Fear & Loathing From Central City

Participants: Gemini de Mille | Rogues Gallery | Teen Titans
Open/Closed: Open to Rogues Gallery and Teen Titans
Location(s): Las Vegas
Time of Day: Evening
Weather: Dry Heat
Summary: A trip to Las Vegas leaves the Central City Rogues Gallery lost in an introspective nightmare on the very nature of themselves and the legendary Leonard Snart.

Vegas, beautiful lecherous land of debauchery and hedonism. It was somewhere on the edge of the desert, somewhere at the edge of time. A place where all meaning fades into the tumultuous cycle of desire and indulgence. The nightmarish aching psychological pain of desire is galvanized in this land of lechery and in this heightened trance like state of want, one simply must gratify, one must luxuriate like the other gratifying sheep herded upon the strip. Then in the arousing process of gratification and revelry desire only grows leading only to yet more indulgence. This ceaseless wheel a quandary of many depraved minds it is the Las Vegas Paradox!

It was midday in this desert wasteland when the... Things, in his body were beginning to take hold. He was a cowboy in the wild west, but also a pilgrim of iniquitousness on a religious voyage to his holy city. He veered slightly from his trek to let the mighty spirit of his aforementioned doctrine envelope what was his earthly form. The terrible but oh so grand cacophony of illicit and immoral substances was to blend in the fleshy reagent of man. It was intense and disorienting, but also feverishly enthralling. A warm sweat broke from his forehead down across his cheeks, perhaps from the mighty sun above, perhaps from other things. A fire burned from the sky high, but also from the man below... A fire which lovingly enveloped his pale human shape in a way no woman ever could. A fire which groped his nostrils, which roared through his lungs, and singed his very bloodstream all at once.

Tiny dilated pupils could only gaze off in wretched bemusement at a sun which could rise every day then fall at night, only to rise again the day after. A force he felt he could never understand, the orange lenses of ray-ban aviator shades glared at the ball of fire with contempt. The world spiraled around him and a piercing force struck his bloodstream and pulsates manically. His heart gave fierce thunderous roars, and a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts raced faster than the Flash. Ferocious galloping horses thundered across every iota of his being, striking his flesh and pounding against his heart. The booming roar of their hooves striking against him felt indescribably amazing. Sweat poured down his forehead by the buckets. A sheepish smile crept across his lips and he gave a vacant stare out into a wasteland of dunes and dust. An empty world, an ocean of nothing but dead sand and writhing cacti. At the edge of an empty highway, battered green boots were firmly planted in a mound of tan. He glared at the empty sprawling dunes of Nevada like a desperado sizing up an insurmountable enemy.

It was absolutely imperative that he got to Hareloom Casino before the Rogues Heist... Otherwise? He wouldn’t be able to slip a few games in before they looted the place. A bolt of fear struck his chest and the thundering realization that he needed to get back on the road struck hard and fast. He stumbled a noodly walk back to his car, a bright red convertible which most certainly did not belong to him. He wore a green Acapulco button up with scattered orange floral printing, and beneath that one could faintly make out vague inklings of his Mirror Master suit. Above his sunglasses was a white bucket hat and below was a lit cigarette holder perched between his lips. He was accompanied with another man, one in a black Acapulco with orange and green palm trees. Evan in his addled state assumed the man was Samoan, but he couldn’t be sure... Did it really matter? Little did the disorientated McCulloch realize, the man was not Samoan, but rather a fellow Scotsman named Evan Mcculloch. A clone of the mighty Mirror Master pale faced and dull like his acquaintance. Finally, there was a third man nestled in the backseat. This man was nothing but a dirty hitchhiker, a ratty vagabond the twin Mirror Masters has picked up a few miles back. He was also Evan McCulloch. This third member of the troupe wore a tattered orange safari jacket and Panama hat ensemble with a green t-shirt with a printed text of the colloquial proverb “‘Flank ‘em and spank ‘em’ - Sun Tzu ‘The Art of War’”. That poor hitchhiker... He had no idea for the ride he was in for. How long? How long until McCulloch and Evan subject the poor bastard to drug fueled manic ravings? The alpha Mirror Master slipped behind the wheel, and his entourage was ready for this spiritual expedition. The convertible’s passenger shot a concerned glance to his chauffeur reflection. “Y’er lookin’ a wee bit peely wally, Mcculloch. Ye’ sure y’er good t’ drive, lad?” McCulloch immediately shot a fierce and frenzied eye back to Evan, teeth clenched tightly upon the cigarette holder; so tight that it felt like his molars were about to shatter. ”Y’er a #%$@en narcotics agent!? Ain’t ye’!?” And with that, he slammed his foot to the gas pedal and the convertible sped off at very illegal speeds.

“WOOOOH!! VEGAS!!”
WELCOME To Fabulous LAS VEGAS NEVADA

Bright light Las Vegas set his soul ablaze like no other. He hated America; he hated Central City, he hated Gotham, he especially hated Keystone, but Vegas? Now there was a place he could get behind. McCulloch was a thrill chaser first and foremost, with the sort of passion for partying seen only in raging alcoholic frat boys. The blazing convertible raced across the Vegas strip wildly, with little care for pedestrians. It veered and swirled around the road, nearly crashing into opposing traffic and just narrowly avoiding some glittery Elvis impersonator.

Bright pastel colors greeted them before the foreboding towering heights of the Hareloom Hotel. The trip gravely assessed the dangers which lie ahead... Beautiful show girls, a myriad of illicit substances, money and fun... Would they escape the madness of gambling? Did they even want to escape it? His comrades were to meet at the casino soon, would he even be willing to leave the game floor to join them? “As y’er attorney, I advice ye’ to throw as much money at the roulette wheel as humanely possible till ye’ bloody well win.” The clones exchanged awkward silence, then proceeded to throw the convertible’s keys at the valet. “Y’er not my attorney.”

The plan was simple. Arrive early and pretend to be players, as a means to scout out the joint, for extra muscle on the game floor when the boys show up, and also for fun. Mostly for fun. The “Samoan” Evan took to the craps table, the Evan with the “Flank ‘em and spank ‘em” shirt went to the slot machines, and finally the alpha Evan went to the Poker table. He immediately got a crap hand. The table allowed him time to browse the inner sanctum of his mind. He became lost in an introspective nightmare, and garbage hands. McCulloch wasn’t sure if this was as jarring for everyone else as it was for him. The world around him felt different, even outside of the current disorienting visions. As a leader, the world felt different, and he wanted to make sure the others knew things were different... He made that clear the other night when the group banded back together. This wasn’t Snart, Len wasn’t part of this. This was Evan. Might makes right. That was McCulloch’s mantra, and it reflected in his leadership style. Do what you want, take what you want, Laissez-Faire. If you’re strong enough to take it? It’s yours. If the weak can’t stop you, then you’re only helping them... Teaching them to get stronger or else. Damnit! Another bad hand... He worried about comparisons to Snart. He worried that the others didn’t like him. He worried the others didn’t respect him. Just focus on the cards... Another lose. He felt dizzy in a swirling madness all around him. His lungs felt tight like a coiling anaconda, and he was somewhere between drowsy and hyperactive to the extreme. In a daze, this acolyte looked to the floor in a vain attempt to escape the vultures, but soon fell ill when noticed the true and utter grotesquery that was the rug. Oh how it warped and writhed upon itself, with coiling tendrils climbing beneath the pads of his feet. Horrible anaconda's coiling and consuming one another in what could only be described as an urban Ouroboros. This mad zealot felt sick to his stomach as casino chips slowly dwindled before him and swirling madness writhed beneath him. It seemed there was no escape from this lunacy. Money trickling out of his grasp as the world spun all around him. Failed hand after failed hand and the monsters beneath twisted and danced in writhing oily circles. The swirling vortex like mush of the floor mixed with mounting loses barreled into his chest like a freight train. All of it crescendo in a hurricane of emotion which ultimately took shape in a high pitched squeal. ”EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” A$$holes took all his money. Guess it was time to get to work.

He slipped away from the poker table, nicotine billowing from his cigarette as he haphazardly stumbled and slithered out of the gaming floor. Up a few flights of steps and creeping past scantily clad hostesses. The security office, he peaked in through a window in the forest. A large room with three men controlling the cameras. A shaky grin crept across his face. Showtime. Mirror Master stepped out of the doorway’s window, peeling away his Acapulco button by button. Orange fabric shimmered lightly beneath the floral shirt, and slowly it was revealed that there was a pane of glass wedged between trousers, costume, and button up. A second Mirror Master stepped out of the door, followed by a third, all three reaching into the pane of glass and pulling out a thin pistol with four mirrors between the barrel and muzzle. The triplet reflections crept across the room, each pressing a Mirror-Gun to a guards head. There came a toothy grin, and a Ping ~ Ping ~ Ping.

Shards of glass trickled unto the floor, and the Regent of Reflection collapsed into an empty roller chair. His twin comrades faded away, letting the alpha give a delighted spin around his now empty command center. In his first loop around, Evan threw away his orange shades, followed by the second spin and a bucket hat letting a messy auburn fringe droop over his forehead. Third spin around the roller chair, and now it was time for business. His role was to act as the “guy in the chair”, with a pseudo-command center granting a camera’s eye view of every position in the casino. Now that he was in, it was showtime.... He reached into one of the computer screens, pulling out a microphone and earpiece set from the reflection, allowing easy ranged communication between himself and his comrades. He reclined cozily, propping green boots upon the desk and holding his microphone a few inches from his lips. ”Awright, lassies an’ lads... This is DJ Grand Larceny, an’ y’er listenin’ to Robber Radio! With tunes f’er goons, an’ rock f’er the Rogues!” With a toothy grin and a stifled giggle, McCulloch played heist music over the line. It was a sort of fanfare in way, to officially herald the beginning of the heist. It would get the gangs attention, in a way that only he could find so bizarrely humorous. He also assumed the obnoxious tune would annoy Marco, which was also a win.

The alien motions of the floor had mostly subsided, which was good because this was no ordinary casino. It was owned by the Japanese Mob, which made failure a very dangerous prospect. The whole group needed to be sharp. Speaking of sharp... Evan scanned every camera screen for whom he considered to be the dullest blades in the drawer. ”Make sure ye’ wave t’ the cameras now, boyos! Big brother’s a’watchin’.” A security camera zoomed in upon Axel and Roy, the two safecrackers on team and played the Pac-Man ”waka-waka-waka” soundbyte over the line when he said “watchin’” (because he felt it was something a radio dj would do). ”Now, I want a nice clean heist, gents. The next sound byte he played was the ”Mr. Clean ~ Mr. Clean” commercial jingle. The rogue changed cameras through various positions in the game floor into the vault. The camera panned across the whole room, the vault itself was massive and quite heavily guarded. He saw a few trap triggers, a fair amount of armed guards, did... Did that guard have a bazooka? ”There’s two guards in the office, maintenance is probably the safest route into the vault. But there’s crazy security down in the lower levels, heavily armed too.” the word “armed” cane with a sounbyte from Spongebob ”My leg!” he enjoyed the dumb DJ gag a bit too much. ”So don’t #%$@ this up, Axel.” And to a lesser extent, Roy. He’d hoped the two being paired together would mean at least one of them would get the job done right. Then there was Digger.... He offered himself up as a distraction, which was a dangerous position even under normal heists, but they were dealing the Yakuza... ”Boomer, I left a few boys f’er ya if security’s too rowdy. Careful with tha’ bloody distraction, aye?” The only one he really didn’t need to worry about was Marco. Not only was Weather Wizard competent, but he had the powers to defend himself. In any case, he trusted his crew.

| Rogues |

Digger looked over his reflection in the elevator door. His red hair had been swept into a pompadour, his sideburns were trimmed down from their usual bushiness, and the baggy, white bedazzled jumpsuit fit loose on his frame. The pièce de résistance were the oversized sunglasses that sat on the bridge of his nose. He took a moment to give himself a final look over as he approached the floor of the casino and smirked. Underneath the jumpsuit was an array of boomerangs strapped to his chest, back, thighs, and forearms. He maybe Captain Boomerang but in this get-up he was the King. Digger did his best hip swivel and laughed, winking at his reflection over the sunglasses. "Why, Digger, you ain't nothing but a hound dog!" 

Every member of the Rogue's had their place in this little smash and grab. Evan was going to call the action big brother style, there were safecrackers, and all that jazz... but Boomer signed up for the fun job. It was his job to attract as much attention as possible so others weren't being bothered while they did their bits. So, why not go for a big ol' gimmick robbery? On the outside it looks like he's just some mook holding up the high-rollers and gamblers while the real theft was going on under their noses. Plus? He could pocket the cash and get a little bit of a bonus on top of what he was already going to get a cut of. Now what's more distracting than Aussie Elvis whipping 'rangs like they were going out of style? 

The whole city was rotten with Elvis impersonators and that made it the easiest disguise to pull off. He could hide his face behind giant sunglasses and blend into the crowd of gaberdine wearing schlubs trying to make a quick buck singing the oldies or marrying drunk couples in dingy chapels. This was a high profile gig as well. Task Force X had just collected him for a mission not too long ago and he was hoping they weren't paying attention to his whereabouts tonight. He just got the stupid bomb out of his head and wasn't exciting about the prospect of getting it put back. So, typical smash and grab rules. Get the cash and get out quick... especially due to Yakuza involvement. He wasn't afraid of them per say but liked having all of his fingers where they were currently located. 

As a young boy Digger remembered hearing Elvis Presley all the time on the radio while his mum scrubbed pots and pans in the kitchen. "In the Ghetto", "A Little Less Conversation", "Hound Dog", "All Shook Up", and, of course, "Jailhouse Rock" (unfortunately he had that one stuck in his mind all the time when he was locked up in Belle Reve). Singing along to all those songs made his mum smile and she didn't get a chance to do that too often when he was growing up. So, in a weird way, this whole get-up was awfully sentimental. Of course Elvis also made his career stealing from others and making a TON of money from it and if that didn't describe the American Dream than Boomer didn't know what did. Digger was shook from his memories of his mom dancing in the kitchen by the ding of the elevator. He spoke so Evan could hear from wherever he was hiding out now, "Alright, mates. One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready now go Rogues go!" 

Digger stepped out of the elevator and examined the casino from the top of the large, open stairway that looked down on the proceedings. There were rows and rows of slot machines, a sea of poker and blackjack tables, and as many roulette tables as far as the eye could see. He wasn't much for gambling unless he could cheat. There was no sense wasting perfectly good drinking money on games. The gamblers that moved around and about him came from all walks of life - from the super wealthy business types to the elder retiree folks out to piss away their pensions in their golden years. There were big, beefy bouncers who were likely MMA guys who were looking to make ends meet until they got their big fight. Additionally, there was more that a handful of cute, buxom cocktail waitresses with martinis, vodkas, and scotch balanced precariously on trays. None of these people paid him a lick of attention even in the ridiculous gimmick. He chuckled to himself as he stared up at the chandelier hanging above a row of slot machines. "Well, boys, this is the point of no return. Hope you've gone to the dunny for a piss because things are about to pop off!" 

With a flick of the wrist, a boomerang slips out of the band on his forearm and into the palm of his hand. With a move that comes as second nature as breathing, Digger flings the rang towards the chandelier and the razor sharp edge slips through the cable supporting the light fixture like a hot knife through butter. The chandelier drops straight down on top of the slot machines with a loud crash and the screams that follow is louder than the sound of shattering glass. As the boomerang returns to the palm of his hand, Digger looks out the audience of gamblers, security, dealers, and cocktail waitresses with the biggest smile on his face. Every eye on the floor was on him and soon every security bum would be as well. Time to give them a show. "G'day, Ladies and gentlemen! I think we all know what's happening here, aye? Start gathering up your cash, your chips, your coins, your rings, necklaces, wallets, purses, and all that stuff in those big cup things and bags, eh?"

Digger looked over at the cute cocktail waitress that was now holding her tray in front of her like a shield. "You! Why don't you be a good Shiela and grab the King a stubby?" The woman looked back at him either in terror or confusion. "For christ's sake! A beer you dumb root rat!" 


Tag any Rogue 

Las Vegas, the city of Sin and a place that Gemini de Mille knew as well as an old friend. Several of her aliases were on the Black Books of various casinos, barred for crimes ranging from petty larceny to grand theft auto (that Bugatti Chiron in the Bellagio parking lot had simply been too beautiful not to steal).  Tonight though she was here for a very different purpose recruitment, not that those she was intending to recruit knew that, but then they were morons.

The form she'd picked for the evening was deliberately non-descript, a dark haired slightly overweight middle-aged woman with cheap glasses, a schoolteacher perhaps, taking advantage of leave to live a little. Having arrived at the casino earlier she sat at the slot machines, trying her luck with all the resigned desperation of someone eager win but with only a small budget to spend. At least that was what she appeared to be doing, in fact she was watching the floor, scanning faces for her cue. Ah and there it was, time to make her exit before the fireworks begun.

Abandoning her position at the slot machines (she hadn't won, but then neither had the house; the 'coins' she'd inserted seeping out of the change drawer to re-join her) Gemini made her way across the floor, affecting the slight stiffness of someone whose joints had entered middle age. Entering the restroom she found a stall, closed and locked the door and looked up at the ceiling. In an instant the middle-aged teacher dissolved into a mass of shapeless goo that spiralled up and through the thin grills of the overhead vent.

Coalescing somewhat into a featureless 'snake' of blue rubber, she moved through the vents at speed, recalling the blueprints in the county archive. Left, right, left again, up two levels, pass through the spinning fan without getting sliced in two, right, left...Barely a minute later and light beamed amidst the darkness ahead and Gemini slowed down, smirking mentally as she heard the sound of Mirror Master's voice. Perfect.

A moment later and a fruit fly buzzed out of the grate, circling around the ceiling light for a moment before Gemini set herself down on the wall, at a spot with a good view of the Rogue and the screens. Compound eyes were always confusing, whatever part of her mind that was still human rebelling against the multiple stimuli for a moment until she adapted herself to the view. 41 screens, 42 eyes, one for each screen and the last for Mirror Master himself, watching closely for any sign of the others and admiring the devastation that Digger had wrought all by himself.

Yes, these Rogues would suit her plans perfectly.

Ah Vegas. City of lights, loot, and lust. Truly a Rogue's home away from home. 

Light and Color, the two main cornerstones of the Radiant Rainbow Raider! Even if he couldn't distinguish between blue and orange, the goggled goon could still admire the lavish array of displays and spectacles littering the streets. 

It was time to get down to business however. A bright flash of yellow from his visor sent any guards scampering for the exit among Boomerang's rather extravagant distraction, allowing for Bivolo to slide his way on over towards the Casino's main safe. 

"Now THIS is what I call a payout! This'll buy me enough paint to last a few years at least!" 

Grinned the awestruck artist, beaming at the mere thought of how many stacks of cash must be locked behind the metal contraption staring him in the face. 

Cracking his fingers, then his neck, and lastly his back, Roy cranked his goggles settings up to unleash a bright magenta beam of Ultraviolet energy, starting to sear it's way into the safe in a fashion similar to a welder's soldering iron. A thin trail of smoke wafting into the air above him as Bivolo kept a steady gaze upon the edges of the safe, ensuring the beam slowly crept at a pace that would cut open the locks, yet leave the cash inside unharmed. It was a delicate process...

Evan McCulloch Digger Harkness Gemini de Mille