Crime is a definition.
It is not, in and of itself, an action. You can commit a crime, but you cannot 'do crime' in the literal sense.
An excellent example. Drugs. Partaking of them, is illegal. Obtaining them, is illegal. Selling them, is illegal. All crimes.
Crime however, is also relative.
When the average person thinks of crime, drug trafficking, for instance, the mental image produced is of a suspicious looking fellow, often in tattered clothing, standing on a street corner in the dead of night. That person, is a criminal. But there were others. Men and women in boardrooms and expensive hotels, wearing suits and ties. People that show up to work every day to diligently manipulate the money of millions, that return home for a little 'pick me up'. These people, are not known as criminals.
They are merely rich.
Accord worked hard to ensure that he appeared to be the latter, instead of the former in the eyes of the 'heroes'. He didn't have 'dealers', he just took orders. He didn't require a street presence - that was a foolish and easily tracked point of failure. He had a delivery system. People placed orders. Prostitution? There was no need to do anything untoward to obtain workers. Where people exist, they will want sex. And where people want something, someone will be willing to sell it. In a city like Brockton Bay, where the average person was much more likely to be below the poverty line than not, that percentage of people was such that he actually had to screen potential employees. He ran a clean business after all. No need to send his clients home with some disease or other that would prevent them from coming back.
In Boston, this had worked to his advantage. The city was so rife with middling quality villains that the relative calm and safety of his territory in comparison was seen as the best possible result of the system. Or in other words - the Hero's considered the resources required to oust him when he was largely 'harmless' a waste. It wasn't as if he partook in less crime than the rest. As a point of fact, he did much more business than the next most successful gang in the city.
But he dressed it up properly, kept it out of view of everyone who would care, and made absolutely certain that no one would dare ruin that image by doing something... unnecessary.
Carefully, he leaned back in his chair - specially designed not to make any kind of noise when leaned in like the cheap office furniture of so many other boardrooms - and contemplated things.
On the desk in front of him - again, specially made so that it could be symmetrical and ergonomic without sacrificing it's professional look - was a suitcase. Within which were several vials. They had not been cheap to acquire, requiring a significant amount of his funds in order to be given to him without being forced to accede to some kind of lingering attachment or 'favor' based bargaining system. But they were worth it. An unfortunate side effect of being a Parahuman - most of them were unruly in the extreme. They were neurotic. They suffered tics, they had issues, in short - they were unprofessional, which was simply unacceptable to him.
So the ability to vet his employees before providing them with phenomenal power was really the only way forward.
He didn't sigh as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk before him and clasping his hands together. It was a wasted gesture. Instead he spoke, calmly and succinctly.
"Citrine. Send him in." He uttered, turning his attention to the door to his office. It, much like the rest of the room he was in, was plain. He appreciated the elaborate, the complicated, and the interconnected, but if forced to choose between those things done poorly, and the sheer comfort of 'nothing', he would gladly take the latter every time.
Temporarily, at least. He might hold his employees to a strict timeline when ensuring the creation of a new base of operations, but he wasn't foolish enough to demand they rush. The proper time, in the proper order, for every task. That was the correct way to proceed.
Contemplating that almost allowed him to relax, as he sat, patiently counting the seconds it should take an average sized man with a workmans gait to travel from one end of the waiting room to the door.
Naturally, the slightly put upon looking man that entered the room while his aid, Citrine held the door open for him was two seconds slow, likely because of the clear nervousness he was feeling. He flicked his gaze past the man to Citrine and back again, a short but clear warning to the woman that he was not best pleased, and otherwise maintained his position as the overweight laggard shuffled forward to stand in front of his desk.
Accord took a few moments to examine him more closely. He was wearing a suit, as opposed to the last time they had met, which was good. That was about the only thing in his favour. Despite the tidy sum Accord had provided for the mans services, he had opted to buy a cheap uncut suit that did not at all fit or suit him, and a tie that was just slightly off colour from the rest of the suit. The Caucasian man's eyes were sunken, likely the result of a sleepless night, and his face was recently shaved - badly - leaving behind nicks and cuts that someone more competent would not have left behind. His only saving grace in this respect was that he was bald, meaning that he had to put nearly no effort into maintaining his hair.
In short, the mans mere presence was an eyesore to Accord, and he resolved to have him disposed of the second he was finished here. He did not do this lightly. An employer known for randomly murdering his employees was an employer who often lacked said employees. However, that was only if such information was actually made available to the public. The PRT might be aware that he had particular tendencies, but he made very sure that when he indulged them that his tracks were covered.
No one would miss this man. He was just one of the hundreds of out of work nobodies in this city, chosen specifically for his lack of meaningful connection with anyone that might miss him. Accord hadn't planned to kill the man, but he had known ahead of time that his standards were somewhat difficult to maintain.
"Sit." He commanded, his voice smooth and clear despite the strain he was experiencing just resisting the urge to have the man taken out of his presence immediately.
"Yessir." The man responded shortly and nervously, glancing back at Citrine who was still standing by the door before pulling the chair on the opposite side of Accord askew and sitting haphazardly down in it.
Citrine didn't quite grimace behind the man, because she was too perfect for that, but her body language shifted slightly to indicate that she did know what she would be tasked with after this. Accord appreciated that in the woman. She never acted out of turn, but she was always able to account for his needs when required, typically without being verbally told to do so. The acquisition of only one such aide was more than enough of a boon to justify the cost of creating her.
"Report." He ordered again, his eyes snapping back to the man in front of him with unerring accuracy. Eye contact was the basics of the basics with regards to interpersonal communication.
"Uh-" The man began, clearing his throat and looking anywhere but in his eyes. He could feel the segmented portions of his mask pull down into a frown in response to his own unbidden change in expression, and the sudden alertness of his visitor spoke volumes about how menacing that was.
"The Castle has a sort of space warping effect. I talked to a half dozen guys that showed up there, and they all claimed to be blocks away in different directions when they got there. No clue how it works, but all of them said they were being mugged or chased or some such at the time." The informant explained carefully, a bead of sweat trickling down from the crown of his head and down his neck.
"And the recordings?" He queried. The man gulped, then slowly reached into his suit jacket to withdraw a cellphone, placing it carefully on desk, directly infront of the suitcase that Accord had never actually removed from it's position at it's center. Originally, the intention would have been for this man to spread the knowledge of the suit cases existence, in order to attract hopefuls. Obviously that plan would have to be changed now.
"Got about an hour on there. Just- just take the sim card out I guess." He said, licking his lips expectantly.
"That won't be necessary. You will be compensated as you leave. Citrine." He stated, dismissing the man without a second thought. Much to his ire, the fool glanced between him and the phone for a moment before giving up, rising and following Citrine out of the room, her eponymously coloured dress sweeping exactly two and a half inches from the ground as she trailed behind him, closing the door. She didn't look back at him for confirmation. Didn't speak a word.
While his aide went about her assigned task, Accord busied himself removing the the suitcase from his desk, then withdrawing a laptop from within the piece of furniture. In the time between when he had finished preparing the device to his liking, and Citrine's return, there was a single gunshot, and then nothing.
Again, he lamented the state of the building. The sound proofing of his actual office would have made that nearly inaudible.
Once everything was in place - the sim card placed in the laptop, Citrine standing dutifully behind him at the a respectful distance - he navigated to the video program of the device, and then began to play through the video he had paid for in blood.
The recording wasn't of something particular complicated or secret. He had wanted it for confirmation more than anything else. There was shockingly little footage of Nexus and her team at work. He couldn't determine if that was intentional or not, but he had to admit it didn't much matter. Unintentional success was still success.
Not that this was footage taken directly of the girl. She was powerful, possibly one of the most powerful capes in the country presently, but he had no use for her. Too chaotic. Impossible to control. Impossible to predict. He had toyed with a plan that would lead to her finding her way to him as an Ambassador, but the investment involved, both in time and money, wasn't worth it. Her power was chaos itself. He could never abide such a thing.
No, what he wanted was of a lower order than the secrets of Nexus seat of power. He didn't intend to stay in this city. He had blocked exactly three months of time to be here. The fact that he was taking territory and setting up an office to work from was simply a matter of comfort. Had Coil been successful in his take over it would have served as something of an embassy to his fellow schemer. Now it would serve another purpose.
On the screen in front of him, he watched dozens of women move through a variety of martial arts forms. In a real Dojo, one that worked for profit of any kind, they would all be making identical movements. Many of those on the screen were, in fact. But there were subtle differences to them. An economy of motion in each of them that became subtly greater the longer they worked. Nexus rarely visited this place, but whatever properties allowed her to teach people to fight appeared to be transitive, because Aspirant - another possible candidate for recruitment that he had opted against - moved through the group, subtly changing postures with prodding hands and gentle shoves. Wherever he passed, behind he left perfection.
It wasn't just skill with the martial arts that was left in his wake. It was skill with martial arts tailored perfectly to the recipient of the advice. A hundred variations on the same move, all modified to be perfectly effective for a hundred different people, all with different body types, fitness levels, and skills.
And Nexus was just letting him give that away.
If it didn't suit him so well it would infuriate him. As it was, he was stretching himself dangerously thin attempting to make use of it. One of the first things he had been forced to determine was if Aspirant only taught women. That didn't seem to be the case, but it certainly seemed like men had a hard time staying with the program. A room full of unwilling ex-prostitutes who may or may not have strong feelings on the topic of the opposite sex was likely to have that kind of result.
Not that it mattered. Anyone who wanted to work for him would receive that training. He didn't deal in the mediocre. He dealt in perfection. He didn't hire and then waste millions of dollars on 'competence'.
Now was the time to act. While the city was in this lull from that Monster's defeat. Nexus was predictable, at least in this. If he exercised his ability to keep things quiet for a while, he could almost guarantee the woman would pass through that Dojo at some point.
There would be a lot of quiet, unreported deaths in the coming weeks. It wouldn't do to draw attention to them when the entire goal was to put Nexus at ease.
But that was fine. He did his best not to look it, but at the end of the day;
He was a criminal.