[youtube]o7ojOWMwpNM[/youtube] [u][b]Baron Moreau[/b][/u] Blood – it was everywhere. Splatted all over the walls, the floor, with bits of gore and what only looked to be gnawed-on fragments of bone in some corners where the first responders has failed to investigate properly. Baron walked around the scene, pacing, taking all of it in. He had already scouted the surrounding area. The pool of blood was clearly the scene in which the death had occurred, but there was a chase. A struggle. In the ally, outside of which the murder had occurred, a trail of blood led the scene. Some on a dumpster. There were abnormal cracks within the brick walls. The kind of damage you only see in the north, where water seeped between the small cracks in the wall and froze, splitting it. They were all over this ally but scarce everywhere else. This part of town wasn't that old - and the murder scene seemed like the guy was put in a shredder. There was also claw marks in the pavement. Forensic investigations found residue in the claw marks and collected it. The blood was sampled with cue tips and cotton swabs and placed in baggies. However, this murder was so fresh, even the first responders were still doing the jobs. It couldn't have been any longer than twenty minutes ago. Closer to fifteen. Three sirens flashes around the taped off scene. The event had occurred between two meta-humans. Meta-humans were part of the reason Baron had first come to this town instead of New Orleans. The psychological insight would be invaluable. But when he arrived, he learned that the meta-humans here had actually formed two distinct, but equally dangerous street gangs that'd make the LA Bloods look like children on a playground. If Baron's hunch was right, an inter-gang altercation was the most reasonable explanation. Turf wars and so on. “P.I.?” Asked a detective assessing the scene. It was to see if they could discover any oversights in the initial survey. “I understand that we've hired you to help us, and that you do things your own way, but we still need you to cooperate with our department.” “Of course.” Baron replied absentmindedly. He walked over to his protégé's side, his left leg limping behind him. He was adorned in a chic outfit. From the bottom up, polished black dress shoes with dress pants. Black suspenders attached themselves to the waistband and wrapped around his lime-green oxford shirt, layered upon which was a black vest. It was an ironed outfit, free of wrinkles, and his hair was slickly gelled back as per the usual. He took a final look at the scene before giving his assessment. “This was a chase. He must've been running for a while. He must've been followed. And I think it'd be most reasonable to suspect that this is gang activity. I found blood on the dumpster in the back of the alley. That should be a good place to check for prints.” The detective sighed. “Got that. We'll send the forensics team over and get that sorted out. Thank you for your help.” “It's my pleasure.” Baron added graciously. The detective turned about and watched the scene: from forensic analysts gathering evidence and the police inspecting the area, and the remains of the body being zipped up in a body bag. “I can tell you we know that he was a Skull member. Moderately reputable, got into trouble kinda frequently. Judging from the structural damage, and the drop in temperature in the area, I have a hunch he was that John Frost thug.” “Then it'd make sense that this was an action taken by the Vanguards.” “Yes, it would. But the evidence we received isn't conclusive enough to give us a face, or even a name. Quite frankly, it pisses me off.” Baron laughed jovially. “ I can imagine. And there's a lot of evidence here, yeah. Blood all over the damn place. Ever since their kind started comin' in Mendel, we've just had–” “I dunno,” he interrupted, prompting an annoyed frown from Baron, “but Skeleton is gonna lose his shit when he hears about this one.” “Was he a big deal?” Baron asked. “Do I look like I hang around fuckin' gangsters? All I know is that the guy was apparently a Skull.” “Fine, fine. Let's call it a day then. I'll ask around in the meantime. Maybe something has happened between the two parties to invite bad blood.” “Heard that – I'll keep in touch with you.” Baron nodded his acquaintance off and walked away on his own. There was a bar nearby. He wasn't much of a fan of bars. They did not often sell the kind of vintage that Baron was a fan of, and the atmospheres were often too rustic. However, they were the gathering places of the local savvies. There he can obtain information on his case. It wasn't Club 76 or the Jolly Roger – those two places were renowned for being the hubs of gang activity. The only reason why the department didn't storm in and fire the place up was probably the risk of losing too many officers. No, this was a lesser known bar. More suited for those who wanted to get away from all that nonsense. To keep low. To avoid association. What better place to obtain information? He took the bus. He payed the fare and rode it out, making sure to give people his especially suspicious face – like a smug grin, and piercing gaze. Give them the impression that Baron was watching them, or that they were his target, so that he may be alone in his seat. It was surprisingly easy. Just how tight was the grip of these gangs on this town? Perhaps solving a murder or two wasn't all that needed to be done. If he was feeling especially spry, then he ought to contemplating dismantling all criminal power here. But that'd require effort he wasn't being payed to spend. When he got to his stop, no time was wasted in going in and getting straight to business. He walked straight the door, and checked out what was inside. The bar was slightly dead. A couple people here and there. Almost all keeping to themselves. Lack of trust, or suspicion? Or, perhaps looking to solve out their own problems. The guy in the gray business suit? A rectangular lump in his pants, and a similar, almost identical shape in his coat pocket over his breast. The top of which stuck out, it being a phone. His brown hair, scruffy, his face unshaven. His suit, that which appeared to be regularly ironed, was unkempt. Tugged in areas. Sweat soaked in the pants and below his neck. Constantly checking his phone in his coat. What could be the reasons? Put himself in his shoes, and the answers narrow down. Huge promotion? Possibly getting fired? Feedback on a project? Or maybe he cheated on his wife or girlfriend? The smallest red speck that could be mistaken for blood on the edge of his mouth – which did gloss under the light. All one could really do is wish him the best of luck. Or perhaps the other man, alone on a barstool. Salt and pepper hair, red skin – not so red, or the kind of red that'd be the sign of a southern man, it was a signifier of damaged skin. Thin wrinkles crawled over his body... scruffy facial hair... city-man attire... eh? No, no... maybe? Couldn't be. Or could it? Baron was, at heart, a doctor and scientist. He couldn't make exceptions. Still, God be damned if it was his old co-worker. He limped over, quietly, casually. He eased over by this stranger's side and leaned against the counter. “So,” Baron started saying, “anything been interesting lately? Like that murder down the way. What's up with [i]that[/i] any-who?” - - - - - - - - - - [u][b]Mia Jones[/b][/u] Old, rough, plastic bristles sopped with foaming mint toothpaste, guided back and forth by a hand through a row of white, scratched teeth. Teeth, in which the enamel was nearly scrubbed off by the vigor of the stained bristles. They found their way between the crevices and the nooks and the crannies, between the first molar and second molar, and the first molar and the canine, and then the lateral and central incisors. Moving on to the other half of the mouth, the process of repeated. But it was less a process so much as it was a cycle, for a process has an end in sight. As opposed to stopping and rinsing, the brush never stopped moving. It insisted, repeating each portion of the mouth over and over. Her hand didn't wear. It continued to move in the same, loose, rhythmic pattern and did not deter, guiding the brush. With each passing movement, the bristles would brush up against the pink, irritated gums. Each pass, each notion, it brought the gums to a bleed. As the red substance found it's way down and dripped upon the woman's tongue, the brushing stopped. It stopped, but remained dormant in her mouth – that is to say, the brush. Only after a few moments was it removed and rinsed under a leaky faucet. It was followed by a pair of hands, feeling for the cold stream of water, and cupping the hands when it was found. The water was lifted and sucked up by her mouth, swished around, and spat out. Mia would never find out what the disgusting mixture of water and toothpaste and blood looked like. She might not actually want to, but she long sought relief from the black veil. Be it a blood stained glob of toothpaste foam or the face of a law enforcement officer or a bouquet of flowers, she didn't care. It's been a long six months. The longest six months she has ever had, and she felt herself forgetting what it was like to see. She dared not pity herself though. She brought it upon herself, so she had to live with the consequences. But it sure must be wonderful seeing the world as it was meant to be... or at least outside of East Mendel. She had faint memories of this part of this city, none far too pretty. If East Mendel looked anything like how it smelled, perhaps being blind wasn't such a bad thing after all. Mia cupped her hands under the tap once more and splashed the cool water against her sticky face, and dried it with a warm hand towel, then promptly discarded it in the plastic bin below the counter. So it was that day. A Monday, right? Keeping track of days was harder than it used to be, not being able to look at paper or digital calendars. Anything beyond keeping track of the days in her mind or asking pedestrians was out of her reach, and she wasn't prone to talking to others. No, she'd rather go about her daily life by herself with no one around to bug her. To give her time to pan out what to do with herself and her life. She did, to some extent. A rash decision, really, she knew that. The MCPD was a paranoid organization, and the gangs were as strong as military powers at this point. And the police department was sanctioned by the government itself, but they crossed so many lines. This was the day that she intended to officially set herself against them and the rest of the world, even if that meant her eventual death. She was blind in a city full of violent meta-humans, scared people, and an extremist police-force. Death was a foregone conclusion, so to her, it was more a matter of knowing where your allegiances lie [i]before[/i] that inevitable outcome. But that thought troubled her. There was no allegiance to be had with anybody. She wasn't devoted to the Skulls, she wasn't invested in the Vanguards, her only allegiance was to herself – and that should be enough. But a meta-human or not, a blind woman can't get anything done by herself. The whole damn world had to pay for all the shit it put on her! That was for certain. The Vanguard wouldn't be able to help her do that, being preoccupied in sucking their own collective dicks. The Skulls were their primary enemy, but hanging about a bunch of layabouts of psychopathic meta-humans put her in almost as much risk as walking into a pit of starving dogs. The idiocy of the Skulls' members aside, she could at least find the strength to tolerate them and keep them out of her way while utilizing their resources to hit the city hard. The only problem she could see – an ironic phrase in Mia's circumstance – was their willingness to let a blind woman in. Sure, she could punch her way in, but they still might see her as a liability. She can't have that. She isn't a liability! But who would listen to a desperate blind woman? She made a rueful sigh as she slowly and carefully stepped down the staircase, her hand firmly on the rail. She felt a jagged edge and then a gap with no railing. Oh, this. Something should be done about this. She inched her way towards the wall on her left and use that to lean and feel against as she went down. There was a time that she lost her foot at the edge of one of the steps. Being the woman with super strength, the railing didn't really keep her from falling. More like it was ripped from where it was built and fell with Mia. She was lucky that no harm was done – except for the railing. It still sat outside near the door, probably damaged by termites or waterlogged or something. At reaching the bottom, she felt for her cane, which was near the door. She didn't bother to eat breakfast. Her appetite has never really been the same since Roy's death. She took her hand and combed it through her short hair. It was black, the last she recalled. It had to have been. Most African Americans had black hair. Her hair was silky though, provided by Egyptian and Arabian genes. She had a pretty curious lineage. Mia once had grandparents. They told stories about their grandparents' grandparents – obviously a pretty old story – and how they were nomadic. From Arabia, to Egypt, and to Sudan, where the lineage stagnated a little bit before being captured by white colonials. A lot of people this generation, whom were the children of those during the third-wave social rights movement were taught such things and so did they to the next person for generations! Treat them as they did us! But Mia never did pay it much mind then, figuring it happened generations ago. The unequal treatment of individuals so many years ago did not justify revenge against the demographic of today. Just as Germany today isn't responsible for the actions of Nazi Germany nine decades ago. But these sort of political ideologies didn't concern Mia so much anymore. As active as she was in her ideologies years ago, or even seven months ago, her interest in such things diminished. There was inequality everywhere, she thought. And inequality is indiscriminate. It comes in the form of fortune to some and misfortune to others. It's only discriminate when deliberately perpetuated by men and women through action. It was about time that Mia took action, herself. No more waiting around. No more crying. She was alone. That had to be accepted. She was strong. That [i]had[/i] to be believed. She had the conviction to fight back, it was just the matter of summoning the strength to follow through. Her ears perk at the faintest sound of a high-pitched squeal. It was approaching West Mendel, but not towards her house. They were sirens. A couple of them. A semblance of a smile plastered her face. So, the Skulls and Vanguard were finally going at it – and in West Mendel, too. It must be quite a surprise to those Vanguard folk, having people barge down their front door like that. How offset must they be? How afraid are their members what with the department being more involved in their hijinks? The Skulls have to make a stand, she knew they know this. They're going to need brave family members. Brave family members or fools, or anyone desperate enough to get by or throw a punch at a super-powered dumbass. So it's settled, then. Mia had a plan. Drop in and offer herself right before the climax After all, they need every brave body they can get their sweaty mitts on, otherwise, perhaps their fallen comrades will remind them of that... She felt for the crook of her cane. Feeling the sudden sensation of the cold stainless steel, she felt further up until her hand came into contact with the rubber grip. She grasped it and stood up. Now, it was time to meet with the Skulls, like she intended. She didn't think she knew anyone in particular within the street gang, only word that a childhood "associate" was among them. To this, Mia shrugs and disregards - she knew quite a few people when she was younger. An associate was not much to go on and very much likely given the close quarter environment of Mendel. She knew what this apartment felt like, just like the back of her hand. But it had become habit. She grasped the doorknob, and with deliberate gentleness and finesse, unlocked it before turning the knob and opening the door wide. She felt the warmth of the cheap, buzzing flood-light on her porch, bathing beneath it for just a moment. The air was cool enough to warrant the old brown leather jacket that Mia never intended on leaving behind, which was layered over her black and yellow plaid button-up (the sleeves of which were rolled to her elbows, but that is a factor unable to be determined underneath her jacket). Faded, baggy boot cut jeans were basically all she owned in terms of pants, with draped over old dirty mustard colored steel-toed work boots, that was laced and tied tightly around her feet. She didn't bother locking the door behind her. Anybody who knew anything about East Mendel knew that there is nothing worth stealing around this neighborhood. Besides that, she at least had the good fortune ("good fortune", a very much laughable term these days) of living nearby comparatively good people who sought to do nothing but survive on their own. Having keys were somewhat of a liability anyways. They made you a target. With keys, it looked like you owned something. On days that she was especially pissed off, she'd carry keys just to have an excuse to "defend" herself. Even without keys, and even without owning anything, she was still at some sort of "risk". She was a woman. She owned enough. Enough of what many men around these parts want, anyway. And how "easy" it would be to get away with "attacking" poor little Mia... Ha. Laughable. Nearly all men that targeted her didn't know what they were getting into. Nearly. Perhaps some people are just really desperate. She must be pretty pretty, Mia figured, or that there weren't many tails to chase around here. She fortunately beat enough people into a pulp that the "dogs" around the corner don't bark at her any more. "Dogs". Going deeper into the city was a different story. She didn't go deep very often. Usually the corner store was all she needed, and going in deep usually meant drug dealers and whorehouses and gang turf - things that wasn't her type of business. As a result, some people down there see a respectably attractive blind woman with a cane, and they start staring like starving wolves. From the sounds Mia heard, it seemed there was a party just a little ways down the street from here. Over east. It was the general direction that Mia recalled hearing all of the ruckus the other day. After all, she only lived a mile off. When Mia turned the corner on the sidewalk after feeling the edge of the curb with her cane, that was when one of the starving wolves tried to make their move. It was like a tickle in her ear. A crawl up her spine. She heard the rush of footsteps from behind, and large hands feeling up her back - and just as the cold, sharp blade caressed the peach hairs of her throat, Mia flipped up her cane and hooked it around the man's head with the crook before pulling forward and downward hard. Her assailant was effortlessly tossed aside and was flung through air before making hard and abrupt impact with the dirty asphalt road. The wind was knocked from him and he cried out nothing but muted screams as he clutched his neck with one hand and his back with the other. Mia was unfazed. She felt around the ground with her boot, before coming up what felt to be the knife he was previously carrying. A quick stomp, and the gadget was shattered and flattened, and the rusted blade crumbled in a couple pieces. Letting her cane slide down through her hand until she came back to the grip, she continued walking, following the sound of music and shouts and motorcycles. On her way there, the blind woman would have been oblivious of the wary pack of wolves that had cut her a path on the sidewalk, as they were silently still and holding their breaths as she passed - but their beer ridden stench gave them away - but she would give them the benefit of the doubt. The smell of street party was something to behold, alright. Beer, piss, shit, bile, and poorly made deviled eggs (which were probably laced with methamphetamine - she certainly wouldn't want to eat any deviled eggs made by anyone in Mendel). The rancid odor itself was a party. There hardly seemed any need to start an [i]actual[/i] party. Still, she needed directions to "the big five" or “four” or whatever. As they called them around here. Those were directions not lightly given unless people took you seriously, and she felt the drunken gazes of hawks on her. Hawks that were, of course, intoxicated. But regardless, their talons were still sharp. So, what was a good way to get someone willing to talk? A blind punch? Hardly. That would knock the poor bastard out. She bumped into a man, ripe and muscular and shirtless. Huh. He'd have to do. Mia quickly turned around and grabbed his arm, before gently putting him against the brick wall of a building. "So..." Mia purred softly, "do you think you can answer a question for me?" Her hands were feeling around on his bare shoulders. Oh god. That feeling. Was that beer, vomit, or sweat? This guy was a disgusting pig. Whatever the guy looked like, or the expression on his face to which she was blind to, it sounded as if he was a-okay with this. For he said, "Sure babe, what is it?" The guy nearly sounded excited. Skull boys were so easy. Mia finally found the spot she was looking for - the pressure point in the neck! Ever had your pressure point pinched by a gal with super strength? The man crumpled to the ground in an instant, his entire body seized and both of his hands were trying to pry himself from Mia grip - and ultimately failing to do so. "Where's the big four?" "The bar!" He cried out and pointed. This scene of course attracted the attention of a couple people watching. Mia knew this by how the crowd came just a little more silent, where other parts in the crowd laughed - those laughing were probably more familiar with these parts and were around for longer. Those were probably the people who knew that there were some gals around here you didn't fuck with. With Mia's other hand, he felt her victim's arm and hand to see where he was pointing. Mia let go of him and followed the trail she was sent on. These wolves were a little different. They didn't cut a path for her. They were a little more hardened than the dogs on the street. Feeling around with her cane was a little more difficult with all these meatbags in the way. But she did finally come in contact with something solid, and laughter a little bit upward and forward. A strange scent joined the mixture. It was strong, and it stung her nostrils just slightly. Regardless, she scaled the two or three steps it took to get into the bar, and she heard the musings of a couple other people. Mostly men. One woman. A slightly familiar sound, but there wasn't enough of it right now to make much out of it. She leaned against a wall next to the doorway, facing the bar stools. Well, this had to be the place. Better make an impression to these bozos. "So I heard [i]you[/i] scrubs were the "big four"." She crowed as she leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. Okay, on second thought, that'd certainly make an impression. She didn't know how laid back these boys were or if they'd care - they were drunk. Anyways, she carried herself well - hopefully that was enough to mean she meant business. Certainly, Mia wanted to [i]make[/i] business. And she had guts, if her statement said anything. Hopefully this was enough to warrant some attention from these bozos. She'd say that these guys didn't look so impressive, but that wasn't something that she would know.