[center][img]http://gameplay.pl/galeria/ilustracja/217_165634713.png[/img][/center][hr] [b]Gena's Diner, Corner Booth, The Big Apple at Dusk[/b] "Y'know, it's a nice little corner of the world you have here, really." Jake Locksley set down his coffee mug, freshly filled, to regard the man in front of him. Amos Lardner of the CIA, currently one of the most well-connected agents of the U.S. government stateside not to be at work for one of its' more irregular branches, not that you could tell by looking at him. He'd spent his life sitting at desks, poring over case files, speaking into the occasional earpiece and thereby quietly changing the world in massive seismic-level ways. He was here on a personal favor rather than on behalf of the government, a rare occurrence ever since...well... Marc Spector pushed the memories back down, picked up his coffee mug and took a long, slow sip. Bitter of course, but with a slightly fruit-like undertone and slightly burnt-out. Gina's diner was a good place, certainly. A table where his back was to the wall and slightly away from windows, an easygoing place run by a single mother with two boys who didn't mind passing on the occasional bit of on-the-street gossip to a discerning, well-tipping cab driver like Locksley. More importantly it was the sort of place where Amos could meet with an old high-school friend who'd been significantly more down on his luck than the big-time CIA desk-jockey, catch up on old times. Marc appreciated that right about now. He took another sip of the coffee. Was it a cherry undertone he was detecting underneath the slightly burnt and bitter coffee bean? Gina must've switched brands. "Well, the coffee's not Yemeni, but it's satisfying anyways. So's the work. Speaking of, what've you got for me? Our first meeting in years, you must have a gift right?" The older man frowned and shook his head, giving a little sigh of frustration along with it as he answered. "I'm sorry, I tried, I really did. I even called in a few favors higher up for you, knocked on some doors I normally stay away from, but as far as I can tell there [b]IS[/b] no organization calling itself The Committee. It's a complete dead end, pal. Your source's emails, I checked them too as best I could but as far as we can tell the trail goes cold after some spambot account and the money he received involved a bunch of Swiss Bank Account style stuff, a real pain to get into. That'd be worrying by itself if this were an on-the-books case, but officially we aren't investigating so that's all I can give you. You're pretty much chasing ghosts." Well, then at least he was back in familiar territory. He put down his half of the bill plus tip and stood up to go. "It's fine Amos, I've worked dead ends before. It just tells me how in-depth this whole thing must be. Lemme know if I can do anything for you." "Wait, before you leave, since you mentioned it there's one thing!" "Really? Well that was fast, what is it?" "Yesterday, there was a killing in Bludhaven and-" Marc held up a hand. "Amos I don't do that sort of work anymore, I've told you half a dozen times. I'm out, that's final." "Just- Alright, I won't ask you to work the case with The Company, but at least look at the crime scene pictures and tell me what you think? You were always one of our best when it came to synthesizing intel into a real picture, y'know? Please? Lives are at stake." "What am I, your own personal Sherlock Holmes?" "No, but I was hoping you could do a decent Nero Wolfe impression." Marc sat back down as Amos handed him a manila envelope full of labelled pictures. A massacre-no, a controlled assassination. Multiple gunshot victims, a single decapitated body with an odd bruise on the remains of the throat. Strange bloody wheel marks on the table, fragments of a flashbang grenade, a few bloody footprints...all too quickly the full picture locked into place in Marc Spector's mind. "Your assassin is a male, ambidextrous, nine or ten years old. He's highly skilled for his age too, well-nourished and the training hasn't stunted his growth...yet. probably somebody's pet weapon rather than the mass-produced village kids you normally get, not that they're bad shots. The wakizashi's an interesting touch, don't see that much nowadays, plus the cut was made while the last vic was still alive, probably all some symbolic 'ninja' thing." Amos stared at Marc for a minute, though he was polite enough and experienced enough with the other man's work not to actually gape. "I'll spell it out for you. We get relative positioning off of this thug killed at close range, which was obviously the case given the burns on his skin, no detectable change in foot positioning or weight distribution during that shot so we can assume the killer just switched hands for it. Height comes mainly off of this fourth man to die as the bullet entered from the throat but up at an angle to create the exit wound at the back of the skull, suggesting an uncomfortable position for the shooter unless he was roughly the size of a nine or ten year old child. The angle, shape and force of the cuts coupled with positioning substantiates the body metrics along with the nature of the weapon, the post-mortem bruising on the neck gives a guess at hand size to further back that up. The way the weight is distributed during those cuts and with the wheel marks indicates male. Highly trained is just obvious from the fact that your killer never missed a shot, never gave his targets the chance to return fire and was finished and out before the police arrived on scene even in a city like Bludhaven. Not too many non-child assassins wear child-sized Heelys to their kills. That enough information for you?" "Ah...yeah, thanks. But...well you're good but this is still educated guesswork right? How can you be sure the assassin's a kid?" At the question, ghosts of the past floated up before Marc Spector's eyes. Children, the faces always changing but the eyes always the same, empty, alone. Clutching at guns like security blankets, living for the praise that came with taking a life whether it came as words or food or drugs...or just an end to the pain. So many in so many places...he'd forgotten their names... "Kids like that, you don't forget what the signs look like. I'm sure." Amos Lardner thanked him again, got up, left. Marc Spector took another long sip of his coffee. He'd been wrong about the taste. It was just bitter.