Post by oliver on Oct 15, 2011 23:09:47 GMT -5
Gotham at night...
On the street below, a half dozen men had just finished unloading an innocuous black truck of its illicit goods; unmarked crates that they had then carried, two at a time, into the small, heavily fortified warehouse they owned. Well muscled and clearly dangerous, these men were relaxed and unconcerned, as they had made deliveries like this many a time before; drugs, mostly, with a handful of important weapons that would soon find their way into the city proper.
On the rooftop above and across the street, the Archer watched them and waited; as the men finished their discussion and slipped back into the main entrance, he reached down at his side, flipping the switch on a seemingly innocuous black box. Unlike the old gadgets and gizmos of this man's past, fanciful and green, this black plastic contraption was clearly meant for function more than style; a series of green diodes were the only indicator that the thing was on. That done, he turned his attention back to the warehouse; the truck had driven off, and one of the men inside the building had pulled a level to close the structure's main gate. Made of dense steel mesh, its links only allowing four or five inches of space between, nothing short of a cutting torch or diamond toothed saw would get through it once it had closed.
Licking his dry lips, the Archer drew an arrow from his quiver, fitting it to the bowstring and drawing it back, oh so carefully. Though he had only moments before the gate finished closing, he took his time, bringing the fletching of the arrow up to his cheek as he sighted down the shaft, waiting for just the right moment...
Breathe.
The sharp-tipped titanium arrow whistled through the air faster than the eye could track, its path straight and unerring. It passed between two of the closing gate's mesh links before continuing onwards just a few feet into the building itself. His aim was true, of course, the projectile severing the power cable just above the control panel with a hiss of sparks; the closing metal grate halted, a little over halfway down, leaving their precious stronghold, for the first time, quite vulnerable to intrusion.
Of course, even that brief action was drawing attention, and even as he straightened on the ledge, he could see movement across the street, on the warehouse room. No doubt the sentries there had heard the impact of the arrow, and were seeking its source even as they ran for their rifles; Oliver didn't give them time to figure it out, and at the speed of thought, his hand fell back to his quiver, selecting my touch the narrow shaft of another razor-edged arrow. Nocking it to his bow and drawing it back, he sighted for just a moment, eyes narrowed against the gloom.
Breathe. The razor-edged projectile caught one of the propped rifles clear in the center, puncturing a hole in the stock and destroying the firing mechanism. Breathe. The second rifle met the same fate, and before the two men on the roof could so much as stumble three steps, their primary weapon was disabled. As expected, the pair of men wasted little time dropping to the flat of the rooftop, seeking whatever cover they could, and a brief glow of illumination suggested that at least one of them was already going for their cellphone.
Good luck with that. The little black box beside him would ensure they couldn't get a signal out; with no roof access on the warehouse, and the ladders long since removed, those men wouldn't have any way to warn their friends inside about what was coming. A brief grin crossed the Archer's face, but he suppressed it and focused on the task at hand; shouldering his bow, it was a simple enough task to slide down the nearby stormdrain, dropping six stories in mere moments. The moment his feet touched concrete, his weapon was drawn once more, and when no movement presented itself on the roof above, Oliver took it as a good omen and hurried forward.
His pace was a quick scuttle, knees bent low to the ground, head raised and glancing upwards, seeking any sign of movement in the upper windows, his bow lowered with an arrow nocked and ready to draw back. With the rooftop sentries out of commission, he was counting on catching the crooks within by surprise; especially given the alternative was to march into a stronghold where men armed with machine guns could pump him full of holes. His heart was pounding in his chest, his mouth dry and entire body tingling from the tension, but his hands remained steady, his fingers and palms devoid of the nervous sweat that might slip up his aim, no tremor to his limbs to betray him, not this time. Even so, his teeth were tightly clenched and eyes wide, sweeping the street and windows for snipers, other outlooks, anything that might turn this assault into an unmitigated disaster.
And there it was. A man was stepping out from the alleyway to the side of the warehouse; his jaw had with clear disbelief at the archer's approach, but his hand already behind him, probably reaching for a pistol. Even as the flash of metal on the streetlamp above confirmed the presence of the weapon, Oliver was already acting. Pausing in his steps, just for a moment, the hero straightened, brought his bow up, and drew it back to his ear. To the criminal, these actions were a frantic blur, little more than a kneejerk response; to the Green Arrow, each motion was carefully prepared, and smoothly executed.
His aim was careful.
Breathe.
His aim was perfect.
The blunted arrow's whistle was of a lower pitch as it zipped across the forty feet seperating them in the blink of an eye; it clipped the crook's temple just as he was drawing his gun, and the man went down hard, knocked unconscious. Up went Oliver's arm, drawing another blunted arrow and fitting it once more to his bow, and as he drew up to the half-raised gate, he quickly dropped into a roll, slipping underneath the portal. Coming to his feet inside the warehouse itself, Oliver was greeted with the sight of another startled guard about twenty feet ahead, no doubt coming to see what had gone wrong with the gate. Unlike the first, though, this man's gun was already drawn, and even as he brought it up to shoot, the Green Arrow only had time for a relatively quick lift, aim, and fire of the bow.
The snap shot caught the man in the crook of his gun arm's elbow, forcing the limb to fold inwards and sending the pistol flying from suddenly nerveless fingers; before the man could even draw in the breath to shout, another arrow caught him square on the bridge of the nose... one fired at half strength, fortunately. The sound of splintering bone and crunching cartilege as the crook fell back, senseless and clearly no threat to anyone any longer. By the time Oliver stepped over the writhing, groaning criminal, a sixth arrow was already nocked, his eyes, and mind, turned towards the men still conscious within these walls.
Like the months spent on that lone island, a lifetime ago, he was the hunter once more. And this prey... it didn't stand a chance.
On the street below, a half dozen men had just finished unloading an innocuous black truck of its illicit goods; unmarked crates that they had then carried, two at a time, into the small, heavily fortified warehouse they owned. Well muscled and clearly dangerous, these men were relaxed and unconcerned, as they had made deliveries like this many a time before; drugs, mostly, with a handful of important weapons that would soon find their way into the city proper.
On the rooftop above and across the street, the Archer watched them and waited; as the men finished their discussion and slipped back into the main entrance, he reached down at his side, flipping the switch on a seemingly innocuous black box. Unlike the old gadgets and gizmos of this man's past, fanciful and green, this black plastic contraption was clearly meant for function more than style; a series of green diodes were the only indicator that the thing was on. That done, he turned his attention back to the warehouse; the truck had driven off, and one of the men inside the building had pulled a level to close the structure's main gate. Made of dense steel mesh, its links only allowing four or five inches of space between, nothing short of a cutting torch or diamond toothed saw would get through it once it had closed.
Licking his dry lips, the Archer drew an arrow from his quiver, fitting it to the bowstring and drawing it back, oh so carefully. Though he had only moments before the gate finished closing, he took his time, bringing the fletching of the arrow up to his cheek as he sighted down the shaft, waiting for just the right moment...
Breathe.
The sharp-tipped titanium arrow whistled through the air faster than the eye could track, its path straight and unerring. It passed between two of the closing gate's mesh links before continuing onwards just a few feet into the building itself. His aim was true, of course, the projectile severing the power cable just above the control panel with a hiss of sparks; the closing metal grate halted, a little over halfway down, leaving their precious stronghold, for the first time, quite vulnerable to intrusion.
Of course, even that brief action was drawing attention, and even as he straightened on the ledge, he could see movement across the street, on the warehouse room. No doubt the sentries there had heard the impact of the arrow, and were seeking its source even as they ran for their rifles; Oliver didn't give them time to figure it out, and at the speed of thought, his hand fell back to his quiver, selecting my touch the narrow shaft of another razor-edged arrow. Nocking it to his bow and drawing it back, he sighted for just a moment, eyes narrowed against the gloom.
Breathe. The razor-edged projectile caught one of the propped rifles clear in the center, puncturing a hole in the stock and destroying the firing mechanism. Breathe. The second rifle met the same fate, and before the two men on the roof could so much as stumble three steps, their primary weapon was disabled. As expected, the pair of men wasted little time dropping to the flat of the rooftop, seeking whatever cover they could, and a brief glow of illumination suggested that at least one of them was already going for their cellphone.
Good luck with that. The little black box beside him would ensure they couldn't get a signal out; with no roof access on the warehouse, and the ladders long since removed, those men wouldn't have any way to warn their friends inside about what was coming. A brief grin crossed the Archer's face, but he suppressed it and focused on the task at hand; shouldering his bow, it was a simple enough task to slide down the nearby stormdrain, dropping six stories in mere moments. The moment his feet touched concrete, his weapon was drawn once more, and when no movement presented itself on the roof above, Oliver took it as a good omen and hurried forward.
His pace was a quick scuttle, knees bent low to the ground, head raised and glancing upwards, seeking any sign of movement in the upper windows, his bow lowered with an arrow nocked and ready to draw back. With the rooftop sentries out of commission, he was counting on catching the crooks within by surprise; especially given the alternative was to march into a stronghold where men armed with machine guns could pump him full of holes. His heart was pounding in his chest, his mouth dry and entire body tingling from the tension, but his hands remained steady, his fingers and palms devoid of the nervous sweat that might slip up his aim, no tremor to his limbs to betray him, not this time. Even so, his teeth were tightly clenched and eyes wide, sweeping the street and windows for snipers, other outlooks, anything that might turn this assault into an unmitigated disaster.
And there it was. A man was stepping out from the alleyway to the side of the warehouse; his jaw had with clear disbelief at the archer's approach, but his hand already behind him, probably reaching for a pistol. Even as the flash of metal on the streetlamp above confirmed the presence of the weapon, Oliver was already acting. Pausing in his steps, just for a moment, the hero straightened, brought his bow up, and drew it back to his ear. To the criminal, these actions were a frantic blur, little more than a kneejerk response; to the Green Arrow, each motion was carefully prepared, and smoothly executed.
His aim was careful.
Breathe.
His aim was perfect.
The blunted arrow's whistle was of a lower pitch as it zipped across the forty feet seperating them in the blink of an eye; it clipped the crook's temple just as he was drawing his gun, and the man went down hard, knocked unconscious. Up went Oliver's arm, drawing another blunted arrow and fitting it once more to his bow, and as he drew up to the half-raised gate, he quickly dropped into a roll, slipping underneath the portal. Coming to his feet inside the warehouse itself, Oliver was greeted with the sight of another startled guard about twenty feet ahead, no doubt coming to see what had gone wrong with the gate. Unlike the first, though, this man's gun was already drawn, and even as he brought it up to shoot, the Green Arrow only had time for a relatively quick lift, aim, and fire of the bow.
The snap shot caught the man in the crook of his gun arm's elbow, forcing the limb to fold inwards and sending the pistol flying from suddenly nerveless fingers; before the man could even draw in the breath to shout, another arrow caught him square on the bridge of the nose... one fired at half strength, fortunately. The sound of splintering bone and crunching cartilege as the crook fell back, senseless and clearly no threat to anyone any longer. By the time Oliver stepped over the writhing, groaning criminal, a sixth arrow was already nocked, his eyes, and mind, turned towards the men still conscious within these walls.
Like the months spent on that lone island, a lifetime ago, he was the hunter once more. And this prey... it didn't stand a chance.