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GM May 02, 2012. 12:41AM Chico Morricone had always been a powerful man, and he knew it. He revelled in that power, drank it in, and imposed it on anyone he could. It didn't matter how, whether violently, or sometimes just financially, but he loved to know that there were people under his heel, people he made to feel helpless. It was what had brought him to the top, what had made him a force to be reckoned with in this city. Oh, sure, he wasn't a super, but he had influence, and sometimes influence was better than superpowers. Which was why this particular problem was rather unnerving. The painfully cold air of 3 miles above the Earth's surface stung his hands and face, and the roaring winds screamed in his ears. This time, he had no power as this strange creature that looked like it stepped outside of Hell kept its grip wrapped tightly around his throat, making his head even woozier with the already lethally thin air. "Please... Please, let's go down a bit... it's... it's too high." "Exactly the point, Chico. I don't want a soft landing for you." "But... why..." His vision was blurring. "Because you hurt people, Chico. You hurt people and you like it. Society doesn't need anymore of that, so I'm going to just remove the problem." "I... I can change... Please... don't kill me." "You can change, Chico. But you won't. So goodbye." "Please, Oh... Oh... God...!" The thing let go. Thankfully for Chico, he passed out before he hit the water. ~~~~~~~ May 03, 2012. 7:00pm Bram had been wondering why he was getting strange looks all day, and this situation wasn't helping. He held his face in his hands, sitting in the couch of Marlow, a friend of his whom he often helped move or lift things. "Bram... You're telling me you know nothing about this? I mean, I... I'm not gonna turn you in or nothin'. I like this turn of events. It's about time someone started wastin' these jerks." Bram looked up, grunting. "Goddamnit, Marlow! I don't kill! It's... Disgusting... wrong! Everyone has a chance to redeem themselves. Can't do that if someone kills you!" Bram watched as Marlow's eyes widened, and he seemed uncomfortable. "What? What did I do?" "Sorry, Bram... I just never heard you swear before, even with somethin' like a "damnit". Usually just "goshdarnit" or "dang"..." "Jesus, I'm sorry Marlow. Just... This isn't me. This is someone who looks like me, but isn't me. I don't know who it is." Marlow patted Bram on the back. "S'alright, man. I believe you, but..." He looked at the TV. "We have to wonder what we're going to do about that." The TV had a rather stern looking man with dark hair that had begun to grow grey at the temples. "The suspect of the attempted homicide of known crime-boss "Chico Morricone" has been officially announced as the "Penitent", a so-called hero who has brought the worst of the dark 80s mentality that once plagued our city back into the fore. This is just the first in the long string of attempted and successful homicides against criminals in our city, and worse, against two police officers in the line of duty..." The Penitent stared at the television. "...Crud."
Friday, April 20th 9:52 PM Greenbank was, as always, a place of bones. The bones of old railways. The bones of abandoned factories. The bones of prosperity. Unlike The Fens, known for its vice and its depravity, Greenbank was run-down and barely breathing, with predators already there to feast on the flesh. There were a few sparks of hope in this part of town - community leaders trying to unite the people, businesses looking to set up new factories on cheap real estate, bosses and workers coming together to keep the existent businesses still in operation. Every so often, they'd succeed. But there were times it seemed they were doing all they could to make a dying man comfortable. Nick Cimitiere knew Greenbank well. This place had no lack of ghosts - bums who'd died on cold nights, would-be gangsters whose plans had fallen apart, even a few organizers from the old, wild, pre-labor days. Some of them stuck around out of devotion to Freedom, but many just couldn't find the exits. He was walking in the shadow of an old assembly plant, long since taken by the elements. He'd heard rumors of strange lights shining out through the windows on moonless nights, and thought it sounded right up his alley. If it was some lost soul, or urban explorers, simple enough. But given the nature of the area and the activities that gave it its reputation, he came prepared for the worst. Before he could cross the threshold, however... "Help me! Oh, Christ, somebody help me!" The cry came the other side of the plant, and sounded like it had been pushed out between heaving gasps. Nick ran around the side, trying to catch up with the fleeing man. There were some invitations he just couldn't turn down.