Guises: Concerned Citizens

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Six Million Dollar Man, Feb 14, 2014.

Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.
  1. [​IMG]

    What was he doing out here? Why did he act like it was fine to go on with the mask, and little else? Questions that ran through the mind of "The Cobalt Scarab," dressed in a navy blue suit and tie with black dress shirt and a cloak wrapped about him. There was a plate-like cobalt blue mask protected his facial features, while retaining two slits for a pair of dark eyes, a fedora found residence on his head.

    He eyed the door in front of him a moment, before putting forth a small device to the door handle: And in a flash of sparks, the lock was destroyed. Outside went The Scarab, as he pocketed the mysterious, highly advanced weapon known as the "Beetle Bolt". A gadget of his very own design.

    "Hey, whose you supposed t'be?!"

    The Scarab turned back around sharply and fired off the Beetle Bolt, as it fired off a shot. The blast had been non-lethal this time, and with but the sound of a mouse, making short work of the mafia man as The Scarab sprinted away, tucking a folder into his coat as his cloak trailed behind the man, creating a sinister visage.

    Some distance away, The Scarab settled down by a spot where he had hidden off a jet black sedan, shifting his sight from left to right before going to the trunk to put the intel he'd stolen off into a miniature safe he kept in his vehicle.

    [​IMG]

    Like the Lone Ranger of the Wild West, this was a man who had taken on a mask and chose to act above the law. One could say he was...

    A Concerned Citizen.


     


  2. Six shells littered the floor, pooling at the edge of a puddle of crimson. The vague hint of gunpowder setting the scene as the dim room did well to hide the victim's face. Probably for the best, these sort of things got easier to stomach over time but they didn't exactly help one's sleeping patterns. I stood at the center of the room and eyed the scene before me as I pressed my fingers around the filter of a cigarette. Unlit of course. I wasn't about to further contaminate the room by spewing ash across my late company's already soiled floor. After all even if lines of professionalism weren't in play, the act was just uncouth. You just don't smoke in a lady's room without permission.

    The scene hadn't been my doing. I wasn't new to blood but I hadn't been in the business of keeping gravediggers employed for quite some time. This was the act of a deviant, and I just happened to be the first on the scene. Patrolling the east side generally found itself mostly quiet. Mostly. A mugging here, a break in there, but generally never anything like this in such a well to do neighborhood. This was the kind of place you'd be more likely to expect missionaries seeking donations than a corpse. Important figures lived on this end of town. Folk with pull. Naturally it wasn't out of the question that the area yielded a higher police presence on the regular. Which meant I had a job to do and it wouldn't be long before a handful of green gilled fuzz came stomping over my crime scene.
    I had gloved prior to coming into the window. Not being with the department anymore made what I was doing less than legal, but someone had to. The woman was warm still and her blood hadn't seemed to have dried. I couldn't have missed the shooting by more than an hour. Reaching for a nearby purse on a table revealed a ID that I hadn't expected to see. Lisa Hammond, the daughter of Police commissioner Robert Hammond. I hadn't had the pleasure of meeting her, but I had heard she was a peach. Not at all deserving of a resting place like this. With a progression like this, the department head would be emotionally compromised and probably removed intentionally from the case. All the same, the department would be out for blood.

    I leaned down to inspect the cases on the floor. .357 rounds. Unless the perp in question ran a 7 round cylinder, it meant the entire contents of a revolver had been emptied into her chest. Nothing was missing, the woman bore no bruises or signs of struggle. This was a hit, and specifically one designed to send a message. Furthermore considering the cloth of the victim, this was an act of war.
    I removed a set of tweezers from my coat and picked up one of the shells. The casings were federal, used predominantly by police and military but it wasn't out of the question for them to be picked up by a vagabond. The ticket that caught my eye though wasn't the make of the shell, rather it was the shell casing itself. The case was nickel, not brass. A metal often chosen by reloaders for their ease of cleaning. Wasn't much of a lead, but it was better than nothing. I removed a small bag from my coat and placed the spent round within.

    My ears perked the sound of breaks at the base of the apartment complex. One car, not the squadron I was expecting and no siren either. As footsteps echoed up the open stairwell it was clear whoever was moving had a personal enough tie to the case at had. The door burst open and I could hear the slide of a .45 chime behind me as it chambered a round.

    "Hello Commissioner." I spoke out as I placed the bagged casing into my coat.

    "Detective?" The man's voice held a quiver as his eyes shot to the scene, "What are you doing he- Oh God..."

    I slowly picked myself up from the floor and turned to the now childless father. Tears began to stream down his face and in an understandable act for any parent the man found himself on his knees at his daughter's feet. I had already been here long enough and watching a man mourn openly the loss of his only blood was not on my list of priorities. I made my way back to the window and placed a hand on the sill. "My condolences for your loss." I spoke nigh above a whisper before leaping onto the catwalk below.
     
Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.