"Intimidation. I'd like to see how you hold up against 300 decibels of sound." Dean muttered, setting aside breakfast. "Let's see your blood wolves form while your organs are displaced." 

The boy rose, dusting off his vintage bomber jacket. He examined the sigil, twirling it. The fine, crystallized blood shimmered, catching the late morning light. The reaper's sign was designed to represent fear. If you saw a reaper logo, you'd know that you were stepping in some dangerous territory. A reaper was dangerous, conduit or not. They were ruthless and powerful, with their numbers growing each day. They were presided over by by an insane, chaotic conduit. They were possibly one of the strongest conduit organizations active, and possibly proposed the biggest threat to the syndicate. He unceremoniously stuffed the symbol into his jacket pocket. If he had some time later, he'd burn it, maybe. It would be fun to watch it melt, mixing with gasoline. Or he could shatter it, and see if he could blow out the blood conduit's eardrums permanently. He'd watch him stumble around, all deaf. It would be funny!

He sighed. Alas, he had elsewhere to go. But luckily, he'd be getting something he'd been looking forward to for the past week. Upon his very first trip to New York City, he quickly recognized that it was in a state of turmoil. He'd eventually get caught in crossfire, may it be police v. conduit or conduit v. syndicate. He could attempt to avoid it, but it was inevitable. He'd need a more reliable way to channel his power, something that he could use. Raw noise and sound wasn't quite as reliable as he hoped. It had power, yes, but it lacked control or precision. It was like trying to perform surgery with a butter knife. Though, there was a certain type of sound that was far easier to manipulate. He could bend and twirl it to his will. If he wished, he could hand pick an enemy and focus solely on it. The type of sound was music. While raw power was loud and strong, music was softer and melodic. It had rhythm and tune, with pulses and ticks. It was hard to explain, but music was, in a sense, easier.

So, early on, Dean had started some minor work in the underbelly of New York. The slimy back allies, the abandoned tunnels. He sold and traded, getting his start and earning light money. It took multiple long, dangerous trades, several threats, and death to discover the man he required for his certain job. It was a retired, fugitive engineer, once working under the D.U.P. He had a hand in developing some powerful equipment, but after it's fall, had quickly lost his reputation. He resorted to shady deals and criminal work. So, Dean decided that he was the perfect man for his special job. He commissioned a special job, a refined tool for him, similar to Cole McGrath's very own Amp. It had taken nearly two weeks to complete, but it would be worth it. At least, he hoped. Dean Finnigan stood on the edge of the rooftop, feeling a cool, swift breeze, weaving through his hair. At his lower feet, he felt a powerful pressure begin to build. The air felt electric, and the sound felt dulled around him.

In one, powerful, excellent explosion of sound, he was vaulted forward, launching him across several rooftops, finally landing on another concrete rooftop. He glanced behind him. That was a particularly powerful one, with the air rippling behind him. He shrugged, and continued. Yet another powerful sonic boom vaulted him forward, continuously and continuously.