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[b]Queens, New York City
September 1st, 2013[/b][/center]

Detective Harrison Thompson of the Queens’ police precinct sat at his desk with a cigarette firmly jotted behind an ear as a hot cup of coffee stood amongst his papers as his partner, Detective Connor Trevane, stood over him with a look of exhaustion as he dropped down a clipboard with a report on it.

“You’re right, Harry, somebody is out there killing [i]nazi’s[/i].” Harrison’s voice was full of utter confusion—as he never quite bought the stories about the Red Skull let alone an involvement of a second Red Skull, but several weeks ago they had compiled a list of men who were suspected of connections with several white supremacist programs who happened to end up dead. 

“What finally made you take that head out of your ass?” Harrison retorted as he kept his eyes down as he took a drink of his coffee.

“Oh [i]screw you[/i].” 

“Heh.” Harrison chuckled as he looked up at his partner, “The more disturbing thing about this is the brutal execution of more than a handful of our victims—forensics liken it to some-sort of blade yet they’ve seen nothing quite like this before.”

“So?” Connor shot back with a frown as he crossed his arms.

“So somebody is killing white supremacists with a really sharp [i]blade[/i] that we can’t make heads-or-tails of.”

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[center][b]Hell’s Kitchen, New York City
September 2nd, 2013[/b] [/center]

“If you told me two years ago that the threat of a Fourth Reich would be upon us, I would have laughed.”[/b] The gleam of the dead eyes of Jacques Duquesne started into the eyes of what would be the lone survivor of a particular group of white supremacists that had originally agreed to meet up to discuss matters that many would find deplorable. 

“But today, I am not laughing.” Jacques added in a dead tone.

Jacques crossed his arms as he looked down at the visage of the bleeding white supremacist he had tracked down by the name of Herman Doltz, who may or may not have been part of this revisionist movement by this new Red Skull. The one thing was for sure was the southern-born supremacist was scared to death and the sight of a man who was currently using a sword to interrogate him was something that drew him into a fit of terror. This sword seemed sharper than the most precise razor but it wasn’t like Herman knew or cared what this blade was made of since it had been used to make a point when the swordsman had cut through a solid steel table as if it was butter.

“What do you want, man?!” Herman asked, clearly shaken.

“What I want is to see the Red Skull.” His voice was firm and almost venomous as he slammed his sword down into the floor—an inch away from Herman’s foot, cutting through the thick concrete floor on impact.

“Shit! Why would you think I know how to do that?!”

A violent energy filled the eyes of the swordsman as his free-hand pushed itself on Herman’s right shoulder as he looked closer into the supremacist’s eyes. “Because… I [i]know[/i] you were at that [i]rally[/i]—and I know you are entangled in this and if you want to [i]live[/i] you will tell me how to find the Red Skull.”

“…I’ve never even met the Skull; I was just told what I had to do for the greater goo—”

Jacques bared his teeth as he cut off Herman’s ill comment, “The greater [i]good?![/i] Innocent lives, murdered! You piece of shit nazi.”

“You better give me something I can use, or you [i]die[/i] right now.” Jacques added as he rose his sword to the mans neck.

“You won’t find him—the Red Skull wants this war, this [i]World War[/i], and he will have it.”

“That is too bad.” Jacques spat. “—but I suppose that is how life is. As my grandfather would say… c’est la vie.” The swordsman turned as he twirled his sword around the supremacist’s neck as he turned around. 

With the last of the five men dead he cleaned his blade on the shirt of his enemy before sheathing it in its holder on his back. Raising his hands which were held by full-on black gloves he cleared his eyes as he took a deep breath. 

“Perhaps one of these men who were involved has information at their homes.” Jacques muttered under his breath as he removed each of their wallets and retrieved their licenses to read where their addresses of residence were—including Herman Doltz’s own. Moving to a nearby countertop he tossed the licenses down and wrote each of them down on a notepad he kept on his person before grabbing his trench-coat and his motorcycle helmet before placing it back on his head—leaving the bodies of these Fourth Reich members behind.

He swore on his honor that he would find the Red Skull and show him the consequences of his actions.