some people just deserve to die.

[goodsoldier]

Who: STEPHANIE, KATE, HELENA, and JASON
What: vigilante anti-Militia party
Where: Deadman's Walk 12, Dog Fenn; assorted other locations possibly
When: backdated to the night of Jan. 31 and into the wee hours of Feb. 1
Notes: there are some different sections, one for Kate and Steph to meet up/coordinate, one for Helena and Jason to do the same, and one where y'all tag anyone you want GO WILD, because coordinating 4 people in different time zones is just not gonna work
Warnings: torture and general violence!

Helena had told him she'd meet him there, as finding a baby-sitter with little warning isn't always easy. He uses the travel time to take notes on the four different transmissions he'd received, sorting the information and prioritizing it. Of the four, the Howl Barrow raid kept his attention the most. There is a face, a name, and an address. That seems promising, and he figures, it would be best to move fast.

People talk about the transmissions in brief, hushed intervals, but he sits there like he really is studious chemistry major Nate, head down, notepad filling up. There is, however, a long black bag at his feet, heavy with useful things that would be difficult to explain were anyone to open it right here, right now.

No one does, of course. Even busy, Jason tends to exude a certain sense of fuck off please, an attitude generally respected by Baedal citizens of all stripes.

Helena is his only real ally right now; it would take an emergency for him to think of calling on Tim, Barbara, Superboy, or Stephanie. And this isn't an emergency yet. He's sure they can handle this, as long as they're quick. He does imagine that other people are taking similar actions across town, and he spares enough time to think that sooner or later, they're going to have to coordinate, somehow. He doesn't know how soon that will be true.

Comments

[goodsoldier]

"Please, like you haven't done harder," Jason calls back as he goes.

The back entrance into the kitchen has been left ajar for them, and there is indeed a walk-in freezer, which Jason has also left open. Only the freezer is illuminated. Cuts of meat line the walls, but there's room for a metal chair and a bit of space to move around it. Jason has thoughtfully laid out a few tools. Some he brought, like pliers, but some he clearly raided from the kitchen, like the meat tenderizer. He goes to give Helena a hand, to get Jennings into the chair and fastened to it.

"Hi," he says blandly, circling back around to face Jennings, crouching there with one friendly hand on Jennings' shoulder. The helmet simply reflects the Militiaman's face back at him. It's probably obvious if it hadn't been earlier that the helmet has some kind of voice modulation built into it — it's just especially noticeable in the enclosed space. "So what'll it be, Henry? What do you value the most: your hands, your eyes, or your balls? You do have those, right? Huntress, you wanna check if he has any balls?"

[shadeofviolent]

"Hmm, not particularly, but--" Huntress sets her heel on Jennings's crotch with an expression of vague distaste and starts putting pressure down. She's not wearing stilettos, but he still writhes and screams, trying to get away. Helena sniffs, then eases off. "Looks like he has them. Although, I expect they're not in mint condition anymore, and they're certainly not all that substantial."

She leans back and starts beating a tattoo with her nails on her bo-staff for show, to ramp up the tension in the room. The bound man's eyes follow the glint of her nails on the metal, and Helena thinks she understands why some people sin to get this kind of rush. At least, she would have, if being in this kind of man's presence didn't make her feel so greasy.

"Maybe we should just start with his fingers. Those are harder to miss. Plus, there's more of them. I think he can stand to lose a few. And you do so love that knife of yours..."

[goodsoldier]

He takes the knife in question out, but only poises it to cut out the gag Helena had so thoughtfully furnished earlier.

"I figure Henry here is an old pro at this. It's practically his job, right? Well, that, and raping prisoners. So anything we say, it probably won't get to him."

Jason pats the man on the cheek. "So before I take this gag off, Henry, let me just say, you don't have to lose your dick, your eyes, AND your hands. You can keep one of those three. If you answer some questions. How about that?"

The gag comes off.

[baedalites]

Jennings has had some time to consider the situation in which his actions have landed him and it seems he has some regrets. The most prominent of these is how he didn't drink more when he had the chance. Nothing about this scenario is surprising but that doesn't make it any easier to handle. He's shaking; it's noticeable but only just. Adrenaline, shock and stress will do that to a person.

Apparently too out of it to flinch properly at either knife or cheek-clap, he stares at helmet-face struggling to make some sense of things amidst mounting tension. To him, the implications must be endless.

With the gag gone his breathing comes easier though it doesn't hurt him any less. He needs no further prompting to speak, voice reedy and low, registering a bare minimum of emotion.

"Probably right," there is no bravado here, just simple statements. "But you better hurry up."

[goodsoldier]

"The names of your coworkers."

Jason tips Henry's head back with a steady gloved hand, then places the point of his knife against his eyelid. Even the careful, light contact pierces the delicate skin there, though there's not to much blood, and probably not that much pain either.

[baedalites]

The threat of mutilation in a place filled with magic and questionable science isn't so much the threat of permanent injury as it is the threat of immediate pain and horror. Jennings knows this no doubt, but it's interesting how quick base animal instinct will override intellect. His jaw works and he makes a dry noise, processing. Current predicament doesn't allow for dramatic changes of expression, but there is definitely a passing glimmer of surprise. A twitch of the mouth. The implication is that this could be kind of funny if it wasn't all so terrible.

"Really," he's still pretty quiet, raspier than a moment ago. "That all."

[goodsoldier]

The need to justify the questions or order of his questions is almost entirely absent, in Jason's mind. He twists his wrist, employing very little force overall — the knife is sharp, and slices right through the eyelid and surrounding flesh. Eyeballs present even less resistance than a slab of cool butter, really, and the twist pops what's left right out of the socket.

"Names," he says, almost polite, and if some are given, he'll continue on in a low and measured voice, following a series of topics: Militia protocols, what kinds of armaments they have, what kind of magic do they use.