Tonnage

Gone Fishing

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They're wrecking his suit. That's all he can think about as he makes his way toward them quickly. They are shooting at him, which legitimately was part of the plan. If they are shooting at him then theoretically they aren't shooting at somebody that can't take it. The problem is that he can't really stop the bullets. They indent his flesh, and he has a feeling there is more there for him to learn. Maybe a way to hold things that have struck him? But for now, they are just spit back out again. No spin, tumbling through the air at about half the velocity they were going when fired. Most go back in the direction of the shooters.

Some don't, and he can hear at least one cry of pain from behind these thugs where a rebounded bullet found meat deeper in.

Making it to the first offender, Tom reaches out and grabs the larger man that is tripping over themselves trying to backpedal away. Instead of removing limbs in a room with a five-year-old, he just squeezes. Crushes the elbow in his paw.

It's squishy, and there are three very significant pops as the man begins screaming. In desperation, the maniac brings the gun up to fire again. Tom grabs the barrel and points it at himself as the trigger is depressed, stitching him across his belly and sending a scattershot of AK-47 rounds whistling around the room to join all the others as every other thug there mag-dumps on him. People scream and throw themselves behind tables, or stampede towards other doorways. The chatter of the guns fades quickly though, as they realize they can't hurt him and they keep having to dodge their returning fire.

It's as he is mulching the right elbow of his fourth crook that he realizes there are only half as many left as there should be. Either some are leaving, or they are actively trying to stay out of his sight at this point.

He starts on his way back to Leslie, only to stop and stare through his bulletproof porthole at the scene. All he can think of is that at least one of them must have seen him in the front of the room when they first broke in, because there are two of them here, and one is holding a knife to Lian's throat.

Tom can only think of one thing for a good few seconds, and he growls it harshly. “No.”

The two look terrified, and the one with the knife screams at him.
“Come any closer and I'll slit her throat, you freak!”

Tom looks at the man in the now shattered room, streams of gun smoke passing in front of the lights so thick it could be milk. There are at least a dozen people hurt aside from the thugs.

Tom is just slightly perturbed by all of this.

“If you leave, right now, I will happily send you on your way. If you hurt her or anyone else here in any way, then you will discover that a child being present is the only reason your fellow idiots still have arms at all. I will not let you take her or anybody else with you. Your options are to leave or to hurt somebody and be maimed for life. Black Mask's thug didn't believe me. Those guys didn't either.” He jerks a thumb back behind him. “You gonna be the first henchmen with brains or do I have to break you too?”

The two look at each other for a split second, which is apparently enough time for Lian to wiggle a bit and sink her teeth into the pointer finger on the knife.

Which somehow causes two arrows to lance out from somewhere in the room and hit the two. The first seems to have some kind of taser built in, and the man with the gun jerks and falls to the floor, muscles being too harshly abused by the electricity to even manage a scream. The second has a line and grapple on it, and the thing hits the front of the man with the knife's knee, causing a horrific crunching sound on the way in, and then even more horrific screaming as his leg is pulled out from underneath him with the, now attached, grapple arrow.

As soon as the kid is clear of the knife, Tom surges forward, kicks the knife away, and stomps once on the hand that held it. Hard.

“Offer expired while you played fuck around.”

It's then that he hears it. Kind of a rhythmic thumping? The mic is picking it up pretty well, otherwise with all the ambient noise he doubts he'd hear it. He hears a voice behind him that he knows, and turns to greet Spoiler.

“Hey, Tom. What I miss?”

Tom waves his hands. “Um. Bad things? But I don't think we're the only ones here in costume. Those arrows aren't mine.”

The thumping is getting closer. Probably a helicopter, but who would have a helicopter here at this time of... Oh hell. Tom starts running for the front doors.

“Helicopter incoming. Odds on it being here to collect some jackass from the roof?”

She doesn't answer, taking off after him, and is then followed by half the people in the room.

As soon as he gets outside, he can see the thing. It's hovering directly above him. Smaller helicopter. Probably carries six people, including the pilot. It's about a hundred feet up, the hotel being a solid seven stories and those floors being large. And in the light that is shining on the flag in the foreground, they can see a man in a two-tone suit who is sporting only half a face get in. Two-Face. Not the one that Tom hates the most, obviously.

But he's right up there.

“Two questions. One, can you hit that thing with your grapple line, and two, will the line hold if I decide to crap on his sundae?”

Her answer is to fire the thing while smirking to beat all, and then handing it off to him. The line is thin. It would be dangerous as hell to do what he's about to do except... Well, it's him. He'll probably be fine. He lets out a touch more line while the rest of the thugs get on board, and then wraps it around himself a few times, and once again, he reaches deep. When the chopper tries to get away, instead, it just keeps trying to move Tom. And failing. In fact... He wasn't sure he could manage this one, but while the pull on his arms is high, it isn't anything he can't...

Behind his brass, steel, and glass helm, Tom's eyes widen in surprise as he starts slowly reeling the helicopter in. Its engine is screaming in protest, whatever throttle is there pegged at whatever the cap is. The spectacle is drawing out the crowds, from all around at this point. Phones are out everywhere, filming and being talked into.

Of course, all the press that was here for the Gala is still here, since they hadn't even gotten to the damn talking portions yet.

Another five feet. Slow and steady. Don't want to break the line or tear off the skid that the grapple is wrapped around.

He starts taking fire from above. They've noticed what the cause of their problem is, apparently, and thrown open the door.

Ten more feet. The chopper is desperately trying to stay clear of the building now, trying primarily to stop it from taking itself out on the face of it.

Another twenty feet, and they've given up trying to shoot him or escape and are now trying to land as far from him as they can. Probably to attempt to do something about the grapple and take off again, would be his guess. But whenever there is slack in the line, ten more feet. Eventually, it lands about twenty feet from him and he runs over, still reeling in the line. He reaches in through the still-open door and grabs Two-Face around the neck, slapping his right hand that's holding a pistol hard enough that he's pretty sure things broke against his gauntlet.

Then he shatters the man's elbow. Harvey Dent screams. He shatters both the man's knees. He screams some more. He stops there, as the rest of the people in the helicopter look on in horror, the blades spinning down slowly as Tom holds this ruined human being against the side of the helicopter.

“Why!? Why did you do all of this? You had a great job and a good education, you were a damn hero. A real-life hero. Not some weirdo in spandex, you were a good guy, slogging it out to make things safer for people like my folks. Why!?”

As the last of the whine of the blades of the helicopter finally settles into a lazy hum, Dent speaks through pain the likes of which... Well, he has felt it before. He speaks with a degree of confusion in his usual dichotomy of hatred, and trying to not be evil.

“Have you seen my face?”

This might not have been the right thing to say to Tom.

“Your face? Are you kidding me?” He pulls off his helm, and with it, the remains of his 'super-suit' leaving only the shredded tatters of it clinging to his body through a patchwork of various caliber holes. He then tears off the shirt and jacket.

In his suit pants and a pair of metal gauntlets, he hauls this guy up so he can speak face to face. “Look at me, you asshole! Fucking look at me! I can't use anything not custom-made for me for the rest of my life. I can't use a normal car, or ride on a plane. I can't ever make a good first impression because my first impression is set in stone, just like yours. I get that you got screwed up, and that sucks, but you know what every kid that grew up in Crime Alley knows? Sometimes shit happens, and you just have to get through it. You had a banging job and the entire city behind you and you decide to what, go super-villain for the lols because your mirror has an attitude with you now? Are you kidding me? I'm a sixteen-year-old virgin you colossal fuckwit, you see that changing anytime soon?! And you think you got room to bitch?!” He slams Dent against the side of the chopper one last time, the aluminum panel giving way and bending some. “God, you're barely worth it, you know that? Just a child that was so pissed off they couldn't be Miss America that they decided murder was the answer. Grow up.”

>>

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and when he sees purple out of the corner of his eye he drops the meat sack. He has a feeling that he missed it when the door on the far side of the chopper opened and the rest fled, but considering the sheer number of bat and bird related people he's seeing, he doesn't figure they'll get far.

Then he looks at the hotel. He sees the mob that sees him, and he completely freezes up for about ten seconds. Then he pulls out his phone.

“Gordon, make it fast we have a situation.”

Tom sits down on the steps to the hotel after grabbing his stuff. “If your situation involves the Grand, then send ambulances and a wagon. Mostly ambulances, honestly.”

There is silence for just a moment. “Tom. I take it you are there?”

“Yeah. The Wayne Foundation wanted me here for the dog and pony show so I was in the middle of it from the word go. We've got Two-Face down here if that interests you. But listen, I am not keen on dealing with reporters and high society just now. Maybe send a wagon for me and you can do my interrogation off-site?”

Tom can almost see the man's head shaking while he grins. “Sure, Tom. We'll send someone to grab you in the first wave back to the station. Need me to call your uncle?”

“No sir. I got it this time. Thanks though.”

He sits there, on the steps. Waiting. Waiting for the press to risk it and make their way over, or the bats to come over and give him a hard time. Doc Thompkins to show up, maybe.

Instead, it's Roy and Lian.

The older man's soft voice is a surprise, though the little hand that curls around his finger just after that doesn't so much.

“Just wanted to say thanks, Tom. I didn't expect to see you here, but I'm grateful you were.”

Tom isn't quite sure how, but Lian ended up in his lap again in the last eight seconds. He shrugs.

“Had to. I'm getting my medical assistance right now from them and they wanted me here.” He turns to the child, who is completely ignoring both him and her daddy to poke at the glass on the front of his helm.

Roy smiles and walks fully around so he can offer his hand again. “Even still. Thanks. And for the record, you may not be a hero. I'm going to say the jury is out on that one. But you are definitely her hero. I'd like to say thanks for that too.”

Tom turns towards where he can see the lights and hear the sirens coming, a slight smile gracing his lips as he lifts a squirming child up and flips her around so she can see his face.

“I guess if I got to be a hero to somebody, you'll do just fine.”

She rolls her eyes and answers in that way that only young children can when they are trying to explain something very simple to an adult. Like setting the clock on the microwave levels of simple.

“You're already the hero for lots of people. Heroes don't get to decide who they are. Everybody else gets to. Don't you know that?”

Tom sighs as he brings the little turd in for a hug. He's starting to think she's right, and that is so far beyond annoying.