League of Ultimate Villainy

[canorris420]

Sir Vincent Garrison-Kincaid

"Captain Justice has been taken out of the picture for an extended period of time..."

God, those words were lovely, delivered by those full, pouting lips, that refined and delicate jawli-...where was I? Ah, yes...

I afford myself a hearty "from the depths" laugh, the news brightening my day no end. Mouse glances up, still nonplussed by events outside her private space, her brain power focussed on the tasks at hand. Surely she had something to say??

An unshakeable grin spreads across my face, faint crows-feet creasing the corners of my eyes. No doubt someone of a poetic bent would liken my eyes like glistening stones, with glee trickling from me like an un-dammable stream...but then, I've never had much tolerance for poets. Regarding the bearer of my delight, I chuckle;

"Excellent news! Marvellous. Mr Van Owen has earnt himself a bonus, I feel. He strikes me as a ciger and booze man. Maybe find out what he likes, and send him a crate of both?" Samantha nods, tapping furiously at her memo pad. I glance out the darkened window of our cab and spot a pleasant little haunt for food. Motioning to the driver, I turn back to Samantha;

"My dear, would you care to have lunch...on me? I mean, with me!! With me!!" feeling the rising tide of crimson creeping it's way up the inside of my suit, I frantically try to cover my faux pas. Samantha merely cocks an eyebrow and nods, the corner of her mouth kinking up slightly, giving her a wry, slightly nau--oh god's sake! Think of something unsexy!! Grannys sunbathing in the nude! Dentistry seminars! The Encyclopedia Brittanica as read by Gordon Brown!!...

My mind frantically flicking through a catalogue of the most unappealing things known to man, I jump out the now stationary cab, holding the door open and sweeping my arm to the side. My bow hides my flushed cheeks. As Samantha stesp from the vehicle, I lean to the driver's window;

"Please take the young woman inside to wherever she desires. Please invoice my firm for the extra fare. Thank you"

With a screech of rubber, the cab peels away, racing down the quiet street. Turning to my associate, I feel it's time to get things moving at a much more energetic pace.

"Samantha, while I am overjoyed by our recent successes, the need for work is ever at hand. I understand that a group of lackeys working for the dear Mayor of this fair city like to luncheon here...what say we "have a chat"?"

Offering her my arm, we walk nonchalantly to the door. The restaurant is a descreet affair, but makes enough money and entices the type of clientele that requires a doorman. As we sweep through the door, I suggest to the doorman that he ignores any noises from inside, and that the establishment is full, and will remain so for a long while. Stoic to a fault, he merely nods and shuffles to stand in front of the door.

I love being the boss at times...

 

[TimberRattler]

Van Owen arrived at the safe house to find Hoyt taking inventory of the equipment. Van Owen smiled to himself. That bloke's blood was worth bottling. The burly American was a consummate professional, and always reliable. He'd once been a decorated member of the US Army's elite Combat Applications Group until easy money and moral ambiguity had lured him to the mercenary lifestyle.

"The other lads about?"

"Nah man, you're the first one here. Beer?"

"Obliged mate, I could murder one right now?"

"Where'd you get the high speed kit?"

"Our backer, he's a bloke with connections"

Hoyt nodded, satisfied.

Van Owen looked over the equipment. Very nice in deed. The gear Mr. Kincaid had provided was adapted from stolen schematics from the US Army's Future Combat Systems Program. Sir Vincent had provided uniforms, weapons and armor for Van Owen's eight man team. He decided to take inventory.

The uniforms were modeled on the Crye Precision Combat Uniform but with several modifications. First off these were constructed from a cotton rip-stop material infused with a fiber optic filament that acted as an active camouflage, making the wearer somewhat invisible to the naked eye. Secondly they had attachment points for an integrated armor ensemble. This negated the need for a separate armor system which allowed for greater flexibility and mobility. Lastly it was lined with a microfiber shield that masked the wearer's signature on the thermal, IR, UV, and electro-magnetic spectrums.

Next up was the weapons. They'd received the prototype MR-8 assault rifle. It fired a .30 caseless round and came equipped with under mounted 25mm selectable direct fire/air burst launchers. Additionally there were 4.6mm pistols, and assorted munitions. They were going to have alot of fun with these.

Lastly there was the armor. It consisted of several pieces of anatomically shaped ceramic plates filled and wrapped with a kinetic absorbing gel to negate the impact of bullets. The stand out piece was the helmet. Fully enclosed to provide chemical and biological defense in conjunction with the rest of the outfit. The faceplate displayed a CrossComm Heads Up Display. The CC-HUD was a wondrous invention. It provided a host of functions from Foward Looking Infrared Vision, to the ability for the entire team to see each others positions on the objective should they become separated and the ability to mark targets for one another. The most useful feature though was a link to the MR-8s rifle and launcher boresights. This saved precious seconds in acquiring a target as well as provided firing solutions for the launchers insuring a hit every time.

Van Owen nodded in approval. He selected a base layer uniform and donned it, then lit a Ghurka and settled in to await the arrival of his other team members.

 

[DeathsKnight]

Allen Brown

After dropping the van he made it to his pad, cleaning the rifle and going through the list again. Of course the next target would be a bit more difficult, but he had heard that there is a new type of explosive that could be melted down and fitted with a micro receiver. Pondering this he sat down in his hammock, pulling off his mask and sipping his water, he looked at the pages. It was quite an interesting list, all of them spread out over the country and not only that, there was some foreign hits as well and he idly tapped his ruined cheek with a finger as he read through their files. He'd need that explosives and the only person to get him that kind of ordinance would be Samantha, he opened his laptop and scanned though his e-mail contact list. Yup there she was, he quickly typed up an e-mail, stating what he needed and sent it to her. He closed the laptop, checked that the entrances was secured and settled down to sleep a bit.

 

[Dizzyfish]

Dood, I know where your fucking car is..... chill.

Ekaterina "Baby," Valentina Karkarov
Orientation: Evil
Skills: Car jacking, clockwork, mechanics, and works very well with explosives.
Belongings: A carjacking kit that comes in a neat carrying case complete with backpack handles, three homemade grenades, two small pipe bombs, and a single frag grenade.
Appearance: Standing at a staggering five feet, with pale blond hair and deep auburn eyes. Rather flexible with a modest and nimble frame. Nothing sticks out when at first glance. Prefers to dress herself in good ole' Russian brand petticoats with thigh high flat boots, leather gloves and a fancy driver's hat. She has to look professional after all.
Organization: Doesn't like being on her own, but currently is. Has done some uncountable work for Mr. VGK, will be doing some more in the nearest future possible.
Brief History: Spent a lot of time as, "Daddy's little soldier," working in his fix-it shop for clocks and watches, which of course was an undercover operation for stolen car parts. At the young age of thirteen she was ordering, "parts," for him when the inventory was low. It was much more inconspicuous that way and her father could focus on more important things. Such as breaking skulls when employees squealed or found themselves too far out of line. After years of going in and out of school, stealing cars into high speed chases with but a few broken ribs and bruises, the family business went under. When a close companion revealed to officials the operation that was really going on in, "Tick Tock," both her father and herself made a break for America with false names and superbly forged passports. Since then she has been a thorn in the side of justice the instant she stepped foot on American soil.

----------------------------------------

Leaning up against the shiny metal frame of the most beautiful crimson Saleen S7, which was a much better vehicle in a golden shade, the beaming flashes of white and yellow lights sped by in a frenzied rush. Baby wasn't much of a complainer, however, a car was a car. As long as it was fast, durable and long lasting what else honestly mattered? The Russian doll took a final drag of her cigarette, the ring of smoke seeping from her lips in a delicate french inhale as she put out the butt with the heel of her steal toed boot. The grassy hillside provided a clear view of the city below but kept her far enough away from wandering eyes. Eyes that would later have to be plucked from their sockets and Baby was pressed for time. She had a previous engagement. A boring one. A really boring one. Fuck. What a buzz kill.... What was the purpose of thinking? It only really brought you down.

Muffled pounding brought her back to reality as she adjusted her eye sight to the darkness now turned away from the blight lights of the magnanimous city. Fucking American's and their need to be bigger and better than anyone else. When they finally get good at something, perhaps their size will justify it. Until then, Baby smiled at the pounding now more rigorous than ever before. Her guest had finally broke from sleep. He was not happy about the predicament she had placed him in. It serves him right....

Baby approached the trunk and unlocked it with the press of the button that sat inside her pocket. The bastard fell out, tumbling to the ground and crawling away from the boot adorned feet he eyed for mere seconds in pure horror. His sad attempts at crawling away were rather commendable. Most didn't make it to the floor, but she let him live. Had too. It was a boring night, a girls' gotta have her fun.... Besides, his arms and legs were bound, where was he really going to go? The answer was clear but he didn't need to know that just yet. This was just hilarious. She filled him with false hope and allowed him a few more feet before pulling him back by the rope bounding his legs. The idiot cried and tried to scram away. He almost made it. Almost.

"Don't you fucking move, you fat bastard." Baby had her glock cocked and aimed, the slim barrel pointing at his nose. "Now. Try not to start with all zis' pussy bullshit you are.... doing." She pointed to the tears staining his face. "It vil be all ova' for you in just a moment. Da?" She patted his face and drug him back to the trunk compartment and heaved his big ass back inside and slammed it down. He was still screaming. What did shut the hell up mean in English again? Because she was not certain she had said it right the first time.

Baby shrugged and slid her body back into the seat of the rouge vehicle. The leather seat cool to the touch as she started the ignition. The roar of the demon underneath the hood tingled her in places no man could ever even dream. The power behind the steering wheel was more potent than any alcohol and she loved her alcohol. Baby dialed a number on her cell phone and listened in for the answer. It rang a few times before someone stumbled to it's siren call and managed a raspy, "Hello?"

"Mr. Grey. Zis' iz' your last chance to give Rasputin Karkarov his life back. Let him return to Mother Moscow immediately. I cannot suffer this threat enough."

"Listen bitch. I told you that there ain't a damn thing--"

"Zat was wrong answer Mr. Grey. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Da? But I see our departments are heading in the different directions. So how iz it you stupid boisterous American's say? You're fucked." With that, she shoved the device back into her pocket blocking Mr. Grey from returning the call and drove down the small hill to a seemingly quiet building. It was a government controlled facility for immigrants, providing ways too and from America for Russian people. The man controlling said operation was responsible for her father's broken heart. He missed his country dearly and Baby was going to figure a way back even if she had to burn the city to the ground.

After parking the car, the Russian girl attached loose wires in her makeshift time bomb, Mr. Grey's top business official still locked in the trunk, kicking and screaming. How was this man so fat and seemed to have the strength and stamina of a man half his size? Baby shook her head and set the timer, leaving the scene. Once she was far enough away the detonator sparked the explosive, taking down half the building and of course that beautiful car. Oh well, it was Mr. Grey's anyways. He was a close personal friend of a certain goody-two-shoes she hated. What's in justice when those in power were nothing but scumbags? Either way, Baby was bored, and bad things happened when she was bored. She made her mark, there would be callers in no time. A little mischief was good for business.

Walking down the road, she lit another cigarette and went on her merry little way.

 

[Dizzyfish]

Samantha

The ever busy Sam retrieved her Blackberry and began crunching hard on the keypad, finding the best overseas stocking companies that dealt with nothing but the best in smuggled cigars and of course alcohol. Though booze was not all that hard to come by, not since the amendment that had tried to make drinking, serving and selling alcohol had been disbanded. As long as some underage punk kept out of public view that he was drinking the stuff, the public did not seem ready to start a world wide ban of it. In little time at all, Sam had located a specialty beverage that came with a hefty price tag. Though expense usually did not indicate that it was better than the other, this one was sure fire to be the best. Hard, rugged, bit you all the way down but as soon inside you was like sex on the beach. The cigars, that was another thing.

"Dinner would be lovely Sir Vincent." Sam played with the thought of what her boss had said to her, whether on accident or on purpose, it was intriguing. On him, with him, with him inside her? What did it matter? A sadistic little smirk curved the edges of Sam's painted lips as she typed away and searched for the final piece of Van Owen's reward and sent the package without screaming haste. Within the hour, he would have his door prize for the hard work he had put in for Sir Vincent and the whole of the team. "The package has been sent Sir." Sam iterated, alerting her debonair boss that she had completed yet another task. She was the Mother freaking Theresa of the villainy world. And damn proud.

Before she could put her phone away, enjoying the feeling of her closeness with Sir Vincent, attached to his arm like some kind of charm, she received a message from Mr. Brown. The explosives in question that which he desired was about to be her fourth miracle today, the Devil now owed her one... 'Perhaps tonight...' She thought sadistically to herself, eying her boss for but a moment before cutting into the research that was needed to find these explosives.

The door man was given the glance, one she knew very well and was quite fond of. It must have been exhausting to have that much power all of the time. She was glad that power fell into someone else's hands and not her own.

The E-Mail read as follows:

Dear Mr. Brown,

Your inquiry has been filled. The explosives you have asked for did not come easily and for that the buyer requested that it be sent to a location nearest your residence with the utmost secrecy. A key to a safety deposit box, which is located in a nearby abandoned building, has been sent to your residence in a brown folder. You will have no troubles finding the place and there you will find your package.

Regards,
Samantha

With the phone back in her purse her focus was upon her boss and the trouble he was about to cause. Lord only knows, she dinner with a little ass whooping on the side. Samantha smiled sadistically at her boss, charming as ever however. "You know that I do love a good intrigue Sir." There was nothing sexier than a man ready to run the streets red just to say he could. All the while being debonair and incredibly handsome.

 

[canorris420]

Sir Vincent Garrison-Kincaid

Hearing the door click behind us, I allow a smirk to play across my face. Samantha appeared to have handled another matter and was now stood beside me, her arm linked with mine. The subtle warmth from her was delightful...oh, but to enjoy this moment for but a while longer!

A small waiter fusses towards us, ushering us to a table situated at the furthest wall from the entrance, shrouded in subtle shadows and overlooked by some rather fetching paintings. Local artist, maybe? Who knew. Our waiter bowed slightly, his fringe flopping around in front of his face, prompting that annoying head flick that was ever present with the younger generation. Raising an eyebrow, I pull a chair out for Samantha, who demurely accepts and sits, crossing her legs and placing her purse to one side. She gives me a little smile and a nod, the signal that all currently seems clear.

Having spotted my intended on the way through, I make a show of whispering to Samantha that I'll be back shortly. As I turn, the waiter orbits me like a simpering satellite. I snap my hand up and grab his ridiculously long fringe, soliciting a yelp as he tries to pull away.
"Make yourself useful...take my partner's order while I talk to some colleagues. I shall call you when needed. Until I call you, cut this "thing" off, got it?"

Mutely, he nods and scurries back to the table. I stride towards the group, who by now are watching with interest. Placing my best faux-smile on my face, I take an empty seat and motion warmly to the group.

"Ah, some of our city's finest. May I join you for a moment?"

"Erm...who are you?" mumbles the one dubbed Johnny. A particularly well-groomed man, slim with a hint of a 5 o'clock shadow. Reaching out and taking his hawkish nose in one hand, I pull him close before hissing "your worst nightmare!" and swinging my free hand round, striking him across the face. The recoil snaps his head sideways, resulting in a loud crack from where I grip his nose. He squeals and clutches his face as I turn to "Tim". A stocky man, trying to look non-plussed while sipping a flimsy glass of cheap brandy. I strike his elbow hard, smashing the glass into his mouth. As shards shred his lips, tongue and cheeks, I snap round to my last target, the tall, unhealthily slender "Dave". By this point, he has developed the sense to rise from his seat and back away, raising his hands in defence.

I rise to meet him, offering my hand by way of concilation. Stupidly, he takes it, allowing me to pull him close while raising my knee, catching him in the gut and driving the air from him. As he doubles over, I step back and kick up, catching him square in the face. Another satisfying crunch, and he practically flips onto his back. I quickly step over before stomping once, twice, three times on his bloody mouth and nose, rendering him unconcious. The restaurant is full of stunned silence, apart from Johnny, who is still making a fuss. Some people just don't know how to behave in polite company! Srtiding towards him while he looks through swollen eyes, I pluck a pen from the nearest dumb-struck waiter and ram it into his left eye, deep into skull. With a few spasms, he crashes to the floor. I think he may have been faking being dead, so I kick him a few times in the temple to be certain. Fixing my gaze on the last vaguely vertical specimen, I lean over and grab him by the mouth, a couple of my fingers slipping into the jagged holes in his ruined cheek. Pulling him up to me, I look him square in the eye and whisper;

"Your boss doesn't have long left. Please be sure to tell him that I hope he enjoys his last time in office..." WIth that I jerk my hand away, tearing the holes even wider, blood gushing even more copiously than before. As he collapses from pain...or blood loss...I use a handy napkin to wipe the blood from my hands. Unfortunately, some appears to have splashed my jacket. Shrugging it off, I swing it nonchalantly over my shoulder. Letting out a contented sigh, I straighten my shirt and tie and sweep back any errant hairs before heading to my seat opposite the delightful Samantha. Giving her a twinkly eyed smile, I become the waiter over, who appears to have lost a contest with a pair of scissors and lost, his locks now a badly chopped mess.