGH, sche schot me!" he howls, panicking. "Mike! Call 911! Tell them to schend the jawsch of life!!" He clutches at his chest even though he wasn't shot at anywhere near there. Mike is paralyzed for a long, terrified moment. Then it breaks and he crouches beside Blake. "You *shot* him!" This is turning out to be quite a night. "Why did you *shoot* him? Are you *nuts*?!" Tasha begins to get a Bad Feeling about this. Nevertheless, she carries on, shouting at Mike, "Because he would not give me the ice! Now hand it over, or the next bullet will hit something more vital!" She points the gun higher, at Blake's general torso region. Blake stops writhing in false death-throes to stare at Malice. "You...you *schot* me!" he exclaims, the reality sinking in. "You tried to *kill* me!" And, nothing *seems* to be hurt...He sits up, rolling to his knees, facing Mike. "Mike, sche tried to *kill* me!" he yells at his friend. Mike is well aware of this fact. He ignores Blake and points at the bag on the floor, yelling back at Malice. "That's all we got! What's *with* you and ice?! Buy a freezer!!" Tasha glares at Mike, beginning to feel the vague sense of panic one does when they realise they've not only barked up the wrong tree, it's in the wrong forest on the wrong continent on a planet several light years away from the *right* tree. There's a long moment of silence, at least from Tasha, as she keeps the gun trained on Blake. "Ice? You mean ICE ice?! You stupid schmuck!" She waves the gun angrily toward Mike. "I ought to kill you right now! ICE!!" Sure, she doesn't make any sense to anyone else in the room, but she's pissed off and is just venting right now. Blake glances over his shoulder at the peeved child-ninja, and it dawns on him. At least partially. She thought he had *ice* in here? He turns back to Mike, eyes narrowing angrily; he clamps his hands on Mike's shoulder, using him as leverage to half-stand. "Plug 'em," he orders Mike, and fires, noisily. Malice, being slight, should be knocked clear through the kitchen doors back into the main room - where's there plenty of ventilation, unlike in here. Mike manages to take a deep breath before Blake does his thing, and clamps a hand over his nose and mouth, just in case. He got a very mild whiff once, and that was more than enough. Tasha snarls angrily, "What the hell do you *think* I wanted? You're supposed to be a drug czar, dammit!" She frowns darkly, tapping the gun's barrel against her temple as she glances to the floor in thought. "Perhaps I *should* kill you. Word of this mustn't get AAAAAAUGH!" Tasha hardly has time to be disgusted properly before she's propelled through the kitchen doors and out into the main room. You'd think the gas-filtering capabilities of her mask would do some good, but this stuff's just plain evil. Tear gas, mace, military-grade chemical weapons, all pale in comparison to this assault. Tasha coughs and clamps a hand over her mouth as she waves a hand at the front door, bashing it half off its hinges as it flies open. Casting a glance behind her, she begins to stagger toward the comparatively fresh air of Beacon Harbour's streets. Blake somewhat tackles Mike, propelling him out the back exit (hopefully Nelson is assisting, here). Mike had a good point before, he *isn't* immune to this stuff, though he may have a slight tolerance to it. But the kitchen is a Bad Place To Be--this much he knows. "Hey--you okay?" Mike gasps for air once they're relatively in the clear. "Yeah...I'm okay..." He coughs once or twice, and there's a pause while he gets his breath back. "Wow." That about sums it up.