"Oh".
Heat blossomed in his chest, Flowing down his chest and back. An involuntary breath pushed through his mouth and nose as the unavoidable consequence of a pair of blades punching through a chest cavity.
Oh.
It was an epiphany. A final, too-late realization of the truths he'd buried since the witch came for his camp, since Blake cut the train cable, since his White Fang tried to oust him, since Hazel betrayed him, since he become a follower, not a leader.
Oh. It was all for nothing.
Oh. It was all his fault.
Oh. That he'd never cared about his people, his "Righteous Cause", or even Blake.
Oh. That He'd only cared for himself.
Oh. He'd done it all for himself.
Oh. He was NEVER a hero. Never a savior. Never a leader.
Oh. He was only a man.
And men are mortal.
There was a tug at his chest and back, another sharp sting, and then he was stumbling forward, feet tripping over each other. The heat spread across his body, down his legs, down to his toes, up through his back, and drove into his skull. He swayed, hands blindly grasping for something to steady himself, and met only air.
His legs shook.
Oh. He'd lost.
He never thought he could lose. That he could ever fail in his mission.
How could he? He was skilled, smart, fast, strong, loved and adored, respected and deferred to, young, fit, and most importantly, Right.
How could he ever lose, when it was destiny? Fate? His reason on Remnant, his reason for breathing, eating, and sleeping?
He knew he would win. He WAS winning. Atlas and the SDC feared him. His people loved him. Sienna respected him, and one day, however many years it would take, Atlas and the SDC, The Schnee's, and everyone who opposed him would burn. And then he would rule the ashes, with Blake by his side.
His vision blurred, the world shook for a moment, then swung sharply upward.
He dimly realized then that he was on his knees. A wet cough spilled out his lips.
When she left him he was plagued with doubt. His life fell into disarray. He'd known her since she was a child, had trained her, had loved her, had owned her, had made her who she was.
And then she left him. No words. no explanations, no warning,
He slaughtered the crew aboard in a mad frenzy until the screaming in his head had stopped, until he reached a semblance of calm.
He took a deep breath standing inside a now bloodstained passenger car and decided that she was nothing. Resolved to forget she ever existed, and moved on with his mission alone.
And then the red woman came back. Killed his men, shattered his pride, and made him a slave once again. After taking her "deal", he calmly informed his lieutenant to cancel all current deployments and to await further instructions, and walked deep into the forever fall to vent.
Amidst the fading trees and melting Grimm, Rose petals fresh red and charcoal black swayed around him while he fumed.
It was her fault. If she were here, he could have stopped this, with her help he could have fought back, could have killed them.
But he'd made her pay for it at Beacon. Maimed his replacement, and left her a permanent reminder of her cowardice for all to see.
Cinder had been humbled, and the CCT's outage made his operations against Atlas even smoother. Regardless of how he was roped into her operation, he had to admit the outcome had it's merits. The White Fang and Faunus were feared globally now, and recruitment had swelled to never before seen numbers.
He was a globally known figure now, and every Faunus knew his name. It was intoxicating. It was right. So when another man came, who claimed to serve Cinder's master, he gave him a chance and heard him out. Cinder's master was very pleased with him, and made another offer, this time as an equal, a partner.
How could he say no?
More prestige, more power, more men, more fear, with trusted benefactors and the Grimm on his side?
A true partnership of the like-minded. It was like a dream come true. With all they offered, Haven seemed a small price.
The White Fang were his now. He had his throne, now he just needed the world.
And then she came and destroyed it all. He lost everything. He blamed Hazel. He blamed the weakness of his men, He blamed Atlas, Ilia, Ironwood, Cinder's master, Mercury, Cinder's brat, the children, Raven, everyone he could point a finger to except himself, Because Adam Taurus could do no wrong. He was right, and they were wrong.
But it was him. It was only him. His decisions, his ego, his pride and his weakness that undid him.
Oh. He never had a chance at all.
He fell. The world spun in circles.
He heard the sound of crunching bone, numbness spread across his body, then he was under the water.
It filled his lungs, his wounds. his body, his soul.
He drifted for what seemed an eternity, swaying and flowing through a deep blue void that slowly turned red.
It was peaceful, in a way. The sun's shine through the water almost convinced him heaven was shining down on him.
But heaven was for heroes.
His eyes drifted shut, and darkness took him.
They re-opened to a night sky, a dingy alley, a duffle bag, and a full moon.
Last edited: Apr 6, 2023
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Apr 30, 2022
#7
Hell wasn't what he expected. Then again, he didn't expect much.
He never much expected to be there at all.
He often thought of where the people he killed went. To him, death alone wasn't enough for them. The Schnee's, The Atlesian's, the traitior's, the cowards, there had to be more.
Eternal fire and flames. A never-ending orgy of heat and suffering and pain, forever haunting and tormenting his foes. Or, it could have been then opposite, a frozen plain, a world trapped in winter, frostbite stealing fingers and toes for eternity in the perfect twist on Atlas itself.
Perhaps something karmic instead. A life as a slave for a Schnee, a life of destitution for the Atlesian, A life of fear and loathing for the average human, a parable for their lived lives, showing them what it was like on the other side.
Hell wasn't any of that.
Hell was dim street lamps highlighting poorly paved roads. It was towering skyscrapers and a calm sea. It was rows and rows of ramshackle houses, interspersed with shattered windows and gunshots in the night. It was a full moon guiding him from rooftop to rooftop to rooftop, from houses with half eroded rooftops to luxury apartments to chain restaurants.
It was men smoking outside bars, women of the night serving men in shaded alleyways, it was men with shaved heads mean-mugging shorter men with green and red bandanas.
It wasn't hell at all.
It was a city, alive.
For a brief, disoriented moment, hours ago when he first awoke, he almost thought he was back in the slums of Mantle, thirteen again, fighting for scraps with the rest of the slum-rats.
But this wasn't Mantle.
It was Brockton Bay, city of three-hundred and fifty thousand, inside the state of Massachusetts, which itself was a semi-autonomous state inside a United States of America.
He knew all this from the scroll he'd taken off a intoxicated human whom attempted to mug him.
He wouldn't mug anyone again with a snapped neck.
A naked man in an alley shouldn't have been too high a mark.
But he wasn't an ordinary man.
Plenty of people inside this city weren't either.
He finally stopped near the edges of the city, and caressed the only friend he'd ever had, strapped to his belt.
He was still reeling from the contents of the bag he woke near, but he knew what they said about horses and gifts.
He scanned the neighborhood, watching for witnesses and travelers, and saw only empty streets and unfinished houses.
A dead neighborhood, filled with only the homeless and the addicted.
It would do while he decided. He leapt down into a half completed apartment complex, the chilly air making him shudder before the red flash of his aura melted it away.
He walked down a rusted staircase to the most intact apartment, dropped his duffel, and sat.
This place wasn't hell, but it may as well have been.
His mind rebelled at everything he'd learned, screaming that it just wasn't possible.
That it was all a near death hallucination, a mirage, his dying brain expending it's last bit of energy to create a familiar, comforting fantasy to die to.
From what he'd read, he almost wished he was.
A hive of drugs, death, murder, mayhem, anarchy and slums were his new reality now.
His eyes drifted down to the pommel at his side.
It didn't have to be.
Blake and her human pet killed him once already, but it didn't stick. He could finish the job for them quite easily. It would at least give him peace. Peace was never his forte, but there was no mission here either.
He snorted to himself. His mission took him here anyway.
A soft click echoed, and he eyed his reflection in crimson steel.
No Schnee's. No Faunus. No Grimm. No Blake, no Mantle, no Atlas, NOTHING remained of home but himself.
Well, that and his clothes. It was a rather dull cliff note compared to the rest of today, but seeing his old uniform in the bag along with his gear was still something he thought was up there in terms of odd. It was a perfect fit, and he would have been lying to himself if he didn't miss the black and red.
Wilt sild free. His aura retreated beneath his skin, and he raised Wilt to his heart.
There wasn't anything for him here.
Except that isn't quite so true he heard a voice whisper to him.
The blade dipped.
To say otherwise would be a lie.
And he'd done enough lying to himself.
The city had heroes. Huntsmen and Huntresses themselves, fighting the good fight.
Another snort.
A joke. Too few to go around, too afraid to shake the status quo.
The thing it did have was villains. Monsters.
The Empire.
Wilt flared red before he corralled his temper.
He'd done his research with what little battery the phone had left. Worshippers of a dead empire tormenting their fellows for skin differences.
The pettiness astounded him. The gall, the hubris it made him sick.
It took a moment for color to bleed back into the world.
They were the symbol of every type of evil he'd ever fought against.
Another voice came, however, and reminded him that "fighting evil" was what undid him. Wilt drew back back up. The tip stretched the fabric.
It was time to make his choice. Either life was worth living, or it was not.
If it was, he would need a mission. Something to ground himself.
Eradication of crime was foolish and stupid, and outright impossible.
The PRT would see him made a slave again, a hound leashed and unleashed to keep the people in line.
The ABB would not accept him, and the connotations of Lung's takeover and philosophy were uncomfortable reminders of his own downfall.
It would be the Empire.
Every day and every breath would be in service of it's destruction, a daunting, yet not unfamiliar task.
The difference would be in execution,
He would do it right, this time.
No more bloodbaths for the sake of his pride, no more slow tortures for his satisfaction, no more innocents tossed aside.
It would be slow. It would be methodical, It would be a one-man guerilla war, planned at an operational level with all his might and experience,
He had a second chance.
This time, it wouldn't be for him.
Wilt slid home. He walked back to the duffel and reached in to grab the last remaining item.
The bone mask of a Grimm, red accents painted along the side.
It still fit perfectly, more his face than the one he saw in the mirror.
The humans of the city couldn't kill an Empire.
A Faunus would have to show them how it was done.
Last edited: May 1, 2022
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May 1, 2022
#37
If his time in the White Fang had taught him anything, it was that knowledge was power. Not intelligence, though he figured that irritating doctor would have disagreed.
He himself was proof enough. His parents were too poor and too busy to teach him to read, and by Mantle, too dead to boot.
Blake had to sit him down at seventeen and teach him. It was one of the most galling experiences of his life, and in Blake's younger days, his attempts to help with her schooling went poorly at best.
But knowledge wasn't just arithmetic.
It was knowing rules, and knowing people.
To read reactions and faces, body language, what streets to cross, what fights to pick, what man carried what weapon, knowing your own and your fellows habits.
Especially your enemies.
Their dress style, communication style, how they read and react to situations,
THIS was the knowledge that won wars.
This was what he was seeking tonight.
He'd stayed in that rundown apartment until first light, them kept at it until dusk stole the sun. Then he marched north to the Empires outskirts.
Each jump, dilapidated buildings and rubber burned roads shifted slowly to white picket houses and well trimmed sidewalks.
He'd stopped at the top of a billboard for some politician he didn't care to know, and confirmed another hypothesis.
Even here, people didn't look up.
And now his least favorite part.
The waiting.
Any stakeout could take five minutes, or ten hours, and he wasn't familiar enough with the city to find anywhere else. This location was a simple shot in the dark, simply due to the fact it was one of the few clean parts of the city. Clean houses stacked in neat rows, and the only miss-matched part was a dingy bar at the end of the street, his current target.
"I suppose intel is power fits better" he muttered.
And that's what he was here for.
He took the idea from Atlas, amusingly and aggravatingly enough.
Early into his tenure as the Mantle cells head, a Atlesian patrol stopped and searched one of his men.
Faunus were, to his dismay, not immune to sudden bouts of stupidity.
That was the only reason he could think of as to why they'd had critical intel spread through text.
Word spread, and soon dozens of phones were lined up, and since his men had no training in informational security, dozens were nabbed at a rally, stripping him of a third of his men in less than a week.
When he recounted that story to Blake, it was one of the few times he'd heard her swear.
Now, he was banking on them making his mistake.
The doors to the bar opened, and he focused his aura around his eyes, sharpening his vision. The headache wouldn't be fun later, but he struck gold.
Two men walked out, one shaven headed, the other with a stylized Eighty-Eight on his forearm.
He smiled. So kind of the empire to announce themselves for him. Atlas never had that kind of luck.
He made it across the street in two quick hops, trusting in the growing darkness to hide him.
He'd freely admit his outfit was rather "loud".
He followed them until for a while until they entered the poorer side of town. One had stopped to smoke a cigarette beneath a busted lamp post and the other stood next to him, chattering about some nonsense too quiet for his hearing, his night vison and the cigarette his only guides.
They never saw it coming. He ran forward, clearing thirty feet in a third as many steps and drove Blush directly into the smoking mans windpipe.
His head snapped back into the pole with the crunch of bone, and a single choked wheeze was all he uttered before he tumbled face-first to the ground.
His fellow hardly had time to blink before Adam's foot smashed his ribcage to powder.
He skid ten feet before stopping, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, a scream of agony silent in the night.
He strode forward and pilfered the mans pockets, stealing car keys, ID's, cash cards, phones and anything else he could use, while the gangers legs twitched and kicked and his eyes were wide and blinking rapidly, fixed on the hands tearing through his shirt and pants.
He pocketed everything he could and make to walk away, and the mans desperate wheezes reached a fever pitch.
He winced, watching the man choke and sputter as the splintered ribs started to mangle his lungs.
Two days ago, he would have watched the man bleed out smiling.
Two days ago, he was nearly starving to death and stark mad attempting to kill Blake.
Wilt speared through his brain, and he stilled.
He flicked the blood away, and strode over to the other man and repeated the cycle, this time sans mercy killing. The back of his head was bleeding, and his trachea was caved in.
He had two phones and hundreds of gang members.
He looked at the moon shining through the clouds, and figured he had the time.
Last edited: May 2, 2022
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May 1, 2022
#41
When daybreak came, he made it back to his apartment with a dozen new phones and a dozen new body's.
His grace period started now.
That many dead in such a short time would draw investigation, from Empire and the PRT, and would hasten once his operations against both surfaced.
He held no illusions that the PRT would let his plans slide. They would seek to stop him, imprison him, or at worst, if his full abilities became known, attempt to press-gang him.
He'd rather die than serve anyone again.
He'd pooled all the intel he'd collected, and his hunch was right. While the older members spoke in code, the younger ones openly discussed drug deals, dog and cage fights, warehouses filled with guns and drugs, the works.
He smiled to himself. To be a young and dumb believer again.
It was a shame they chose this as their crusade.
An impossible goal, an undead ideology almost impossible to connect to it's founders ideals except by insignia.
Once the bodies were found, and what was missing was noticed, security would step up. He would have to work with that he had, and peruse targeted sights for information.
With the help of the phones, addresses and a map of the city, he carved a rudimentary map of the Empires holdings into a wall, labeling known locations and targets of opportunity as he went.
For all intents and purposes, the Empire was an Empire.
It had a country, it had a monarch, it had trade and commerce, soldiers and borders, bannermen, a line of succession, and a clear plan for it's inhabitants.
Now how do you kill an Empire?
Most criminal organizations are organized in pillared hierarchy's, and the Empire was no different,
Kaiser himself was at the top, with everyone else lower and lower down depending on cape status.
He hummed in amusement. "Capes".
It was asinine, but it was his world now, for however long he would live here.
And thanks to PHO, their egos would be their undoing.
Obviously, people like Hookwolf and Oni Lee could have cared less about it, and most Empire members didn't post for ass-pats like most heroes and villains, and most capes in the city were smart enough to not form their own accounts, or avoid power details.
However, PRT generated accounts for the especially dangerous capes in town were useful. He highly doubted a man like Lung would use PHO, but he had a page, and you could tell it was a harried intern giving vague power details and a general warning to stay away.
Most Empire capes had these autogenerated accounts with warnings and details.
While using the internet for actionable intel was a suicidally bad idea, confirmed footage was useful for threat assessment.
The heroes of the city could all almost universally be handled, but the challenge would be fighting them to maim, not kill.
Armsmaster was his contender for most worrisome hero. He had no doubt about winning their first bout, but the mans nature of learning and devising countermeasures for each encounter raised his brow.
The first, fine. The second? third? fourth?
All left his inherently unpredictable nature as a tinker ways to find a way defeat him. He might have to maim him to prevent use of his tinkering, but with panacea, it likely wouldn't stick.
People like Glory Girl, Assault, Battery, Miss Militia and the like would be minor annoyances and distractions.
For the Empire, Night, Fog and Hookwolf. Everyone else would die easily enough.
Night's power was the subject of much debate, and footage was impossible to locate. Unknowns were the most dangerous.
He wasn't sure his Aura would save him from Fogs, well, Fog, and he couldn't well sweep it away.
Hookwolf was killable, but maneuverability and open space were a must.
Otherwise he'd be dead like that inside a killbox. Aura could only take so much at one time, and the man was a living, breathing chainsaw. His lieutenant would have been envious.
His fondness for the wolf motif was a weakness, but in a life or death struggle, he held no illusions that it wouldn't be tossed away.
Purity was the wildcard. With Prep, it wouldn't even be a fight, but if she came to him, he could have trouble. Absorbing her light would be easy enough, but its sheer destructive capability for the arena was not to be taken lightly.
In theory, she had left the Empire and was attempting to be a solo hero.
In practice?
She was Empire in all but name. Not a single member of the Empire had been harmed by her, but plenty of merchants and ABB.
How do you kill an Empire?
In a traditional land campaign, you starve them, blockade them, and raid them to destroy morale and combat effectiveness.
You killed it's lords and bannermen, the people capable of inspiring loyalty and raising arms.
Then you end the dynasty.
Killing Kaiser wouldn't be enough. Cut the head off the snake, and the body grows a new one.
But separate the body from the head?
That was how you kill an empire.
He would need supplies. Ammo, fabric and sewing materials, kits for maintaining Wilt and Blush.
He'd spent his youth perfecting the art of breaking and entering, and what he couldn't steal from stores, he could from the Empire.
Material for repairing his clothes and making new clothes would be more tricky, but there was a local independent he could possibly strike a deal with.
He divided this plan into three operational phases.
OPERATION: UPPERCUT would be the raiding and pillaging of empire-owned warehouses, supply hubs, manufacturing plants, bunkhouses and rallies.
OPERATION: STRIKING STAR would be the targeted assassinations of public Empire figures, capes and prominent lieutenants.
OPERATION: DAYBREAK would sweep clean the last embers of resistance and target Kaiser himself.
He took a deep breath, and ran his fingers across Wilt's pommel to ground himself.
It began tonight.
Last edited: Jul 29, 2022
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#49
Sabah felt watched.
She'd checked her back every few moments, waiting for someone to pop out.
But no one did.
She'd just finished animating a stuffed T-Rex for a short ad at a local toy store. The money was something, but she never seemed to make enough.
One-hundred dollars for a custom knit costume here, a local ad spot for five hundred there, it was good money to most people.
But she had classes to pay for, family to take care of, food to eat, and it all burned away so fast.
She made her way down the street, cutting through an alley to an old warehouse she'd co-opted.
Nobody else was using it, and it gave her a quiet, peaceful place away from everything.
She struggled with the knob for a moment, then spun her head back so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.
Nothing.
Just paranoid.
She made her way inside, admiring the stuffed animal collection she'd amassed, bears with bead eyes and great giant lizards surrounding her.
She made her way to a stool she'd propped against an old table, and reached for her needle and thread.
"I'd like to propose a deal" A voice sounded off behind her, and her heart leapt through her throat.
She let out very unflattering squeal and whirled around to face the intruder, a dozen animals subtly twitching to life.
Her first thought was that the Empire had come for her.
A man stood before her, clad in red and black, scowl adoring his face. He was standing rigid, like he was uncomfortable, wound up tight like a spring.
He was tall as well, her head was hardly even near his collarbone.
He wore black dress shoes and matching pants, and had a belt with a sword of all things strapped to it. He had a cloth draped over the other side like a banner, depicting the stalks of roses adorned with thorns. He was wearing a black jacket with similar accents across his shoulder, ending in what almost looked like the white face of a tulip.
It was only half buttoned, and a blood red shirt covered his chest.
A deal with the Empire, when she'd already told them no?
Her face hardened, and she swallowed, trying to summon her nerve. Be firm, but be polite. She didn't want to make them an enemy. They thought she was one of them, but if they realized...
She coughed, and before he could open his mouth again she replied. "I'm sorry, but I'm not willing to work with the Empire A-"
It was the wrong thing to say,
The man's lips peeled back into a sneer, and she swore the red on his jacket flashed. He took a furious step forward, growling.
"I am not Empire" The words were practically snarled, and his hand reached for his blade.
She froze, unwilling to move, and a bear slowly crept up behind him.
His hand froze halfway, and while she couldn't see his eyes behind his mask, he seemed to actually look at her for the first time.
A deep, huffing breath escaped him. and his hand went back to his side, curled into a fist. His sneer shifted to a scowl, but fortunately it didn't seem to be directed towards her.
His mouth opened and closed for a second, and she could see his tongue poking his cheek, like he wasn't sure what to say, unused to talking to someone without authority.
He hand drifted to his sword, caressing it, but it seemed to be something he did to calm himself. His mouth opened again, and he spoke somewhat stilted, voice rough like gravel.
"I'm not with the Eighty-Eight, I'm an independent. I'm here to make a deal for myself, no-one else." He sounded like he was trying, and failing, to speak softly.
Her eyes scanned him again. If he wasn't Empire, he must have been a rogue like herself. A solo villain wouldn't need her, and there was zero way he was in the PRT.
The bear behind him stilled, and she allowed herself ever-so slightly relax.
"What kind of deal?" Calmness and confidence were what she was trying to project, but her accent was heightened from her frayed nerves.
The man seemed to almost deflate. He looked almost as uncomfortable as herself, but had more control.
"I need you to shop for me. Cloth, fabrics, clothes, food, sewing kits, and deliver those items to a precise location of my choosing. In exchange, I'll pay you two grand a week."
Two-thousand a week to shop?
"Why can't you do it yourself?" There was no way there wasn't a caveat. Was he a known criminal or murderer?
He smiled, and it was so sickly sweet and bitter she almost choked on it from where she was standing. He lifted a hand to brush through his auburn hair, and it was then she noticed the symbol on his gloves, and the Black and brown high-
Those weren't highlights. Those were horns.
Her doubts bled away instantly, replaced by a sympathy and a pang of remorse. He was a monster cape, and couldn't do it on his own.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I just haven't see a monster cape before and oh you probably don't want to be called that I'm so-"
"Stop."
She stopped.
"Relax. I get it. Now you see why I can't do it on my own, yeah?"
She swallowed, nodded, "Yeah."
Her eyes drifted to his mask.
"Maybe I could make you a hat? from a distance you look normal, and I could get some m-"
He interrupted her with a deep chuckle, face drawn hard.
"As much as I appreciate the offer, I have a fairly..." He trailed off for a moment, then his hand tapped his horns again. "Recognizable face."
She winced again. She felt rather bad for him, and if he had that money...
"Forgive me for asking, but you do have that money, right?"
She had to be sure.
He simply reached into his pocket tossed two rolls of cash her way.
She caught them and pocketed them.
His stepped forward, hand outstretched. "Do we have a deal?"
Her eyes drifted back and forth between his hair, her pockets, and his hand.
She closed the distance and shook his hand.
"When would we start?"
"Now, if that works with you?"
She had the time. She nodded again, and he smiled at her.
It seemed more genuine, but there was something about it that made her shiver.
"Good. Here's what I'll need..."
Last edited: May 31, 2022
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May 1, 2022
#63
He vividly remembered the first time he broken into a building.
After he first escaped from Lagertod, he'd wandered the frozen tundra for what felt like years, though in hindsight it must have only been a few days.
Hiding from Grimm, freezing in caves, surviving off the frozen corpses of animals and what little plant life existed that far north.
By the time he'd wandered to Mantle, his skin was so thin you could nearly see his heart beat right through it, and the jumpsuit the foreman assigned him was little more than scraps of rag around his chest and thighs.
He'd never seen the big city before, and was terrified of everything. So many people, so much sound, so much violence.
The cataracts in his bad eye hadn't been removed yet, and parts of the brand still weeped blood if touched.
A half blind thirteen year old boy was easy pickings for the more experienced scavengers.
He learned to hide, picking off rats and begging in the street, but one day the hunger got so bad he made a plan to rob a local deli.
Said "Plan" to a thirteen year old was as simple as smashing a rock through the window and crawling through the shattered glass to reach the freezer.
He ate like a king that night.
As he eyed one of the Empires largest drug labs in the city, he figured he'd rely on more nuanced methods this time around.
It was an old property, a relic of the once famous Brockton Bay shipping industry.
Now it was a rotted wharf and sealed up warehouse. Boards had been haphazardly placed over the windows, and several sentry's smothered the only doors in and out of the building.
Fortunately, he didn't need them.
He snuck up behind of the more distracted grunts and lunged, wrapping his arms around his neck and twisting it ninety degrees. His fellow turned around at the snap, but before his brain could comprehend the noise, his head was rolling across the floor.
West entrance clear.
He had to make sure nobody called for help.
He leapt to the roof with an aura enhanced jump, and peered through the skylight.
The main area had been turned into a lounge of sorts. He saw bottles of booze scattered across the floor, and guns every at corner they could be laid against. They had a boombox going, but he couldn't make out the song. He counted maybe two dozen men.
They were in high spirits, and by the dazed look of some of them, that statement was more literal than metaphorical.
"Better than the Merchants" his ass.
He kept walking till he reached the other end of the building, and saw what they were all guarding.
Drugs weren't a big thing in Remnant, and organized crime there mostly focused on pleasures of the flesh.
Even he could tell this was a big find though. Mountains of white powder and bags full of what almost looked like glass shards filled the room, and there was only one man inside, asleep at a chair.
Jackpot.
A fun phrase this world taught him.
He kept walking, careful to avoid the glass towards the east entrance.
Only one man stood, and he didn't stay standing for very much longer once Wilt punched into the top of his skull.
He walked back to the prep room, stood on top of the skylight, and concentrated.
His Semblance forced itself to life, draining his aura, but lighting his boots and hair like a neon sign.
The glass under him silently wilted away until he landed on a table.
It crunched for a single second, before rose petals filled the room.
The man in the chair didn't stir, even as Adam opened his throat with a quick swipe.
He strode forward and kicked in the door.
Everything stopped.
Almost thirty heads turned in unison to the smiling man at the door, the sound of blood dripping to the floor and a TV playing an advertisement for Dino's Toy Shop, narrated by a suspiciously familiar accented voice the only sounds to break the haze.
One man reached for a gun, and it broke the spell.
But Adam was already in their midst, two wet splats signaling two men in two different pieces hitting the floor.
And by then it was already over.
Gunshots echoed, screams were cut short, swears were uttered, and blood and limbs were flying everywhere.
And at the center of it all was Adam Taurus, in his element.
But he was trying. He focused on the head and throat, arteries and organs. As lethal as he could, as fast as he could, as humane as he could.
Though He mused, watching as a phantom in his image slit a mans throat, there wasn't much humanity in slaughter.
Then again, calling these men human was an insult to humans. And he hated them enough already.
He swung and slashed and carved, bullets smashing flat against his aura, or being swatted aside with the edge of his sword.
Every swing, a shadow repeated the motion in a separate direction.
Eventually, there was only one. A single man left desperately tripping over the bodies to try and escape.
He hummed and resheathed Wilt, then took aim.
The mans ankle broke with a rather nice sounding crunch.
Well, man was stretching it.
The boy couldn't have been over sixteen.
He screamed and hit the floor, yowling in pain. The cries of pain turned to cries of tears as he watched Adam approach.
He was begging. Pleading. He could smell the urine in the air, see the boys eyes turn to waterfalls.
He shoved his boot into his throat to shut him up. He picked Wilt back up, and pressed the tip into the child's forehead.
He should just kill him.
The gunshots would bring the PRT soon, and he wasn't keen on tipping his hand yet. It would be easy and quick and downright merciful by his standards.
The thought that his so called standards were so loose that killing a child quickly was merciful was quite chilling.
And he was like this for years.
"If I let you go, will I see you again?"
A shake of the head.
He leaned back and lifted his leg, flourished Wilt, and watched the kids face as it slid home with a soft click.
"Well?"
He needed no further prompting, and took off in a hobbled run.
He sighed.
Well.
It was time.
He walked back in, and checked the place for any unused guns, and emptied them against Wilt's blade, feeling that familiar high seize him with each jolt of energy.
He stepped back out, and thumbed Wilt free half an inch.
He'd pour half his aura in as well, just to be sure.
The blood inside the warehouse seemed to flicker in the dim light, as if somebody was switching a light on and off.
His hair and clothes started to shimmer red.
The world seemingly started to desaturate, color dimming and dimming until dusk turned to darkest night.
A black hole devoured the world, and the red flared so bright it almost faded to white.
And then the color came rushing back as a crimson tidal wave smashed into the warehouse.
Last edited: May 1, 2022
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May 1, 2022
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MasterDuplicator
Big Fan of a Mad Cow
May 2, 2022
#66
A week had come and gone since he first arrived.
He'd smashed a few small Empire fronts, a few small drug dens, but nothing on the scale of his takedown at the warehouse.
The PRT, Empire and PHO were collectively losing their minds over it and the recent string of Empire killings.
Almost fifty dead bodies in a week. A dozen critically injured, thousands in drug money lost, hundreds of thousands in property damage, and severe manpower issues were afflicting the Empire, and he'd just gotten started.
No-one had any clue who was responsible. People blamed the ABB, a new villain team that had started operating outside ABB territory, A new mysterious vigilante sighted down in Boston, and some exceptionally paranoid started claiming the Slaughterhouse were in town.
The PRT had released a statement, stating that they were investigating the matter and were not going to release any information at this time.
Everyone knew that was code for "We don't know either."
The Empire was out for blood, mobilizing every cape they could to secure their territory, but it was confused and thinly spread, as they had no idea where the next attack would be, and the unpowered members were less than enthusiastic to help when they got word of their fellows attempts to take him down.
A knock at the doorway interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see the doll girl standing there, one hand on her hips, the other holding a bag of groceries.
He mentally berated himself. Not the doll girl, Parian. She was helping him on her own time, even if he was paying her. He ought to be thankful.
But it wasn't easy. He'd been used to ordering men and women around for years, used to unquestioning obedience and respect.
At the start of his career, he'd made sure to get to know every person under his command, one-on-one training, battle plan discussion, everything personalized. It made him a beloved commander, but not a good one. Every man lost felt like a personal blow, and his heart grew harder and harder over the years for each death.
By Beacon, he'd limited himself to ranks and initials, cold and impersonalized.
By Haven it was simple barked shouts of "You!"
He inclined his head, and she walked in, and froze halfway once she had a look at his "Bedroom."
It was a one room apartment, solidly built, but unpainted. The floor was only half covered in ceramic tiling, the rest bare and loosely filled with bricks by a previous occupant.
There was no furniture or decor, a kitchenette with no appliances the only thing one could say was complete about the room.
That probably wasn't what gathered her attention the most though.
He lazily turned his head, tracking her gaze towards the wonderful view of Brockton Bay through his balcony.
Well, it was supposed to be a balcony. One needed a sliding glass door, and railing to rest your feet on for it to be properly made.
He simply had a missing wall, a fantastic view, and a forty foot drop.
She turned to look at him, and her shoulders slumped, bag nearly slipping out of her hand before her fingers tightened on reflex.
He didn't look much better than the apartment. His hair was filled with sweat and grease, and was tangled and curled around his horns.
His jacket and shoes were covered with blood, tucked away in a corner, and everything else was stained in sweat.
He was pale as a sheet, and he couldn't hide the slight tremble in his right hand. The lack of sleep was getting to him.
He'd slept in worse, but the conditions weren't what ruined his sleep.
The nightmares did that for him.
The memories of the things he'd done, twisted and gnarled voices condemning him, Beacon burning, the bodies at Haven, that damn waterfall.
Out of seven days he'd been here, He'd slept maybe five hours.
His mask was on, but his shirt was what he was using as a blanket, exposing his chest and the myriad of scars that peppered his chest and arms.
Including a still whitening pair, one at his heart, the other just below it.
He had to bite down the reflexive rage that bubbled up when he saw the pity in her eyes.
"You live here?"
Her voice was high, laden with disbelief and sympathy.
He shrugged. "Lived in worse."
It might as well have been a palace compared to Lagertod's "Free Housing."
Oddly enough, that didn't seem to mollify her.
She took a step towards him, hand moving towards him before it stopped and limply fell down. She looked like she wanted to say something, but couldn't bring herself too.
"Why don't you go to the PRT? They could give you a place to stay, a job maybe, something better than this!"
He looked her over. "Same reason you don't I suppose."
She stilled, and he could hear the frown in her voice.
"Yeah. Fair enough."
She shook her head, as if waking herself up, then dropped the bags in a corner.
"I brought some food, I don't know wh-what you like, so I got a little bit of everything. I got some basic sewing supplies, some cloth, in red and black like you asked, and a rag and alcohol for your..sword."
He eyed the bags, and confirmed everything was there.
He stood and walked to his duffel, withdrawing her payment from his ill-gotten gains stolen from the Empire.
She stared at the money, then his "Window", and her head shook.
"I d-don't feel comfortable taking that much money for this."
He walked over to her, watching her shy away from him slightly. He pressed the money into her open palm.
When she made to refuse again, he interrupted her with a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, eyes darting from his hand to the exit behind her as he loomed over her.
"Take it."
She seemed to deliberate for a moment before nodding, and stepped back, turning to walk out. She stopped at the doorway, turning her head to look at the blood covering his jacket, eyes darting towards Wilt at his waist before she turned around again and kept walking.
He counted her steps until silence reigned.
The next day, she dropped off a bucket filled with water and some soaps while he slept.
Last edited: May 31, 2022
358
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May 2, 2022
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MasterDuplicator
Big Fan of a Mad Cow
May 2, 2022
#69
Hookwolf's territory was different from the rest. While in the rest of the Empires territory the members attempted to hide their allegiance, at least when not among friendly company, Hookwolf's men wore their tattoos and scars with pride. Unlike most Empire members, all of Hookwolf's men had full heads of hair, and wolfs head tattoos in place of the swastika.
From what he'd read and heard, Hookwolf's contingent were the Empires main street fighters. The scrappers and muscle, saved and trained for the many back-and-forth gang wars between the Empire and ABB. It wasn't crewed by the racists, but the violent. The psychos, the murderers, the pit fighters, former army and navy members, and escaped convicts.
But he wasn't there for them tonight. He was here for Hookwolf's main source of cash.
The dog fights.
Hookwolf's main animal supplier were the local kill shelters. Instead of dogs being put down, Hookwolf bought them from the shelters and sent them to his pits, where he made his money back and then some, taking a large percent of every bet.
He had reconned the three largest suppliers, and noted that he'd face zero opposition from any sort of security.
He'd break into each, free the dogs, and tear the place down. Where the dogs ended up wasn't his problem, but he figured Hellhound would take them in if and when she found them.
He pat down his pockets, double checking the contents.
Where the Empire had gotten plastic explosives was a mystery to him, but he wouldn't mind putting them to good use.
He made his way towards the first shelter and tried the front door. The knob was locked, but he crushed it in his fist and simply kicked the door down.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark, and he could hear several dogs perk to life, claws scraping inside their kennels.
He stepped further inside, past the lobby and into the staff area.
It erupted with the excited and panicked shouts of what must have been over twenty dogs all lined up in crates, cages and kennels stacked atop each-other.
Time to get to work.
He started at bottom level, simply latching and unlatching cages, happy yips and terrified whines echoing around him.
The newly freed dogs attempted to jump him and lick him, but he gently pushed them aside until they got bored and wandered outside.
The higher levels were trickier, and the amount of time spent moving them to ground level along with all the noise was concerning.
For a brief moment, he was tempted to stop, plant the explosives and move on.
But when he looked at the animals latched in cages, he imagined a Faunus in each one, and he knew he couldn't leave them there.
By the time he was done, an hour had gone by.
Daylight would soon be coming. He hurriedly planted the explosives and ran outside, running for the next location as fast as he could. That many dogs roaming free in the street would draw attention.
The second shelter was much more organized, with all cages neatly rowed, but there were more dogs. A few tried to attack him, but his aura and hushed placations eventually calmed them.
By the time he was finished and stepped outside, first light had come, but it was still dark enough to hide him.
He considered running again, but as his eyes washed over the limping animals around him, his fists clenched,
He'd simply have to make the time.
He booked it four blocks as fast as he could, leaving a blurry afterimage in his wake. No time wasted, nothing held back.
He didn't bother opening the door, he simply ran through it, letting his momentum smash it to splinters, wood chips sliding off his body like rain.
He dug his heels in and slid eight feet before stopping, tearing a groove into the floor beneath him.
The dogs here were much more hurt, and every second he spent coaxing them free of their cages was another second the cops or the Empire showed up.
But he did it anyway.
When the last dog was clear, the sun was starting to freely shine. He had maybe ten minutes tops.
As he laid the last few bombs he had, he heard it.
It sounded like an active garbage disposal, metal shearing and whirring and clashing against itself.
He turned towards Hookwolf, who was reforming himself into a shape that at least somewhat resembled a person.
Fuck.
He hadn't realized he'd said it aloud until Hookwolf laughed.
It was almost good natured.
He let out one final chuckle and crossed his arms. "Alright, who the fuck are you?"
Adam's reply was a shrug and a bullet.
Last edited: May 21, 2022
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May 2, 2022
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MasterDuplicator
MasterDuplicator
Big Fan of a Mad Cow
May 3, 2022
#93
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a real fight.
When the Empire came for him, it promised him three things.
Fighting, fucking, and fame.
To be fair to Max, he'd gotten two outta three.
But he was going mad without the action.
Fighting the Protectorate didn't count, they always held back, afraid to fight real, to fight dirty, to fight for blood.
He was a dog on a leash. The first time he met the protectorate, Assault and Battery would have been crippled for life if not for Panacea.
And that son of a bitch had the audacity to chew him out for doing the thing he was brought here to do, fight and kill. The other members of the Empire refused to spar with him, and he'd fought Mel and Lars so many times they knew all each-others tricks.
Lung had been his dream. Nigh unkillable, unbeatable, growing stronger and stronger every second he fought. It was the most fun he'd had in years, but the lazy bastard hardly ever left his hidey-hole nowadays, and every suggestion or plan he made lure him out was rebuffed.
Just about every suggestion of his was, now that he thought about it.
He'd begged Kaiser for something, anything other than scaring off a few chinks or merchants trying to sneak by his territory every once in a while.
He almost gotten on his hands and knees when he asked to destroy the merchants two weeks back, or if not the gang, at least that cockroach Skidmark.
But no, "We can't provoke the PRT right now Brad", or "The Merchants will self destruct any day now Brad", or "Once we consolidate our position we can hit the ABB" or a hand on his shoulder and soon Brad, soon but soon never came.
And then that new cape hit the warehouse.
A dozen bodies here and there could be excused, but near on thirty dead and dismembered and a whole fuckin dock turned to rubble?
That drew attention. Since then they'd been hit over and over, nothing as big and bold, but no less damaging.
Not quite in men or material, but rep.
And that was more valuable than any stack of cash. There was blood in the water, and everyone could smell it.
That new fuckin gang, the Undersiders had started smashing shit up, and the Merchants were openly provoking them in some districts.
More worrying was Lung. He'd gone quiet. Normally that was a good thing, but you'd hear him pop out here and there, rebuffing some PRT goons or burning down a few houses, but since the warehouse attack, the ABB had completely pulled back.
The Empire, and by extension, him, looked weak.
He asked Kaiser if he could look into it, but again, he was told no.
Kaiser was worried about him. They didn't know the new capes power yet, and he wanted to make sure that nobody would be lost.
As if they'd find out just sitting on their asses, waiting for him to come to them.
When he got the call about the dogs loose in the street, he knew had had to meet them.
They were a killer just like him, and he was hoping for a challenge.
At first he was disappointed. He was dressed like he was going clubbing, not out on a trip to lay fuckin C4 at a vet's office.
Then he shot him in the face.
Okay.
Guy had balls, he'd give them that.
He'd spat the bullet out, regrown his mangled jaw, and shoulder checked the fucker through the wall.
He thought that woulda been the end of it.
But when the Primadonna motherfucker righted himself midair, backflipped off a fucking handstand and threw some sort of shockwave at him that disintegrated half the street into flowers, he knew he had a fight on his hands.
He rolled past the wave, and the redhead glanced up at the sun like it had spat in his face before charging him.
Charging him
He couldn't smother the bark of laughter that spilled free.
He leapt to meet him halfway, jaw extended to rip and tear, and the new guy half unsheathed his sword and stopped him dead. His teeth crunched down atop the blade, trying to simply bite through it, but it glowed red, and then it was like trying to chew through a brick.
He slid the blade to the side, and his jaw felt funny, like it was going numb, then the cape ducked down and pressed his legs underneath his pointed ribs and kicked them back, sending him and all of his momentum down the street.
He crashed into a parked car, warping the frame into something almost unrecognizable.
He watched as half his face drifted away in the breeze.
A flash out the corner of his eye, and his body was moving on autopilot as a thin red line sheared the car and his hind legs in half.
He felt the metal start shuck out of his core, replacing what was lost, but he didn't wanna take anymore hits like that in the future.
He stood on his regrowing stumps, body bulking with layers of knives and saws settling on top of each-other like armor, and thrust his arms forward, lengthening fifteen feet and counting, a whirling blade at each end.
The horned man simply dodged left and swung his sword to the side, carving through the steel like butter.
Another pair lashed out as his face reformed itself, and yet more metal hit the ground.
As his face came back into shape, he chanced a glance to his left, and he noticed several faces peeking through windows, and a few people at the end of the street filming.
He'd always enjoyed a rapt audience.
His looked back towards the cape, and he was sheathing his sword deliberately slow, making eye contact through his mask with a smirk.
Fuckin primadonna.
He ran up towards a house and jumped towards the top, landing on the roof. Jagged spikes and spears grew out his back as he tore them free and tossed them like javelins. The first three were dodged by him pirouetting like a goddamn ballerina, and the fourth was caught and blocked with another red glow, this time spread past the blade and throughout his body.
Distance wouldn't work.
He'd have to get creative.
He tossed another spear to buy time and threw himself to the ground, but when his feet touched it, he melted.
At least it looked like he had. His body lost cohesion, all shape and form lost.
He practically swam across the ground, flowing like water, metal extending and retracting, stabbing into the ground and pulling himself forward.
He flooded the bastard.
As much metal as he could make, as fast as he could make it.
A pool of jagged steel snaked across the capes body, stabbing and spinning and crushing.
The cape was grunting in pain, but there was a resistance.
He could feel the skin and leather pressing down, but it was like there was a shield covering him.
He pressed tighter and tighter, and could feel the resistance slipping.
The cape yelled with exertion, and shadow stole the world.
The sun's shine was invisible as a glowing red blade split him in twain.
He collapsed and pulled himself away, feeling the numbness spreading across his body, and ejected all the effected parts of himself, and it hurt so good.
He formed a new body as the cape snarled and flared red like a stoplight.
This was what he lived for.
A real bout, no pansy ass containment foam and cuffs to be found.
Just two men trying to kill each-other.
And this new guy wanted to kill him, he could tell.
He hadn't been so happy since his time in New York.
The cape froze and swung his head left, teeth bared.
He copied the motion on reflex and didn't see anything.
He was about to lunge again when he heard it.
Sirens, and the rumble of a motorcycle.
He turned back to the cape, and he was holding a detonator.
"I'll kill you later."
And a flash blinded him.
When his vision came back, he was gone, and the shelter was a smoking ruin.
I'll kill you later
A smile.
"Looking forward to it."
Last edited: May 3, 2022
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May 3, 2022
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Threadmarks BBPD(Det. Cole Perry) I
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Big Fan of a Mad Cow
May 7, 2022
#104
Detective Cole Perry stepped through the hazard tape into the scene. Several patrol cars were streaming in, and he counted four already parked and emptied.
A frown stretched across his face. The rain would keep most of the media vultures out, but this much police presence would probably draw some of the looser-brained PHO addicts about as compensation.
He fumbled through his pocket for a cigarette on instinct, then remembered his wife confiscated them all last weekend, telling him they were giving him wrinkles.
The frown stretched further. As if his job didn't do that enough. He was gonna need them if he had to talk to the media, or god forbid the PRT.
He looked around, watching the unfortunate beat cops hurriedly set up a cordon and finish the taping, the rain making more than a few stumble or slip.
They didn't have the budget for enough rain ponchos. It was absurd, but it was the life he lived now. Forty years on the force. Retirement was going to be a mandate soon.
He eyed the murder house. It was fairly nondescript, two stories, garage, basketball hoop out the front. The only thing that stuck out was the peeling and fading paint, along with the gang tags scattered across the front door, defaced with two long tears through the wood.
He saw Mike walk towards him, a smile on hand.
Important questions first.
"Hey Mike, you got any cigarettes?"
Mike cackled like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard and sped up. "No Cole, your wife told me about you quittin. I ain't feeding you."
He narrowed his eyes and made to respond when another of Mike's Hyena laughs sounded off louder than the rolling thunder.
"I'm just fuckin with you dude, here ya go." He handed one over and lit it for him, and Cole let the bitter nicotine sooth him.
Kids these days.
He centered his mind, and snuffed the cigarette out against his palm.
"What do we got?" He blew out one last ring of smoke and turned to Mike, and saw that all the merriment in his eyes had turned colder than ice.
"Neighbors heard a scream in the night. Didn't think much of it, it's BB, but when they got back from work the next evening, they noticed that nobody had left the building. They called us, and here we are."
"Hmm. B ?"
"Yeah. Four bodies, one alive." Mike's face twisted up, then seemed to gather the courage and look him in the eye. "It's the ripper again, sir."
He wordlessly opened his palm, and ever obedient Mike passed him another cigarette.
"God damn it."
The Brockton Bay Ripper. At first, he was another rumor amidst the mill, another random psycho piling bodies in his city. Then the killings got wilder, and people figured out it was a cape after the warehouse incident. Then he was promoted from psycho killer to domestic terrorist when the footage finally surfaced of him duking it out with Hookwolf.
People were panicking, wondering where he would strike next, whether their kids and wives were safe.
Things started to relatively calm down once people realized the Empire were his sole targets, but that raised a number of questions as well.
What did he want? Why the Empire? What would he do after the Empire was gone? Why would a monster cape have such a hate-on for the Empire in particular?
People didn't know, and it scared them.
"Another group of dead gangbangers?"
Mike laughed again, but it was more hollow. "Not all of them were. I'll give you the grand tour."
They both stepped inside and Mike walked him across the living room and up the stairs, passing the lab techs poking around for fingerprints.
"Here's the first guy. He uh.. well you'll see." Mike opened the door just as the thunder flashed outside, illuminating the room a pale blue.
He got a good look and wished he hadn't.
There wasn't a person there.
Blood completely soaked the bed, fresh dried and cherry red.
That wasn't what grabbed his attention though.
The petals did.
He saw what happened to Hookwolf in the video. He couldn't imagine what that crazy sword would have done to a regular person.
Now he knew.
Hundreds of Black and Red petals layered on top of each-other and grouped together in the rough outline of a human being, like some fancy schmancy modern art piece.
They were covered in blood, and what he almost thought were leftover bits of skin and bone.
A single empty space in the middle with a bloodstained puncture in the bed told him the story.
"Poor bastard never even woke up."
Mike sighed, but it was a little shaky. "Won't catch me feeling too broken up about it. Woulda spat in my face on the street."
"You guys call the PRT yet?"
"PRT?"
"Yeah. It's a cape killing. Outta our purview now."
"Man that's such bullshit. I'll make the call."
Cole didn't disagree, but kept his mouth shut.
He remembered when the people had the power, instead of the capes. When cops could do their jobs in relative peace, when they didn't have to worry about their perps shooting laser out their hands, or government sponsored capes strongarming their investigations and burning through their budgets.
Now his beloved department was toothless, and the PRT was the main regulating force in the city.
And what a wonderful fuckin job they'd done of it.
His pa fought in World War Two. Thought the nazi's dead and gone when he'd gotten home from europe.
If he could see the world now.
He didn't entirely blame the PRT. Didn't hate them either.
But he sure as shit didn't like them. Just like him, they were toothless. But it wasn't because of funding.
They were simply outnumbered and outgunned.
The whole of the Empire outnumbered every hero in the city, and that wasn't even talking about Lung, who could pick any day of the week and burn down the entire city with nobody able to stop him. He'd taken on the entire PRT and Empire together in a crossfire several times and always came out scot-free.
They simply couldn't keep up.
In a roundabout way, he supposed the Ripper was what the city needed.
The killings were abhorrent, and he still wasn't sure what the man was getting out of it.
But every day he killed and maimed was egg on the Protectorates face, and the yolk grew bigger all the time.
It would galvanize them. Force them to action, to take responsibility. Maybe they'd bring in reinforcements, maybe it would force them to be more proactive in the future, but he didn't know what. All he did know was that in his heart of hearts, he knew that the PRT would be forced to change.
He flinched at the sound of footsteps behind him, and turned to see Mike walking forward, phone in hand.
"Who do we got?" Miss Militia or Velocity woulda been his picks. They normally left well enough alone.
"Armsmaster sir."
Cole suddenly was in dire need of another cigarette.
"Alright, fuck it. Skip the other bodies, I want to talk to the alive one before my crime scene gets pulled from my feet."
Mike lead him back down the stairs, and into a small bedroom.
He winced. A paramedic was checking over a kid who couldn't have been over twelve, who was morosely nodding and shaking his head at the medics questions.
The Paramedic then stood up and walked out.
"He's all yours. He's not hurt, but be careful, he's really shaken up."
Cole stepped forward and kneeled down to be eye level with the kid. He was shaking slightly, and wouldn't look him in the eye.
He gave him his best smile, and got to work.
"Heya kiddo. I'm Cole, Cole Perry. I'm a detective, just like the movies."
Silence.
"I know this must be really scary, but I need ask you about what you saw. It'll really help me out."
Silence.
He was never good with kids.
He opened his mouth again, but the kid cut him off.
"I was visiting my uncle. He just got out of jail. I asked my mom if I could go see him, but she said he was in the Empire and broke out and wouldn't let me. I called her a liar and we fought."
The kid shook a moment, and Cole rested his hand on his shoulder, which mollified him a little.
Armsmaster would eat this kid alive.
The kid calmed down and started talking again.
"After, I called him and asked him where he was and if I could go see him. He said yes, and told me to come here. I snuck out with a bag and came. He wasn't happy when he realized I had snuck out, but he calmed down and let me stay, but told me to not talk to his friends."
A sniffle.
"His friends looked really mean and scary, so I listened, and we spent the night having fun. We watched R-rated movies, played video games, and he told me all sorts of stories about prison when I asked about it."
The kids eyes went empty. "I got tired after a while and went to sleep. But then I heard a really loud scream and it woke me up. I hid under my bed and waited. I heard footsteps for a while, then it got quiet. I thought they must have left, but then they came back, really loud and really close."
Tears were starting to bubble up in the kids eyes.
"The door opened, and a horned man walked in."
"What did he look like?"
"H-he had a pretty jacket with flowers all over it, and a sword."
The kid finally broke and sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"I thought he was gonna kill me but he didn't and he told me to come out and I was so scared I thought I was going to d-"
"Shhhh, breath, It's okay, your safe now."
He wrapped his arms around him, and the kid buried his face in his jacket, snot and tears smearing all over.
After a little bit, he calmed down and continued.
"I crawled from under the bed, and he flinched back like I shocked him. His hands were shaking, and I thought I made him mad and asked if he was gonna kill me. He said he wasn't, and asked how old I was. When I said twelve, he ran out of the room so fast the wind almost knocked me over. I heard stuff clattering to the ground, and it sounded like he was tearing the house down. After a little bit, he came back, and he was holding a bag of chips. He asked if they were the kind I liked, but I didn't like ruffles, so I told him no. He said a really bad word and came back with some baked chips instead. He told me to stay here and eat these. He said the cops would be coming soon, and to wait for them here. He told me to not leave unless I had to use the bathroom, and he said to make sure to cover my eyes when I stepped out. I don't know why he said that, but I listened. Ev-"
The rumble of a parking motorcycle interrupted him.
Cole sighed. "You were very brave tonight, okay? Thanks for telling me about this. You got any family we can call?"
"My mom."
"Good, we'll let her know your okay."
Both him and Mike stood up in unison, and walked outside to face the music.