Forums / Roleplaying / Superheroes

Name: Frank Harrison
Age: 31
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 235 lbs
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Brown
Past Combat Experience: Ex-Marine
Biography: Frank Harrison was born and raised in a small farmtown hundreds of miles away from Cariosus, however, at age eighteen, he signed up for the Marines. After fighting in the Berisian Wars, he returned at age twenty-seven and began work as an apprentice tailor at a tailor-shop. At age twenty-nine, he left the tailor shop and took up work in a factory, where he worked until the Norbert Banking heist.
Description: He is somewhat sensitive to killing, not wishing to kill unless absolutely necessary, this comes from his experiences in war. He is in good physical condition, having kept in shape after his days in the Marines.

Name: Truman Ormel
Age: 58
Height: 5'3"
Weight: 207 lbs.
Hair Color: Light Gray
Eye Color: Blue
Past Combat Experience: Ex-Army
Biography: Suffering from shell-shock after several wars, Truman Ormel settled down in Cariosus, where he gets nervous break-downs every-so-often, since the city is filled with crimes, explosions, and gunshots.
Description: Suffering from shell-shock, is white, with a clean-shaved face, and short hair, wears simple t-shirts and khakis.

"So, Mr. Harrison, what made you get up and take action?" asked the interviewer as Frank Harrison sat in a rather uncomfortable chair.
"I felt like I had to, if I hadn't, a lot of people would've been killed," replied Frank.
"Why didn't you shoot them? Why'd you use your fists?" asked the interviewer.
"I honestly have no idea, but it worked, I'm still alive, they're in prison, I guess that's what matters," said Frank.
"That is very true, Mr. Harrison, very true," said the interviewer, "One last question, Norbert Banking sent you a request to sponsor you as some sort of super-hero symbol, do plan on accepting?"
"Not at all," replied Frank with a smile, "They'd probably want me to wear a cape and some ridiculous outfit."
"Haha!" exclaimed the reporter.
As the interview continued, John Miller, a man of twenty-three, watched with interest. On his television screen was one of the most courageous men he had ever seen. During a robbery, he had taken action and used his fists to stop the robbers, with minor support from a submachine gun. It was an amazing story, and it being true made it all the better.

[[OOC: I'll make this a story if nobody is going to post...-_-]]

[[OOC: Thanks Rhade! However, I don't want you to be a villain due to the fact that PvP fails 100% of the time. If you were planning on it, sorry.]]

[[Wasn't planning on it!  Sorry I didn't make it clear.  Preston will have like two attempted evil-nesses before switching, going out of town for a couple days after this, so have to write my first post tonight.  Have it deleted it if it's not going to fit so far, I'll try to catch you on MSN at some point for after this.]]

Preston continued jotting down notes as he watched the interview.  He'd seen the aftermath of the job this guy, Frank something, did firsthand, as well as the security videotapes.  It was all pretty amazing.  Despite the line of work he'd now taken up, it was kind of refreshing to see someone standing up to crime.  Unfortunately for this guy, however, he wasn't likely to see the sun rise ever again, as there was no doubt already a bounty on his head.

That's it...

Just like that, Preston realized exactly how he could earn favour with his uncle.  Even if the botched bank heist didn't reflect badly on CompuCorp, anyone standing up to criminals was a danger to organized crime in general.  All he had to do was kill this guy, who wouldn't be expecting it at all.  The perks of a job with a television station just kept coming.  Besides a press pass, which was the only way Preston had been able to pull off a lot of his jobs, he got opportunities like this.



After the interview was over, Frank headed home.  Preston, seemingly engrossed in a newspaper, strolled along a ways behind him.  He'd done some quick research and picked out Frank's apartment building before the interview had finished, so he didn't have to follow Frank too closely.  However, Preston still needed to make sure that he was actually headed home, so he followed, though not too worried whenever he lost sight of Frank from time to time.

Eventually the man entered his apartment building, and Preston hung back.  He hadn't been able to locate his apartment number, and following Frank directly up the stairs or elevator would certainly tip him off.  After waiting a few minutes, Preston entered the lobby and approached a nearby man, reading today's news.

"Excuse me, sir?  Would you happen to know where a Frank Harrison lives?"

The man looked up from his newspaper, and simply raised an eyebrow at Preston.  Flashing his press badge, Preston asked again.

The man responded rather gruffly, "Sorry, I wouldn't know anything about that."

Preston smirked, knowing exactly what this man was looking for.

Pulling a small handful of money from his pocket, Preston asked the man one more time.  The man, after counting out the money, agreed to show him the apartment.  They walked up the stairs together, until the reached Frank's floor, at which point the man nodded down the hallway and pointed out Frank's door.  Preston thanked the man and set off down the hallway, making very sure that the man was gone before he stood before the door.  Did Frank have a family?  Any guns on hand?  Preston was missing some information, sure, but if he didn't take this guy out someone else certainly would, and then Preston wouldn't get anywhere.

Taking deep breaths, Preston's grip on his pistol tightened.  Steeling himself against what he was about to do, he knocked on Frank's door.

     Right as he did, however, the door to the stairs opposite those Preston had come up opened.  Slightly more worrying, however, was that Preston picked up the faight sound of a gun being cocked.  Without waiting, he took off back towards the stairs he had come up, running as quietly as he could, right next to the walls so as to make as little noise as possible.  Rounding the corner at the end of the hallway, Preston nearly ran right into the man who had showed him to Frank's apartment, who also had a gun drawn.  The two stared at each other in surprise for a split-second before the sound of a door opening and a gunshot diverted their attention.

     Peeking around the corner, the men heard another gunshot, and then witnessed a baseball bat come crashing down onto the would-be assassin's head.  With one last look at each other, both took off down the stairs.

(Know that it's crap, but thought that I'd just post to ensure that I'm still here, I'll post soon when I'm slightly less busy)

Adam stumbled out of the car as his hands frantically searched through the dead man's bloodied coat, occasionally looking sideways to to check if anyone was watching.

As he reversed his 'borrowed' car there came a sickening crunch as the dead man's bones got crushed once more. Driving at a moderate pace Adam's breathing slowed down to a normal rate as he became convinced that no one was following him. True, he had killed in the military but that mystifyingly enough, was strangely exciting in a way and gave him a kick like few other things did but now that he no longer belonged to the army every time he took a life there seemed to be no rush of emotions, no feeling of accomplishment . He'd wake up at the dead of night sweating, the faces of all those whom he had killed racing through his mind, wondering if he ever did make a wise choice by coming over to the city.

Pulling himself out of his reverie Adam examined closely the package he'd recovered from the dead man. It had his photo, instructions to kill him and some cash undersigned with Paul.
The name seemed strangely familiar but Adam was unable to remember where he'd come across it before. Pondering upon the name Adam drove off into the sunset thinking very hard as to what lay ahead of him.

[[Oh cmon now, just continue anyway.]]

Adrenaline was still rushing rapidly through Preston's veins.  He had just witnessed a man die, in a situation that, had fate and luck not intervened, Preston himself could have just as easily been in.  He was very heavily shaken, as was the man sitting next to him, slowly driving his car away from the apartment building.  Eventually the two reached a small coffee shop, where the man pulled over.

"Why are we stopping here?"  Preston asked.

The man chuckled gruffly and looked over, "Because I need a smoke, and I need to figure out what the hell just happened."

Preston conceded the latter point, and followed him into the shop, where they both took seats at the counter.  After they had left the apartments, Preston and the man had been reluctant to split up, feeling that it would not only be more suspicious, but that it was much safer to have two guns and four eyes than half that number.

After the man had begun smoking his cigarette, and Preston was nearly finished with his drink, the man introduced himself rather abruptly as Robert.

"My name's Preston..."

"Nice to meet ya, Preston.  Back there in the apartments...you're no reporter, are you?" Robert asked, sizing Preston up very subtly.

Preston shook his head, "No, I am...just...not what I was there for, I guess.  From what I've gathered you weren't just innocently sitting around the lobby, though."

Robert shrugged, "Innocent..guilty...those are vague terms in this city.  I certainly wasn't there by choice."

Preston finished his drink, then looked over.  "How'd you end up waiting around to assassinate that guy, then?"

"I'm a cop," Robert replied, with a sort of sad half smile, "but after I pressed a little too hard somebody followed through on their threats and kidnapped my family.  I got a phone call today giving me this name and address, and my family goes free if I kill him."

"And if you don't?"

Robert looked down, "They kill all of us."

After sitting in silence for a few minutes Robert put out his cigarette.  Time passed as the two made smalltalk and spoke halfheartedly about what Frank might try to do next, and what the best way to deal with him would be.  They never arrived at anything close to an answer to that question.  After a quick meal and some more talking, however, something on the television caught Preston's eye.

He motioned at one of the employees, "Hey, can you turn the television up for a second?"

The waitress rolled her eyes at him, but then complied, allowing Preston and Robert to hear an SNN broadcast about Frank Harrison and today's events. 

"--ximately two hours ago, a gruesome scene took place in a local apartment building.  To anyone with a weak stomach, you might want to change the channel..."  The two listened as the reporter relayed how Frank had not only killed one assassin, showing the burtal pictures of that one's skull, but had defeated and disarmed a second, suffering only light injuries.

"Shit," Preston remarked, "this guy's like some kind of superhero.  I wonder how pissed all the crime bosses are right now?  Not only has this guy been sticking it to them, over and over, but now the whole city knows about it.  You know, maybe this vigilante thing is the way people should've been doing it the whole time, no offense to the police, of course."

Robert shrugged again, "This guy will just get  himself killed eventually, he won't make much difference in the long run."

Preston shook his head, "He's making a ripple, and that's something.  My dad was gunned down as a cop, and he barely made an impression on crime in this damned city...some young punk trying to make a name for himself shot him for the glory of it.."

Robert looked at Preston hard for a second, "Kind of like you, huh?"

Preston, shocked, angrily turned to Robert, "What!?  How could you--"

"Hey!  Listen, listen I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.  It was--"

Preston, now looking down, waved him off.  "No...my god...you're right.  When I was young I was always so proud that my dad was fighting crime in this city, and so angry when he died like that...and now..."

"I'm sorry," said Robert, shaking his head.  "I know how easy it is to get caught up in stuff like this here, I'm a policeman trying to assassinate one of the only guys to make any real kind of difference lately for God's sake."

Preston looked back up at Robert, "Yeah, but I have no excuse.  I...I don't know.  I need to think, about a lot of things."

"You're not the only one, kid," Robert answered, standing up.  "I think I'm going to head home and pick up a few things.  I have a general idea of where they might be keeping my family...and after all this...I've got to try.  I live about 12 blocks easy of here, can I drop you off anywhere?"

Preston stood, dumping some money on the counter. "I'll just ride with you, if that's alright.  There's a friend's apartment over in that area that I can walk to."

The two made the car ride in near silence, both lost in their respective thoughts, until Robert pulled over in front his apartment building, parallel parking behind a poorly parked black car.  The two got out and shook hands, and as Robert began to fumble with his keys to get to the one that would let him into his apartment, Preston began to walk away.  After he had taken a few steps, however, several car doors opened nearly simultaneously, and he slowed.  As he was turning around, Robert yelled "F***!" and Preston heard his keys drop to the ground.

Three men stood around Robert, one pulling a knife from him as another began to pull him towards the black car.  The third stood apart, gun drawn and pointed at Preston.

"And just who the hell are you?" asked the man.  "You didn't see anything happen here....or did you?  You look kind of shifty that way."

The first man, who was now cleaning off his knife, looked up at Preston.  "Nah, nah, I've seen this kid before.  That's John's nephew, don't touch him."

"Yeah, well, you didn't see anything.  Now get the fuck out of here!"  exclaimed the man as they all began to return to their car, the engine still running.

This entire time Preston's blood had been boiling hotter and hotter.  He had made the decision to kill them as soon as he'd seen the knife come out of Robert, but he'd had no real idea how.  Drawing a gun on three armed men had seemed like a really bad idea, but now that they were all in the car...

The keys...

As the black car began to drive away, Preston ran forward, picking up Robert's keys from the ground and getting into his car from the passenger side, sliding over.  It was a rather large car, tan coloured, and Preston had, at a glance, decided that it could do plenty of damage to the black car, which was currently speeding away very quickly indeed.  Thankfully Robert's car had some power that Preston hadn't expected from it, and he began gaining on the black car.  After nearly a mile of speeding down the road, the black car had apparently taken notice, and had increased its speed.  As it approached the next intersection, however, it began to slow down, and Preston knew exactly what he was going to do.  Tires squealing, the black car slid into a left turn.  Preston had no intention of turning, and had never taken his foot off the accelerator.  As the car made its turn, its left side was presented, and Preston slammed directly into it.

The impact set off Preston's airbag, cushioning him from the worst of the wreck, but also blocking his view of the black car.  Very disoriented, Preston fought off the airbag and stumbled out the door, drawing his gun.  The crash had greatly dented the left side of the car, which then had pushed the front right corner of it into the light pole on the corner of the street, causing the car to spin around before crashing directly into a concrete pillar in the storefront there.  Preston approached the car from the right side as onlookers began to gather, noting that whoever had been in the passenger seat was now laying on the dash, partially through the broken windshield, fully unconscious or dead.  The man who had earlier drawn his gun on Preston, however, was beginning to look around with squinted eyes.

Running at the car, Preston flung open the back right door and, without hesitating, pulled the trigger twice, hitting the man in the neck and the head, killing him almost instantly.  The driver of the car was not in good condition, his legs having been crushed by the crash and subsequent pillar.  In a fit of mercy, Preston put his gun to the back of the man's head and shot before turning his attention to Robert.

he pulled the blindfold and tape off carefully, noting the profuse bleeding from the stab wound in Robert's chest, which had probably been exacerbated by the wreck.  Robert, breathing heavily and still disoriented was slow to recognize Preston, but once he did he began to talk, very slowly and deliberately.

"I've seen wounds like this...I won't make it.  No--" Robert cut off Preston as he was about to speak, "let me say this.  In my apartment I've got some supplies and some research on who has my family.  If you want to redeem yourself...help them.  Please, help them."

At this point, Preston picked up the faint sound of sirens in the distance, which Robert quickly noticed too.

"Go...run now"

Preston hesitated, then nodded, gathering Robert's gun as well as the gun of the dead man in the back seat before covering his face with his arm and taking off down the street, darting into the nearest alleyway for cover.

Cariosus Federal Prison

Vincent Armand Wagner was sitting on a bed in a prison cell, the door was open, and he could hear the noises outside.
"Hey there Vincie boy," said a man, causing Vincent's head to turn. The man was the same height as Vincent, and Vincent recognized him as Blood, one of his fellow assassins in the Organization.
"Hello Blood," muttered Vincent.
"You know, our superiors want you dead...for your failure, makes us look bad," said Blood.
"I didn't reveal my actual superiors, is that not good enough?" asked Vincent.
"Only perfection is good enough, sorry Skull," said Blood before approaching Vincent, a prison shank sliding from his sleeve. As he drew ever closer, Vincent rose from his bed.
"Don't make this difficult," suggested Blood.
Blood made a quick stab, and Skull used both hands to grab and twist Blood's arm. Blood punched at Skull, and Skull ducked down, twisting and throwing Blood over him. He then kicked Blood, and Blood grabbed his foot, pulling him to the ground and jumping up, stabbing at Skull as he did so. Skull grabbed Blood's arm once again, and Blood kneed the rising Skull several times before tackling him into a wall and making several quick stabs, only to discover that his shank had broken. Skull punched Blood in the face once, then again, then again, and pushed him into a wall before kneeing him and punching him several more times, causing him to fall to the floor. Skull was looking around for a potential weapon when several prison guards entered the room and pushed Skull against the wall while pulling Blood up.
"This...ain't over," muttered Blood.
"The hell it isn't!" yelled a guard as they dragged Blood away.
The two guards that were left beat Skull as a warning.

Frank Harrison woke up and rested in bed for five minutes before getting up and opening his suitcase. Inside was a blue suit, a white dress shirt, a red tie, several changes of clothes, several pairs of socks, several pairs of underwear, a pair of tennis shoes, and a pair of dress shoes. Also in the suitcase was a black skimask, a blue baseball cap, and a few hooded sweatshirts. Frank looked outside, it was cloudy, and he felt that it was cold. He took a shower before getting dressed. He put on a pair of jeans, a red shirt, and his brown hiking boots that he had been wearing the night before. Afterwards, he slid a pistol into his waistline and put on his brown leather jacket, which he had also been wearing the night before. Now dressed, Frank turned on the television.
"-everal violent murders occured last night in the Baywood district where several young men were brutally gunned down. Authorities believe that this was a solo operation, as all of the deaths were caused by the same weapon, a .44 magnum. More violence occured on the corner of 22nd and Golom street, when a tan Framington Speedwagon crashed with a black Sercom Dorave at high speeds. Four men were killed, only one was killed by the collision, the passenger; Roy Clark. Officer Robert Kenoll of the Cariosus Police Department was riding in the back when he was stabbed, probably by one of the men riding in the car with him. The other men were Anthony Sarris and Lawrence Hanson, who were brutally murdered by shots to the neck and head. Several people saw the man in the Framington Speedwagon shoot the three men before watching him speak with the dying police officer. Nobody could identify him, any information should be given to the Cariosus Police Department."
The news broadcast continued, stating that the police officer had probably been kidnapped by the others in the car, and Frank sat back. Did his actions at Norbert Banking set this off? He hoped not, since a police officer had been killed. That much violence in one night couldn't have been by chance. He then began thinking about the news. The man with the .44 magnum was probably a rather disturbing attempt at vigilante justice, but who was the man from the wreck? He had spoken with the officer, and it had seemed to be a somewhat friendly one to the onlookers. Maybe the officer had been corrupt? Maybe the men who had kidnapped him were trying to bribe him? But then, who was the man in the Speedwagon? It didn't really matter, Frank concluded. Frank was a marked man, and a lot of contracts were sure to be out on him. He didn't have much reason to go outside, why would he? It would almost be begging for somebody to come and put a bullet in his head. He would stay inside, at least until he needed some food.

Preston, after having darted through a number of alleys and other less trafficked thoroughfares, finally arrived at his friend's apartment, who was eventually persuaded to give Preston a ride out to his uncle's mansion.  Upon his arrival he noted that there were more cars than usual, but shrugged it off, as sometimes his uncle would hold business meetings in the house.

Not really wanting to be seen with a stack of files naming dirty cops and such, Preston slipped in a side door and deposited them quietly in his room before making up his mind to ask his uncle about the warehouse.  If anyone give him any information, it would be his uncle.

He found his uncle with a number of men, just getting ready to go into his home office, where a number of meetings had taken place in the past.  Before entering, however, his uncle, Gerald M. Wolfe, noticed Preston and broke away from the group of men for a moment.

Greeting him warmly, though not entirely sincere, Gerald opened his arms, "Preston!  What can I do for you today?"

Speaking a little softly, "I had a question about this warehouse...I was wondering--"

His uncle cut him off, "Ah!  Business?  That can wait, I'm already involved.  I'll work with once I get done with this meeting.  I believe supper is almost ready?"

With that, Gerald walked back to his meeting, and all enclosed themselves in his office to conduct their business, leaving Preston irritated and slightly confused.  After grabbing a snack from the kitchen where dinner was, indeed, almost ready, Preston seated himself in one of the living rooms, beginning to watch TV.  He almost choked on his sandwich when he saw what the broadcast was about however, as the stunt he had pulled earlier today was now all over the news.  Not really wanting his uncle, a crime lord, to walk out and see this, Preston quickly changed the channel.  This station, however, had already picked up his scuffle at Robert's apartment.

"This incident, possibly related to the car wreck and murders earlier today, is almost undoubtedly an example of the new vigilante justice which seems to be popping up in isolated incidents across the city.  A certain Adrian Pulaski, who had worked with the police force here for over ten years, was found murdered in Robert Kenoll's apartment, who had earlier in the day been stabbed to death.  Most interestingly was the fact that, scattered across the body, there were pictures and some research on Officer Pulaski, as well as a written accusation that he was a corrupt officer, all of this presumably done by Officer Kenoll.  However, investigators put the time of death of Officer Pulaski shortly after that of Kenoll, meaning some mystery vigilante decided to dispense justice in this case.  Officer Kenoll's desk was ransacked, and a number of things appear to have been taken, also presumably research done by Kenoll into possibly corrupt individuals."

At this Preston switched off the television.  Damned police department had so many leaks that, had it been a boat, the passangers would have a better chance on their own. 

We all have a better chance on our own...the police can't do anything anymore.  This city's too far gone...but maybe...people like Frank.  I can help.

Grabbing a hoodie from his room, Preston decided to go check out the warehouse.  As he prepared to leave, however, he passed by his uncle's office one last time, and overheard bits and pieces of the conversation that stopped him in his tracks.

"--dead! Pulaski too...and Kenoll's in the hospital right now, critical condition!"

"Keep your voice down!"

The voices dropped to murmurs now, but Preston was already stuck, he had to hear more.  Moving to the other wall, he approached a vent near the cieling, having to balance precariously on the back of a couch.

"We'll take care of Kenoll, won't be too hard.  Have we killed his family yet?  No?  Then let's finish that too.  They're still in CompuCorp's warehouse, right?"

Preston immediately got down off of the couch, he had heard more than enough.  He needed to get out of the mansion, and quickly.  As he was just about to leave, however, his uncle walked out of the office and called to him.

"Preston!  What was it that you needed?  Something about a warehouse?"

Preston had to think quickly, but was able to formulate a plan somewhat rapidly in his head.  "That warehouse on Solara, it's owned by CompuCorp, right?"

His uncle nodded, with a hint of suspicion.

"It's just that...I have reason to believe that this Frank Harrison guy...he might be going after that warehouse for some reason."

"And who the hell told you that?"

"An informant...but...if Harrison does come...can I be there?  I want a shot at this guy."

Gerald stared at his nephew, still somewhat suspicious, but not suspecting the truth at all.  "Alright, but in the future you share your informants with me.  I'll call over and tell them to let you into the safehouse.  It'll get pretty fun there tonight, anyway.

Preston's mind was racing.  His plan was actually working so far!  As he turned to go, however, his uncle stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.  Heart pounding, Preston turned back.

"You might want to take better care of yourself, though.  That bruise on your face isn't flattering at all."

Frank walked into a middle-class bar and sat down at a low-profile booth. He heard the name "Harrison" and turned his head to look at the television.
"The spree of vigilante activities has just grown. Four men were found tied up outside the Sunshine Hotel in the Belmorn district," the anchorman continued by giving details on each of the men, also mentioning the gunshot wound, he then continued by naming Frank a suspect, due to his now empty hotel room being around three hundred feet away. Afterwards, he gave a recap on the recent vigilante activity, with the murder of Officer Robert Kenoll, and the shooting of several greasers in the Baywood district. It also stated that Officer Kenoll’s family was missing, and Frank immediately drew conclusions based on the dirty cop pictures found on Pulaski’s body. Several dirty cops had kidnapped Kenoll’s family in an attempt to blackmail him. They had hired some thugs to kidnap him, maybe for not handing over some evidence? No, that didn’t make sense, they could’ve just broken into his apartment and taken it…but Kenoll couldn’t have been stupid enough to keep all of his evidence in one spot. Maybe he kept it in a storage, or with a friend in case of his death. No, if that were the case, then the evidence would be public by now. Unless of course they found out who the friend was. It didn’t matter, what mattered was that Kenoll had died in a car collision while being kidnapped. Who had crashed into the car? Had a friend been attempting to rescue him? Frank didn’t know, he didn’t need to know right now. What mattered was that Kenoll’s family was missing, and he owed it to the clean cop to make sure that his family didn’t die too. Without even ordering a drink, Frank walked out of the bar. He needed a lead to follow, did Pulaski have any friends?

John Miller was walking home from the docks, it had seemed like a long day, but Miller was used to long days. He walked home through the lower class part of town, as usual, but on his way through he heard a noise. He looked into an alley and saw several men beating the hell out of a lone man. Inspired by Harrison's recent activities, Miller picked up a metal pipe and walked into the alley. Upon closer inspection, he saw that there were four men total, three of which were dressed in somewhat respectable clothing, and the leader was wearing a black business suit. The man in the suit waved his hand, and one man drew a silenced pistol, aimed it at the beaten man's head, and fired, causing brains, skull fragments, and blood to fly across the alley's hard floor.
"Boss, we have company," said the thug as he aimed his pistol at Miller, "Don't move!"
Miller froze, he couldn't do much with a gun aimed at him.
"Hmm, a hero, beat him," said their leader, his voice seemed commanding and charismatic, though it lost the charisma with the violent order. The three thugs closed in on Miller, and Miller raised his pipe in defiance. The thugs laughed, and Miller jumped at one, only to be beaten by another. He turned around, smashing the one who had punched him in the shoulder. He then found himself being punched by all three at once, while their leader watched, his face unemotional. Miller didn't give up, every time the beating ceased, he attempted to rise, only to be kicked back down. Bones broke, blood flowed freely, but he still defied their beatings.
"Stop," ordered their leader as he walked closer, "Have you learned not to interfere?"
"No," coughed Miller, along with a bit of blood.
"Give him my mark," ordered their leader.
One man pulled Miller up from his laying position while another pulled out a knife and pushed it into Miller's forehead. He created a deep cut from Miller's right forehead to Miller's right cheek. Miller fell to the ground, blood from his multiple wounds pouring onto the cement. Without any words, the leader of the group stepped out onto the sidewalk and into the back of a black sedan. The other men entered as well, and the car drove off, leaving Miller to bleed in the dark alleyway.

***

Patrick Kephart rose from his bed and walked across to the other apartment. He proceeded to knock on a door. A woman of plain looks answered, and she looked as if she had been severely beaten recently.
"Patrick, hello," said the woman.
"Hello Gracie, are you alright?" asked Patrick.
"I am, have you heard? Those thugs that beat me, they're dead," said Gracie, seeming somewhat sad.
"I did, and you seem upset?" asked Patrick.
"They were human beings, they didn't deserve to die, even if they did beat me around a bit. It doesn't feel right talking to you in my doorway, come in," said Gracie.
Patrick stepped inside, and looked at Gracie.
"Gracie, they raped you," said Patrick.
"They didn't deserve death, regardless," said Gracie, "I should be the one making judgement, it happened to me, remember?"
"Yes, I know," admitted Patrick, "They probably won't be missed."
"They had mothers, sisters, brothers, and fathers, they were punks, not demon-spawn," said Gracie, "Let's not talk of this anymore...would you like something to drink?"
"I'm fine," said Patrick.
"Lets watch a movie," suggested Gracie, "A good cowboy movie is on in half an hour."
"Sure," said Patrick, though not in the least bit interested in watching his favorite genre of motion pictures at the moment.

"Did you bring a gun with you?"

Preston shook his head, despite the pistol already tucked in his waistline.  He had no idea what he was going to do yet, but extra firepower could hurt.  The man standing in front of him motioned to two men in black suits standing a few feet away, one of whom produced his gun from his jacket, handing it to Preston.  After quickly examining the weapon, he slid it into the front of his pants, after making very sure that the safety was on.

This all took place on the warehouse floor, where a number of employees were currently at work.  The warehouse was large, holding a number of electronic components in rows and rows of large, metal shelves.  While it would have been possible to sneak through this floor relatively easily, the number of workers around made Preston glad that he had been able to use his uncle to get in.  None of them looked twice as the gun was exchanged, which made Preston realize that they were perfectly used to transactions of this kind.  While they didn't seem to be involved in whatever went on underground, they certainly knew that there was something criminal going on here.  In this city though...where could you go where there wasn't?

The man in charge who had secured the gun for Preston, by the name of Alex Sergeevna, known in the criminal world as a very intelligent, though slightly pompous, leader.  He motioned for Preston to follow him and, as he did, the two other men fell in step behind them.

"We'll have that cop's family taken care of before Harrison gets here.  I don't want anything going wrong.  He may be smart, but we know he's coming.  We'll have some guys waiting for him."

As they descended the stairs in the back of the warehouse, Preston slowed.  "Are we not going to the family first?"

Alex shook his head, "I don't like the dirtier parts of this job, so I let other people take care of it.  For men of my caliber, such tasks are best left to others."

"If you don't mind...I'd like to be there."  They had reached the bottom of the stairs, and Alex turned, somewhat surprised by Preston's request.  "It's just that..I don't have much experience in this sort of thing yet, and my uncle wants me to be more involved.

Alex shrugged, "Whatever you'd like."  He nodded at the guard who had given Preston his gun, and walked off down a hallway to the right.  The guard walked off in the other direction, apparently expecting Preston to follow him, which Preston did.  The two passed a number of rooms which were mostly shut, though one door had been slightly open.  In that room he had seen a man sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but boxers and a blindfold, and bleeding from multiple cuts on his body.  Some kind of prisoner, which Preston filed away for later.  If the man had any sanity left, he might make a good, if angry, ally, at least for a short amount of time.

There were only a few more doors left in the hallway when the guard stopped at one on the left.  He pushed the door open, and walked into the room, where Preston saw Robert's wife and daughter tied to chairs, back to back, and not looking very healthy.  Still fully clothed, at least.

Also in the room were three other men, one of whom already had a gun drawn, just waiting on their official orders to dispatch their charges so that they could get back to whatever other lawbreaking was on their plate.  All the guard had to do was nod at the man with the gun before he immediately walked over to the woman and girl.  He first removed their blindfolds, grinning widely.  Preston had no doubt that he would've enjoyed these murders...he had to find some way to stop them.

As the man stepped back and raised his gun, he looked back at the other men.  "Ten dollars says I can get them both in one shot.  Yeah?"

One of the other men chuckled, and replied that he'd take that bet.  Preston's rage was growing, especially as he saw the incredibly fearful looks in the females' eyes.  Time seemed to slow down as the man with the gun turned his head and leveled his gun at Robert's wife, finding the right angle to try and kill both.  Not able to let it go any further, Preston blurted out "Wait!" with no real plan still.

The man with the gun simply rolled his eyes and drawled out "Fuuck.  I knew it was a bad idea to let this kid come in.  I told you all he'd get cold feet!"

Preston simply glared, "Think again.  It's just that...I want to try it."

"Bullshit.  You want to execute these girls?  What the hell woman fucked you up?"  The man shrugged, "Would've been fun, but I have to see this."

With that, he grabbed the barrel of his gun and held it out to Preston.  Preston nodded, walked over and took it slowly.  This left two of the four men in the room unarmed...and Preston holding three guns.  He couldn't have planned it any better.

"You were doing it wrong, anyway," said Preston as he stepped around to the girl's side of the chairs.  "Her head'll be softer, make it easier to get through both."

As he said that, and raised the gun, the look she was giving him was completely rending his heart.  She'd hopefully be thanking him soon, however.  Closing his eyes and breathing heavily, Preston glanced up at the men again.  The two armed men were standing in the middle, while the guard stood closer to the door, opposite the man who'd also given up his gun.

Steeling himself, Preston addressed the man.  "How's this for cold feet?"

Raising his gun, Preston fired one relatively well aimed shot into the chest of the armed man on the right, at the same time pulling one of his other guns from the front of his waistline.  Raising that one as well, he fired two slightly more hastily at the other armed man, one missing completely, and the other striking him in the shoulder.  He finished him off with one pull from his right hand, however, the bullet flying through his left eye.

The man on the far right, who was originally going to shoot the two girls, was still frozen, so Preston turned his guns on the guard, who was now attempting to get out of the door.  He'd been standing on the wrong side of it, however, and was not able to get out of the door quickly enough to dodge the bullets.  One ripped through his left shoulder-blade, as the other two destroyed his stomach and intestines.  While not dead, he was certainly dying, and wouldn't be doing any damage to anyone soon, so with that Preston turned to the right again, staring down the man.

"What the hell, man?  What the hell are you doing?"

Preston smirked.  "I'm taking care of business.  Doing what the police either wouldn't, or couldn't do because of the massive corruption in this city.  Robert was a good man from what I gathered in the short time I knew him.  To watch him die, and then be forced to watch his family die too...none of them deserved any of this.  You, however, deserve this."  Preston pulled both triggers as he finished, firing one bullet straight into the heart of the man as the other struck him somewhere mid-torso.  He checked the other two men for signs of life, and then walked over to the guard, firing one shot with the muzzle of the gun close to the back of his head.

Finishing, and wiping the blood spatter on the dead man's clothing, Preston walked over to the women.  They were terrified of him, and he didn't blame them.  He untied them, however, and handed one of his guns to the woman.

"Your husband died...I knew him for a very short time, but he told me what these people did to you, and to him.  He was a good man, and I'm sorry.  I'll try to get the two of you out of here..."

Robert's wife shook her head.  "I'm not leaving yet, I can't."

Shocked, Preston sputtered, "What?"

At that moment, however, the little girl screamed, and Preston turned just in time to see a man standing in the doorway and aiming a gun at him, giving Preston just enough time to begin a dive to the right.  Bullets are rather speedy, however, and the man was able to fire off a shot at Preston anyway, which struck him in the left arm.  Had he not been able to dive, Preston probably would have been dead right then, but even now he was on the ground and had dropped both of his weapons in the bright flash of pain that had accompanied the bullet.  As the man in the doorway leveled his gun at Preston once again, a shot rang out.  The man fell to the ground, clutching at his throat, until another shot took off a part of his head, ending his struggle.  Surprised, Preston looked over to see Mrs. Kenoll shaking with anger, and still holding her gun at the doorway.

"I can handle myself.  I need to protect my daughter, however, so let's hurry.  I won't leave until we free the other people they're keeping here, and deal with the man who runs this warehouse.  I can't go anywhere until he's dead."

The utter lack of emotion, aside from twitches of anger, in the womans face haunted Preston, and he readily agreed to what she said.  He hadn't really planned on going further than just rescuing Kenoll's family...but...

Preston kept a watch at the door as the woman, whose name, he had learned, was Emile, tore strips from one of the deceased men's shirts to use as a bandage until Preston could get better help.  Apparently the noise of the gunshots hadn't carried very far down the hallway, which made sense, since the building had been constructed with this sort of soundproofing in mind.

After a very painful wrapping of the injury, which had both and entry and exit wound, which relieved Preston, they were ready to go.  While he might be able to use his left arm at the expense of a lot of pain and possible further damage to his arm, Preston preferred not to, and so let Emile take the other gun as well, though he tucked an extra from one of the dead men into his waistline again.

"Alright," said Preston, looking at the determined woman before him.  "Let's go."

Preston had taken Emile and her daughter from room to room shortly after dealing with the men who would've killed them.  In the first few rooms they had found nothing.  In the fourth room Preston walked into, however, he found an incredibly bloody scene before him.  There was a man laying out on a table and Preston couldn't imagine that his flayed body was still alive, but he quickly made a mental note to call paramedics along with police as soon as they got out of this place.

Not wanting Emile or her daughter to see the carnage, he simply turned around and shook his head as he shut the door.  It was sort of disheartening that they hadn't found any other prisoners yet, but Preston realized that that meant that less people had been suffering in the first place.

Finally they pushed into the room where Preston had seen the blindfolded and bloody man earlier, and closed the door behind them.  As Preston moved over to the man, he instructed Emile to listen at the door and alert him if anyone went by.  If a guard went into the room they had just left...the alarm would be raised in a matter of seconds.  If Emile did happen to miss it, Preston had lifted a radio from the guard as well as his gun, so they would know immediately.

Turning his attention to the bound man in the chair, he slowly lifted the blindfold.  The man reacted instantly, having somehow slipped his feet out of the rope that had been holding them, shot out his legs and wrapped them around Preston's.  He twisted and pulled back, causing his chair to topple over along with Preston, but stopped cold when he found himself staring at a little girl instead of other guards.

Preston, realizing that he'd never mentioned that he wasn't with the criminals, took this opportunity.  "We're here to help!"

Standing up, and righting the man's chair, he untied his hands, and as the man moved to take the bloody gag from his mouth, Preston stayed him for a moment.  "Make sure that you keep quiet, there's still guards around, and we have to find a way out of here."

Feeling a great sense of really sad irony, the man pulled the gag out, then opened his mouth to Preston, who immediately turned away, close to gagging.  The man's tongue had been mangled and eventually cut mostly off by whoever had been torturing him.  While it had later been cauterized to stop the bleeding, it still looked infected and very unhealthy.  This man would certainly need medical attention after they got him out.

Preston merely nodded, and before they could get any further, Emile whispered his name.  Preston moved to the door, and heard a couple of voices as well as a number of steps moving past.  How many was it?  Three, four?  No good, either way.  Waiting for them to get into the room wouldn't work...sneaking four people out past an alerted warehouse was nearly impossible.  They needed another way out, but they needed to find that way first, before they went randomly wandering around.

So...they waited.  Preston figured his best plan at this point would be to wait for them to leave the hallway again, or at least to kill them as they tried to get into this room, which provided them some very limited cover.  He had peeked into the hallway a couple of times, and seen noone after the group had entered the room, but a man had eventually come back into the hallway, wielding some kind of automatic weapon.

Preston waited, having decided to use this guard, wearing a ski mask, as their source of information for the way out.  With his left arm injured, though, he'd be no good in close combat...he'd have to take him with the threat of his gun alone.  As the steps quietly passed, with the door slightly open Preston was able to see the shadow as well, Preston waited.  It had been a risk having the door open at all, but otherwise the soundproofing would have not allowed them to hear the man.  Quietly, after he was sure that the man was slightly pass the door, Preston opened it completely and raised his gun towards the man's head.

Quietly, Preston got his attention, "Stop.  If you make a noise, I'll shoot you.  Keep your hands up and away from the gun, and back into this room.  Alert anybody, and you're finished."

Frank Harrison slowly complied, questions running through his head.  One of the criminals wouldn't be doing this, they'd have no need to be quiet...

As the man backed into the room, Preston never took his eyes gun off of him.  "Emile..go get his gun.  You do anything to her, I'll blow you apart."

That name...it was clearing up for Frank.  Emile had been the name of Robert's wife.  The person who'd killed the other guards, he was still here.

As Emile collected Frank's gun, he slowly turned, wanting to make sure.  After he saw what he'd been hoping for, Robert's daughter, he had no doubt left.

Preston spoke first, "You're going to tell us how to get out of here, now.  What's the quickest way out?"

Frank nodded.  "I'll do it, don't worry.  My name is Frank Harrison, I'm here for the same reason you are."  At that he began to slowly move his hands towards the bottom of his mask, preparing to reveal his face.

Preston gaped slightly, still aiming at Frank.  He'd told his uncle that Frank was coming here, but he'd never expected to actually run into Frank here.  The guards had even been alerted that Harrison was coming, and he still managed his way in?  As Frank removed his ski mask Preston recognized him and lowered his gun.

"How did you get in here?  And how'd you find out about this place?"

Frank, feeling a little calmer without a gun aimed at his head, responded, "There was a news report, and I looked into it.  It led me here.  I assume the room we walked into down there was your handiwork?  Either way, it doesn't matter.  There's a number of guards that won't be checking in soon, and we need to get them out."

Preston nodded, "That's what I was thinking.  No way we can out out through the warehouse floor though, I've been through it and there's way too many workers."

Frank shook his head, "That wouldn't work, but I came in a different way, and I've got a van parked just outside the fence towards the back."

"Alright," Preston replied.  "I've got a fair amount of confidence in you, everything considered.  Name's Preston, by the way."

"Frank, let's go," and with that, he pulled the ski mask back down, there'd be time to worry about names and other questions later, assuming they got out.  He certainly had a few questions for Preston.  "I'm still dressed as a guard, so I'll go ahead of you.  If I'm spotted it won't matter, but I'd prefer we not raise the alarm earlier than it's going to happen anyway."

Preston nodded and motioned for everyone to get ready as Frank checked the hallway and walked out the door, carrying his gun again and acting just like a guard on patrol.  After making sure that the tortured man could still walk, Preston walked into the hallway too, waiting for the motion from Frank before heading down the hallway past the original stairs he had come down.  It wasn't a very long walk, and with Frank in the lead, it was rather uneventful as well.  Eventually they all reached the stairs that Frank had come in through, and turned to the left, locating the door which led to the outside. 

At this point Frank pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to Preston.  "I'm going to head for the perimeter and try to make a distraction, away from this area.  You've got the radio, so once the guards are called to my position, make a break for it.  I cut a hole in the fence that way," said Frank, motioned towards the back, "and the van is just beyond that."

Preston and Frank nodded at each other, and Preston brought his gun up as he waited by the door.  Frank was either really brave or really stupid, but seeing what he'd accomplished so far, he didn't seem stupid at all.

As the radio came to life with the sound of pleas and threats for help, Preston lead the small group out the door and began making their way carefully towards the perimeter fence.  He decided to stick close to the building, as Emile had pointed out a guard, leaving his post on the perimeter fence, moving quickly to the east.

Making sure that the man never noticed them as he went, Preston was eventually sure that the man was never going to turn back, and continued along the wall.  As they neared the corner, however, Preston was looking back, and didn't notice two men come running around the corner, sub-machine guns already in their hands.  Thankfully, Emile had been paying attention and also had her gun ready, but was mostly inaccurate, only striking one man in the lower stomach and mid-torso, and missing the other completely.

The one who had been struck by the bullets had, out of pain, dropped his weapon and crumpled, though the other man had recovered from his shock and began to pull the trigger on his weapon as he turned it to aim at the group.  The man whom they had rescued from the building, badly tortured and with little to no tongue, however, had grabbed the gun tucked into the back of Preston's waistline as soon as he had noticed the men, and now fired two bullets.  Both struck nearly perfectly, one between the eyes and the other about an inch down and right, through the man's cheekbone.  This caused his spray of bullets to divert harmlessly to the right of the group.

Preston had intentionally not given the mute man a gun, but as he tried to hand it back now, Preston refused.  The man had more than proven himself.  The rest of the trip to the van was uneventful, and aside from minor scratches getting through the hole in the fence, everyone made it no worse off than when they left the building.  Preston gave the van a quick check, noticing with approval that Frank had managed to weld some steel plating on the inside of the van's sides.  That would provide them with a lot of protection if things got nasty at any point.

After getting everyone into the van, Preston began to drive forward slowly, approaching the street where Frank would end up if he managed to make it out his own way.  As per the plan, Preston would wait, but if the radio went off that Frank was down...the group would have to be off.

((OOC: Big lag is definitely my bad...))

Preston gunned the acceleration, and the van lurched forward with a speed that he hadn't been expecting.  After driving a few blocks at high speed, he slowed quickly and took a sharp right into a wide alley.  On the way through, he struck a trashcan that looked like it had been used recently for a fire, and one man had to jump out of the way rather quickly, but aside from that the van made it through alright.  Preston looked back at the man whom they had rescued from the basement of the warehouse.  His tongue had been in bad shape, and he needed real medical attention.  While Preston's arm could be dealt with outside of a hospital, this guy's problem couldn't be fixed quite as easily.

"We're going to have to drop you at a hospital.  I'm sorry, but that's really the best we can do right now.  I'm pretty sure I just got completely on the bad side of organized crime..."

the man didn't look very happy, be he didn't object, either.  Preston took another right and began to make his way towards Cariosus General Hospital.

"So...Frank Harrison...  Got any other plans?"

{Terribly sorry that I've been unable to post but it might just be the topic of the RP or something wrong with me because of which I'm having to force myself to write.]

Frank Harrison been silently analyzing the situation for a while, and had deduced that Preston had been affiliated with the criminals in the warehouse, and his Uncle probably still was. Based on how the bodies in the interogation room were, Preston was probably near the chair when he turned around and shot the other men in the room. That meant that they had trusted him, maybe even enough to perform the execution. No, he was the executioner. He had been trusted because he was the nephew of a criminal, and had learned of Kenoll because he had obviously met Kenoll before his death on 22nd and Golom street, and had attempted, and failed, to stop his death. However, he knew where Kenoll lived, and that was enough to make him go back to Kenoll's apartment. It was there that he found a corrupt police officer, doubtlessly attempting to get rid of the evidence of corruption. After killing him, Preston learned all of what Kenoll learned, and amongst that intel was probably the location of the warehouse. Preston couldn't simply walk up to the warehouse? Or could he? How high had Preston been in his Uncle's organization before? He'd have to ask. But he would continue thinking for now. Preston got into the warehouse, and must've somehow been assigned as the executioner, he probably requested it. Afterwards, he killed the men in the room in a surprise gun-draw and took Kenoll's wife and daughter to another room. That was when Frank found them. It seemed to make sense, Frank would fill in any gaps with Preston, but he liked figuring out things himself.
"Preston, who is your Uncle, and what does he do?" asked Harrison.

"It makes sense," muttered Frank, filling the remaining gaps in his interpretation of what happened, he then sat silently as he continued thinking, and remembering what he knew of CompuCorp. CompuCorp was massive, around four-hundred thousand employees assigned to things ranging from customer service to the electronics manufacturing, with the only Corporations rivaling them in size being Robinson Industries, Sercom Enterprises, and LanCo. CompuCorp’s revenue was around one hundred billion dollars a year, with a profit of around fifteen million. Their CEO and Chairman was Ethan Korl, a charismatic and intelligent man, but Harrison didn’t know much more than that. He would learn more when he found a safehouse, and would make a tree soon after. He had no idea where that would go, Preston would be a good help for that. They soon arrived at an apartment complex, and Harrison stepped out and walked to the front, helping Emile  by carrying her daughter. He had Preston get the room, as Harrison was a wanted man, and walked up to it a few minutes later. Harrison put down his submachine gun, took out one of his two pistols, and kept the other.
“Alright, I’ll stay awake and keep watch, you guys get some sleep, we’ll figure out what we’ll do next tomorrow” said Harrison, he was tired, but Kenoll’s family needed it more, and Preston looked like crap.

***

Ethan Korl, wearing a nice black suit, a white shirt, and a red tie, stepped into his office at the top floor of the CompuCorp building, and was somewhat shocked to see a familiar bald man in a white business suit staring at him.
“Greetings, Mr. Korl,” said the bald man.
“Mr. X, how did you get in here?” asked Korl.
“Have a seat,” said Mr. X, gesturing towards a seat opposite Korl’s usual seat.
Korl approached, fearful of what Mr. X would say. He sat down in the red leather seat, and Mr. X was still for a moment, his eyes concealed behind a pair of blood red sunglasses.
“Mr, Korl, as you well know, a man by the name of Francis Harrison infiltrated one of your warehouses, killed several of your men, and escaped with Robert Kenoll’s wife and daughter. Explain how,” said Mr. X.
“Kenoll? Who the hell is he?” asked Korl.
“Are you really that ignorant of your own Corporation’s activities?” asked Mr. X.
“I prefer not to know,” replied Korl.
“You would take care to, in the future, insure that your warehouse security is something above horrible,” said Mr. X.
“Yes, sir,” said Korl, “What should I do about Harrison?”
“That is your concern, mine is that my facilities are kept secure,” replied Mr. X as he stood up and walked to Korl’s window overlooking Cariosus.
“Oh, and Mr. Korl,” added Mr. X, turning around.
“Yes?” asked Korl.
“Make certain that the incident is covered up with all due haste, and that the families of the guards are told a convincing story,” said Mr. X.
“What should I tell them?” asked Korl as he looked up, and saw nobody there.

*5:23 AM*

Patrick Kephart was staring into a man’s eyes as he knelt ten feet in front of him, Kephart’s .44 magnum was aimed at his head.
“Please, I won’t do it again,” said the man, referring to his rape and murder of an eight-year-old girl.
“I don’t care,” said Kephart, “Once was enough.”
Kephart pulled the trigger, the hammer flew forward, and the bullet was propelled through the barrel and through the air. It crashed through the rapist’s skull with extreme force, and caused a large portion of his head to explode out against the brick wall behind him. The rapist fell to the floor, and Kephart put another .44 bullet into his revolver before turning and walking away. He had decided the night before that evil men, men who couldn’t even be considered human, would have their lives taken.

*6:12 AM*

John Miller woke up and gasped, his whole body aching. He then realized that he was in a hospital, and was hooked up to several machines. A bandaged covered his stitched up knife wound, and his nose had been broken. Miller attempted to get up, but he couldn’t, he might have broken a rib.
“Miller, hello,” said a man as he entered.
“What happened?” asked Miller.
“Several men found you last night in an alley near the docks, brought you here. Judging by the scar, you were probably beaten by Henry Sculari, also known as Scar. You’re lucky to be alive,” said the Doctor.
“How long will I be in here?” asked Miller.
“You’ll be let out at the end of today, but you’ll have to rest for a week or two,” said the Doctor, “Your nose was broken, your face is heavily scarred.”
“Did I break any ribs?” asked Miller.
“No, but you were hit in the chest enough times to feel like you did. You were extremely lucky,” said the Doctor.

“I need to leave,” said Miller, ignoring the pain as he got up and unhooked the few machines that were hooked up to him.
“Not yet!” yelled the Doctor.
Miller ignored the Doctor and walked out of the room, grabbing his clothes and wallet as he did so. Miller stopped at the desk, and paid the bill. It was a lot, but he had enough saved up. Afterwards, Miller went to the bathroom, changed into his blood-stained clothes, and walked outside.

*6:51 AM*

John Miller stepped out of the alley, an illegally purchased snub-nosed revolver in his pocket, along with a box of ammunition, and a look of unemotional thought was on his face. He was about to go kill a man, a human being. If he was going to do it, he had to go all the way, and there would be no going back.

*7:43 AM*

BANG!

BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
“What the fuck was that?” asked Scar as he grabbed a cigar from his box, he was in his Headquarters, a small house near the Docks. In it were several rooms, one of which was a barracks for his four men, one was Scar’s bedroom, and one was Scar’s office.

“Gunshots,” said Scar’s bodyguard.

[[OOC: By the time I finished typing that, I didn't realize that Rhade had already posted. This takes place before John and Patrick killed those people...]]

*2:25 AM*

Frank Harrison was seated by the window, the curtains closed, but he was able to see through them. In front of him was a basic laptop computer purchased from a pawn shop down the street. It had taken 175 dollars of his remaining 225 dollars, but it was a useful tool when combined with the internet. On the screen was a document displaying the hierarchy of CompuCorp, which he had learned via the magical use of the internet. After forming a tree, he began researching past criminal trials, trying to make a list of criminals that had gotten off for one reason or another.