It's dark. Damn dark. Oh, that's why - the streetlight is out above the
entrance to the nameless tavern here on the East Side; the nameless tavern
that's been here seemingly since the dawn of time. The fellow falling
out've the door hasn't been there that long, though; him, he looks maybe
twenty-three, a clean-cut blond baby-faced yuppie slumming it, looks like.
He leans on the wall, facing it, head against his arm...fumbling slightly,
the young man manages to pull a lighter out of his pocket, then looks
vaguely confused. He puts it back, then gets out a cigarette -- *then* he
takes out the lighter again.

Will McIntyre strolls out onto the street from a small Italian resturant
tucked into a cozy little corner of the city's Lower East Side. He pauses
just after his feet connect with the concrete of the sidewalk and takes a
small swig from a brown bottle. He grimaces and sighs, glancing up at the
velvet black sky, hidden beneath a veil of smoke and late night fog. It's
cold and McIntyre contemplates on the visible vapors of his breath as he
looks upward. He strides purposefully across the street and deposits his
bottle in a trash can outside the tavern, the dim light illuminating the
bottle's label which reads: "Soder Cola Root Beet". He brushes his hand
against his mouth, drying his lip and looks longingly into the tavern.
Then, noticing a flash of slight reflecting off of the young man's
lighter, turns and looks at the young man, who is indeed not much younger
than himself in appearance, supiciously.

Jack Knight steps out of the tavern, close behind Sand. He reaches down to
pick his friend up carefully. "Easy, buddy." A little tipsy himself it
seems, but nowhere near as bad as Sand. "Guess it was your time
this-...your turn this time, huh?" He chuckles a little as his words
fumble. Pulling on Sand to make him stand up is a little difficult, and
may end up dropping them both to the ground. When Jack notices the other
man lighting up, he looks wanting. "Hey, you gotta 'nother? I'm all out."

Will McIntyre:
        Obviously, Irish blood flows through the veins of this young man.
He stands 6' 2", a tower of muscular might and a pillar of powerful
presence. His light blonde hair is parted slightly off-center, cascading
down to ear-level. His blue eyes twinkle faintly beneath his expressive
blonde eyebrows. His skin is pale, his features perfect. His broad jaw is
clenched shut.
        He wears a teal jacket with white, leather sleeves atop a clean,
form-fitting white t-shirt. The back of the jecket proudly advertises the
San Jose Sharks along with the emblem of a shark bursting out of a white
circle in the centered dead in the middle. He wears a pair of comfortable
fit, clean, denim Levis that look like they came straight off the rack. A
pair of white Nike basketball shoes hug his feet comfortably. His overall
appearance is that of an average, casual young man on his day off from
work.

Jack Knight:
        The young man before you is 20-something, with dark wavy hair, a
little mussed by the wide, thick black goggles he is currently wearing on
top of his head. His eyes are dark, and they are framed by the early
appearance of laugh-lines, giving the impression of a somewhat wry
personality. His sideburns are a little longer, and seem carefully
manicured, the guy obviously cares about his personal appearance. His day
or two growth of goatee stubble also give the impression that he's a busy
individual and might be prone for long nights out enjoying himself. He is
very handsome, and must be popular with the ladies. Both ears are pierced,
with silver hoops, as is one eyebrow.
         He is currently wearing a black, silk weave button up shirt with
what appears to be an oriental pattern. The shirt is open down to about
it's middle, giving a partial view of what appears to be an elaborate
patterned tattoo (a star pattern) on the left side of his chest. He is
also wearing a thick leather jacket, which adds to his already wiry yet
somewhat impressive musculature. From the back, the jacket can be seen to
display a design similar to both the tattoo on his chest, and the pin he
wears on his lapel. His jeans are somewhat loose, yet they also accent
what appears to be powerful legs. On his feet, his worn Dr. Martens boots
pledge a somewhat rebellious past.

Sand Hawkins:
        A tall young man of about 24, Sanderson is well built and quite
weathered. His sandy blond hair is wiry and unruly; he looks like he could
use a shave, and his bright cornflower-blue eyes are already crinkled at
the corners. Instead of your standard heroic square jaw, the man has a
moderately pointed chin; a distinct widow's peak at his hairline lets a
stray curl fall onto his forehead.
        Covering his head and shading his eyes, presently, is a battered
tan fedora - there're a couple of small pieces of wrinkled paper sticking
out from the band. On his back is a beige canvas satchel, patched in
places, and discolored in others. His jacket, too, is a worn tan color;
his shirt's an off-white, coarse linen. Actually, everything about him,
except for his eyes, is rather sand-colored. Tough canvas dungarees cover
his legs, and his feet are shod in brown steel-toed boots.

Sand Hawkins coughs after his first breath, glaring slightly at Jack. "Ya
made me cough, y'dutchie." But he fishes in his pocket again, pulling out
his pack've cigarettes. Ugh. Unfiltered Lucky Strikes. He holds them out,
turning so he's leaning with his back against the wall. As soon as Jack
starts lighting his cigarette, Sand smirks slightly and gives the
older(younger!) twentysomething a light shove, messing up the delicate
operation. "Smoking's bad for you."

Will McIntyre furrows his brow, glancing over the duo. It seems obvious to
him that they're either jobless slackers or hoodlums. He aims to find out.
Will grits his teeth and gestures towards the bar with his thumb. "Hey.
Guys. They carry Guiness in there? The real stuff, I mean. Not that junk
that Bud brews and bottles in the states."

Letting go of Sand to light the cigarette, Jack coughs that
horrible-sounding innard wracking cough of the body that has mistakenly
taken smoke for oxygen. Painful. He steps back, grinning, and leans
against the opposite wall. The wide smile is friendly and somewhat odd as
he hacks away. "That's..*cough*...what they...*choke*...say." Recovering
from his sputtering, he takes another long drag. Ahhh...that hits the
spot. Exhaling the smoke right at Sand's face, he comments "Drunken
Bastard." Out of the corner of his eye he notices someone moving down the
mostly empty streets and watches for a moment.

Will McIntyre grinds his teeth a little more, noting the duo's condition
with mild distaste. "Where are you guys headed?" Will's voice has that
loud, monotone, patronizing quality to it that people use when dealing
with groups of people that they aren't used to, like someone trying to
tell their friends' children not to strick their hands under the
lawnmower.

Grimacing, Sandy waves his hand in front of his face. "Guh. You got bad
breath, man. Smells just like smoke and cheap beer." He pauses, then
coughs again, starting to laugh. "Wait, it *is* smoke and cheap beer. An'
*I'm* a bastard?" With another deep drag on the dirty, dirty Lucky Strike,
the blond guy glances up at the approaching stranger and makes a
dismissive gesture. "A) I wouldn't be here if they din' have Guinness. 2)
That donkey piss Bud bottles ain't Guinness, so don' even call it that. D)
What the hell's your prollem, man? 'S a free country. Better be, after
fightin' alla them damn Nazi bastards..."

Will McIntyre grits his teeth and cracks his knuckles. He grimaces sharply
and repeats himself. "I asked, where are you going?" He pauses. "I really
don't give a damn about what Nazis or dragons or fairies you've been
fighting in your damned drunken stupor. I just want to know where the HELL
you think you're going in that condition. Last thing this city needs is
another couple of drunken disorderlies stirring up trouble."

Jack squints slightly at Will, all Clint Eastwood coolness. This is New
York...this is how one's supposed to act, right? "Yeah, you got a problem,
bud?" He grimaces slightly at his own voice, wondering vaguely where's he
coming up with the eggs to talk that way to a total stranger. Must be the
stress of him probably going to the joint soon. Yeah...that's it. And the
Guinness. That helps. He looks down at Sand and back toward the stranger.
"Why don't you mind you're own bizness, pal."

"Yeah, what kinda crazy cop-knockoff stupid gink are you, louse?" scowls
Sand, pushing himself off the wall and dropping his cigarette to the
ground. He crushes it underfoot, then cracks his knuckles. "Don' mess with
me when I am *CLEARLY* minding my own freakin' beeswax. You donno who
you're stirring." It's like a wise woman once said -- there's nothing
quite so pitiful as a drunken man. "We *was* goin' home. Now we ain't."

Will McIntyre steps forward. His reply his short. "Oh. I see. You *were*
going home but now, after seeing what a dumbass you are, you've decided to
check yourself into the Betty Ford Clinic. Well good for you."

Jack takes a couple steps toward Sand, about to stop him from starting the
fight. When he hears Will's response though, the pacificism is cut short.
His attention is diverted from Sand to the stranger. "Hey! Who're you
calling dumbass, Jock-boy?" Years of pent up punk angst begin to stir
again, long dormant.

Sanderson's scowl deepens, and he steps forward. "I *was* goin' home, but
since you're causin' a public disturbance, I gotta teach you a lesson." He
pauses, shaking his arms out, getting himself ready to kick some ass.
"Look, kid, I'll give ya one more chance: go climb up your thumb, and I
won't turn your pretty face into raw hamburger."

Will McIntyre steps up. "Look. You're probably a good kid. I bet your
parents are really worried about you right now. But don't go making
threats aimed at people you don't know. You might wake up in a gutter
somewhere and live to regret it. Back off, now. You don't want to tick me
off, punk."

Jack steps even closer to Will. He's now in front of Sandy. /Pissed Off/.
Pointing in the other man's face, his own distorts with anger. "YOU don't
know anything about my parents. Last warning. Get the hell out of here
before something happens that we're both gonna regret." He might be
bluffing. Jack's not completely out of his mind...he knows how bad this
will look before the trial. Maybe if he scares this guy off he can prevent
the fight that occuring. Then again...he /does/ feel like making Will a
punching bag right about now...

Okay. Getting called a 'punk' is just about the *last* thing Sandy
expected, and it really, honestly doesn't improve his mood. Even through
his drunken haze, however, he's royally entertained by Will's perception
of him; it's so terribly off the mark that he laughs in Will's face.
"Don't teach yer grandaddy to chew cheese, ya hinky jasper." His laugh
turns ugly, and he tosses his jacket and hat to the sidewalk. "Looks like
you're just achin' t'get gashouse, so lemme oblige ya." With that, he,
well, puts up his dukes.

Will McIntyre casually removes his jacket and tosses it to the pavement.
He sighs deeply. Will stretches his hands out in a gesture of noviolence
and shakes his head, smirking passively. "I want you to hit me as hard as
you can."

In his own way, Jack's incredibly amused by this whole thing. He would
never let the guy he's about to Pulp know that. He's aware...after years
of being "bashed" for looking different, that a tough front will deter
most attackers. Some, like laughing-boy here. Require a little more
convincing. That's where Aikido comes into the picture. Of course, he's
not about to throw the first punch and get busted for it. That's Sand's
job. He looks over to his friend "IS this guy for real?" Stepping back, he
makes a little bowing motion toward Will. "All yours, man."

What amazing arrogance. What amazing blasted arrogance. Sand's completely
dumbfounded for a moment, then drops his arms and straightens, frowning
slightly. "You've gotta be kidding me," he says plainly. "You're not gonna
at least *try* to block me? I don't want to hurt you. Okay, I do want to
hurt you. But for the love of mike, I can't hit a dope who stands there
with his arms out waitin' for me to maul his kidneys. Put up yer dukes or
get outta town."

Will McIntyre lifts his hands daintily in the air like a frightened
mugging victim. The grin on his face hardly seems to indicate fear,
however. "C'mon, tough guy. Hit me. Gimme all you got. Hit me. Don't care
where. Just hit me."

Jack steps back and watches, a mixture of awe and anger still shaping his
face. He's allowing Sand to face the guy one-on-one now, but the guy is
obviously a nutter, so this may not be fair. "What's your deal, man?" He
directs his question toward Will. "What are you , some kind of sicko? He's
gonna pulp you if you don't fight back..." He crosses his arms and looks
angrily at Will. "I can't frickin' believe this..."

Fair or not, that expression, that stance is timeless. That is the manner
of a fellow with supreme confidence. So he either thinks Sand is a
complete pushover, or he really has something up his sleeve. Whichever, it
doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because Sandy's drunk, and that's the
last straw. The rough blond with the boy's face pulls his moves straight
out of memory and instinct, straight off the streets of New York circa
nineteen-forty-five; wordlessly, he fakes for Will's gut with his left
fist and pulls the punch at the last second - while the other man expects
the hit to his stomach, he turns the move into a one-two and aims for
Will's jaw with a vicious right hook.

Will McIntyre stands, unflinching. Blue bolts of electricity seem to
intercept Sand's hand mere millimeters from McIntyre's face... and what a
face it is. It feels harder than steel and the rough young man's fist
collides with it. Will merely grins and raises his eyebrows
sympathetically.

Cue Jack via Anime. "Oh?" He's shocked. His body posture changes. "A
meta?!" Now he realizes, of course, they may both be in a /LOT/ of
trouble. He rushes toward the man, prepared to ninja all over his ass.
"KiiiEEE!" Diving toward Will's legs, in an effort to knock the other man
down, and free his friend, Jack prays to Elvis this doesn't hurt as much
as he thinks it's gonna.

Crying out in surprise - it's like he hit a steel door for the hell of it
or something - Sand staggers back a step, cursing loudly, vehemently, and
anachronistically. "What are you, some kind of supervillain?" he manages
to croak, trying to move his fing- oh, god. Jack! He dives after the
younger man, trying to grab at his jacket with the hand that still works.
"Jack, *geez*!"

Will McIntyre spins around at lightning speed and attempts to grasp ahold
of Jack's shin. If successful, he whips around in the air, spiralling
about in a vortex and, at the height of his speed, releases Jack's shin,
attempting to propell the ruffian a good twenty feet away in a generally
uncrowded direction.

Jack is promptly nabbed by Will...and...(depending on how hard his grab
was on Jack's jacket, Sand may be too...) he is promtply whirled and
flung. Fortunately for Jack...he's a superhero in New York city...so he
has the one thing that all Superhero's falling from great heights can
count on...and that's a large pile of trash to break his fall. He smashes
into the stack of refuse like a bowling ball into pins, scattering cans
and bags everywhere. With a groan, he tries to take in his new
surroundings. "Sonofa-..."

Sand /completely/ misses Jack's jacket, having very little sense of
perspective, and finds himself lunging into mudair. Doing the only thing
that his body's capable of doing when he notices that he's diving hard for
asphaly, Sandy drops into a somersault, cradling his injured hand to his
chest and bearing the brunt of his weight to the ground on his shoulders.
Still moving on a combination of practice and instinct, he follows his
momentum to his feet and spins, facing Will. "This," he growls, "is
ridiculous. Who the hell are you? Tell me why I shouldn't just call every
last descendent of the JSA down on your ass *right now*."

Will McIntyre grimaces and pounds his fist into the palm of his hand. His
hair just slightly ruffled. His response is simple and to the point.
"Because I'm a super-hero, you're just a drunk kid, I've actually fought
alongside members of the JSA and, finally, because you're too drunk to
operate a phone."

Jack scrambles around in the trash for something to bean this guy with and
end this whole debacle. Contrary to his wishes, the chances of him finding
a tank amid the refuse on a city street are rather small, so he settles
for a wooden 2 by 4. Getting out of the trash slowly, so as nod to attract
the stranger's attention, Jack rubs the back of his head tenderly.

Waving an angry finger at Will, Sandy scowls deeply and counters, "No,
you're an *asshole*. *I'm* a super-hero. *Jack* is a super-hero." He
gestures over at Jack-in-the-garbage. "I'm not a drunk kid...I'm a
drunken," he takes a step closer, "...surly..." another step, "...old..."
now he's only a couple steps away from Will, "/bastard/. And I was the
/sidekick/, god damn you, to one of the founding /members/ of the JSA."
NStopping about a foot away, he says loudly, "I'm Sandy the goddamn GOLDEN
BOY, and I have to concede the last point."

Will McIntyre grimaces and takes a menacing steps towards Sand. "Ah. I see
you've grown up well, Golden Boy. I'm sure Sandman would be proud of
tonight's little display." He voice's volume raises and he blurts out.
"You're not the only one who's lost a few years, blondie. You think I'm a
real hot shot, don't you? Some new kid on the block who'd just kill Vandal
Savage as look at him. Get this and get it straight, KID, I'm not just
somebody's sidekick. I am the founder of the fricking Justice League of
America. I've lost ten years of my life, "gramps" and I don't need some
cranky old sidekick in a body that looks younger than mine to tell me what
I am. You're no hero. You're bar trash!!!"

Staring at Will in mixed disgust and annoyance, Sanderson shakes his head.
"You just don't get it, do you?" He holds his hand, still staring fixedly,
shoulders down and guard up. "Do you have any idea how lame you sound? I'm
not saying I don't, but I'm drunk. What's your excuse?"

Will McIntyre snorts and scowls. "My problem, -friend-, is that I'm
sober."

Sand shakes his head again, now just simply amazed. "If you pick fights
with sloshed folk on their way home from bars at one in the morning when
you're *sober*, I'd *hate* to see you drunk." He pauses. "Maybe you need a
girlfriend. There's this nice girl I knew in the Bronx...maybe she has a
granddaughter..." Yes, *yes*, he's deliberately trying to incite a riot
here.

Will McIntyre scowls and nods, a glint of distaste in his eyes. "Butt out
and don't screw with me. That's my advice for the day. You'd be wise to
take it, junior." He waves a hand dismissively and steps past Sandy,
turning towards the bar.

"Bonzaiiii!" This is Jack screaming his head off while running toward
Triumph with a plank of wood in his hand. See Jack run. Run Jack Run. When
he get's close enough (which is relative, his depth perception /is/ a
little impaired at the moment) to connect with Will's head, Jack puts all
his weight and power into swinging the wood. Provided, he's been sneaky up
until the point he just yelled, and he's hoping Triumph is distracted by
Sand in order to actually hit the guy. With a normal human...this would
probably be just under lethal force...but he saw how Will stopped Sand's
fist, so he's betting that this probably won't cause /too/ much damage.
And only /if/ he connects.

Not reacting until Jack screams, Sand just keeps his shirt on, cradling
his busted hand and scowling. As soon as Jack starts makin' like a
banshee, however, Sandy shuts his eyes, moving without seeing - he aims a
really nasty kick for Triumph's side, right in the kidney. Not a word.

Will McIntyre glares at Sand's blatant attack, his kidney of steel
reflecting the punch like the bouncer of a chic night club. He is,
however, less prepared for the blow from behind and, he was so distracted
by Sand that only at the last minute does Will's 360 degree vision alert
him of the rear attack. He instinctive activates his invulnerability in
time to avert bodily damage but the impact of the blow catches him off
guard and so, he falls forward, crashing towards Sand...!

So what is Donna Troy doing walking about at this hour of the night? Its
just after one, surely all the good boys and girls are snug safely in
their beds. Well, not all of them were working late to meet a deadline.
She was restless after locking up the studio and stopped in to a small
shop for a cup of coffee before deciding to turn her thoughts toward
retiring for the evening. But even as she takes a bit of a scenic route
back toward the base to finish her Irish cream concoction, her attention
is caught as she looks up at the sound of shouting and a scuffle outside
of a bar...and is that...."Jack...?"

Opening his eyes once he connects and bounces off, Sand's still
disoriented from the way the kick worked and from spinning and being,
well, drunk - that's his excuse for being caught off guard enough to get
about a metric tonne of Triumph coming crashing down on him. He's slow.
That's the last time for a long time he lets himself get this plastered;
last time he was able to save Jack's butt. This time...well, no. He hits
the ground hard, and a half-second later he's trying to shove Will off and
pull himself out of the way, but ain't doin' too well. That hand's gonna
be a pain in the neck.

Taking exactly three seconds to glance at the splintered plywood in his
hands, Jack moans slightly and throws the pieces over his shoulder.
Splinters all over his hands, no doubt, but the alcohol takes the edge off
the pain, no doubt. Seeing Will falling toward Sand, Jack figures this
must be opportunity knocking. He raises an arm, and tries to bring his
elbow down sharply into the other man's shoulder blades. But what about
Sand, you might ask? Sand can obviously take care of himself, as he's
pointed out to Jack many times. This is about bottled frustration and
release.

Will McIntyre manages to pull his neck around from his spot atop Sand and
sees the furious fists flying towards him. He rolls off of Sand and
springs to his feet in a motion of superhuman speed, a trail of blue
sparks in his wake not that anyone as plastered as Sand and Jack would
notice. His form blurs slightly and, in an instant, he's suddenly wearing
his union colors. He gestures broadly with his hands and a faint rattling
ensues. Louder. Louder. It's coming from the trashcans... A wave of
crushed beer cans stream forth from the nearby trashcan like a fluid
stream flowing through the air. The metallic snake sways strategically,
assessing its options and finally, the aluminum serpant strikes towards
Jack from behind as the hero's fists still descend down towards his
comrade who is still lying on the ground.

Donna can only blink for a moment, wondering if she's seeing what she's
seeing. But then, her cup of fresh coffee is tossed into the nearest trash
can and she's darting down toward the bar where the fight seems to be
escalating, o 0 (Great Hera, what is going on....) Her long coat ruffles
behind her and silently, she's thankful she had planned on flight as the
avenue home this evening after her walk, lest she'd been caught without
her greatest asset...her Darkstar suit, concealed under her clothing.
"Stop at once!" Its worth a try to see if the violent fray can be stopped
without further blows, but if not....

Okay, this is really, really pathetic. It's like Han Solo drunk. He
usually kicks ass in fights, but right about now he could REALLY use a
Chewbacca to bail him out. Sandy groans slightly, getting flattened again
as Triumph rolls off him, emphasizing his weight. Okay. This *sucks* is
what this is. Let's see. Hand possibly broken. Foot/ankle not in great
shape from kicking what amounts to a brick wall. Ribs not doing so well.
And now, keeping what little attention he has on Triumph, Sandy completely
misses the fact that Jack's about to utterly pound him.

*BIFF* Jack's elbow connects with the side of Sand's face, his right upper
cheek/eye. Mr. Knight can immediately tell that something doesn't feel
right. What he connected with certainly feels a lot softer than he thought
it would. He glances down, and knows what's amiss. He (a)missed his
target. Damn, and he put a lot of force into that blow too, expecting
someone invulnerable. "Jesus." he has time to state looking down at his
friend before the cans plow into his back, forcing him into his pal and
burying the both of them in stinking aluminum.

Triumph grimaces and exhales deeply, catching his breath. He holds the
flat palms of his hands out before him, parallel to eachother and draws
his hands inward towards one another even as sparks of blue energy shoot
from his hands. The cans cave in on Sand and Jack, attempting to serve as
a makeshift prison for the disorderlies.

Donna comes up behind the combatants...well, what would've been the
combatants if Jack and Sand hadn't just went tumbling to the ground amonst
the cans. Why are they moving so uncoordinated...are they? She
sighs..."Rhea help me...." She mutters and she levels her hands and the
makeshift prison is blasted apart by a well placed maser blast and the
dark haired woman stands there, surrounded by a slightly shimmering force
field and she levels her dark sapphire gaze upon Triumph. "That is more
than enough," she announces. And its not a question. She moves, circling
around to more position herself between the currently prone Sand and Jack,
just a few feet from Triumph.

And, well, that's pretty much it for Sand. Jack, you should be proud - you
knocked out Sanderson Hawkins, pulp hero, All-Star, and all-around
teriffic fighter. Granted, he was quite properly smashed, already on the
ground, and hurting massively anyway, but *still*. Impressive work, that.
The cans don't even bother him; he's completely limp and starting to bleed
interestingly.

This doesn't please Jack at all, of course. When the cans are removed from
the aforementioned unconcious Sanderson and Jack Knight himself, our
Starman can be seen covering his head with one arm and wondering what the
heck sent the force blast that freed the both of them. And then he sees
who's responsible for liberating him...and he almost wishes he was buried
again. Suddenly though, concern for his buddy takes over, and Jack diverts
his attention to the fellow he just clobbered. Patting his cheek lightly
(not the bruised one), Jack tries to rescue the man from onconsciousness.
Of course, he's hurting quite a bit himself...but he pushes past the
pain...knowing if anything serious happened to Sand neither he, nor any of
the JSA past) would ever forgive him. He's quite unaware of Triumph at
this point...hoping that Donna will be able to handle him...and not
wanting to even /look/ in her direction.