[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=orangered]Caesar Gonzalez[/color][/i][/b][/h1] [img]https://media.giphy.com/media/wbomIbUs5Bc2I/giphy.gif[/img][hr][b] [color=orangered]Location:[/color][/b] Somewhere Above Southern California [hr][hr][/center] The ice made small tinkling sounds as it melted, settling ever so slightly into the crystal tumbler glass. It was a clear, quiet sound, complementing the even breathing of the man seated next to it. Caesar was asleep, or very near to it, having surmised that this plane flying several thousand feet in the air was the closest thing to safety that he had experienced in some time. As he drifted away into lightly guarded rest, his landscape began to change. [hr] [i]The light of the dying sun held fast to Caesar, as if he refused to submit to the coming evening and the cold night was too afraid to deny the man the last rays of illumination. The heavens themselves wrapped their threads around the central, dominant strand of Caesar, completing the weave of the tapestry of his life flowing both unbroken and strong; it flapped in the breeze defiantly, standing against wave after wave of those who would bring him low. Caesar was the very vision of a mythic demi-god. More than a man, but just short of an entity that demanded worship. He stood upon the top of a polished and shining Aztec pyramid, replete with radiant badassery in his fuzzy bunny slippers and smileyface boxer shorts, his hair and terrycloth bathrobe blowing freely in the same wind that brought the smoke of a thousand flaming corpses behind him; the remains of those who had challenged him and were not up to the task. More and more came, swarming, clawing at him with their yellowed fingernails and dead, milky eyes. He was in a lull now, but he saw more coming from below. They came bounding and crawling up the steps, climbing and scratching and gibbering for his blood. The light of the setting sun bathed him with the very last of its luminescence, reluctant to leave the man but powerless against the turning of the firmament. But the sun was not his only ally. Lightning rolled and flashed across an otherwise stormless sky, signaling the coming of great, tumultuous clouds in which hung the silhouette of a great, godly avian, ringed by thunderbolts that provided the elder Mexican precious ambient light with which he may continue his work. If Caesar was impressed, he did not show it, merely setting a firmness to his jaw and hefting a pair of massive laborer's blades: His company's namesake machetes, items of a sort that had been lifelong companions. They were almost upon him now. It was time to get to business. The first of them foolishly tried to take him openly from the front, snarling and snapping. His blades flashed in the electric dim, lopping off the hands of the first that attempted to grab at him. He sidestepped and spun around, intercepting the claws of another while taking the apart his first attacker at the knees. He rose, slashing in front of him to dispatch the enemy at his fore, and turned, rotating his blades in a sweeping figure eight. Their blood was real enough, coloring the stone and stairs with red-black streaks like macabre graffiti or the workings of a deranged abstract painter. Several more backed him to the very top of the pyramid, but it cost them dearly in limbs and blood. He was like a machine, hacking and stabbing, kicking and punching. He slipped his way between and amongst the mob of no-quite-men, dealing true death with both hands. A head rolled back down the pyramid, its former owner slumping to its knees before Caesar; in death paying the homage it should have in life. It was quickly followed by another as the Familia Gonzalez Warrior split its skull twain; a horizontal strike entering around the temple, crossing through both milky eyes and separating the top if its head from the rest of it. Impossibly, the thing still stood, trying madly to blink its half-eyes and stay on its feet. A single, spattered, fuzzy white bunny rose from the dust and gore of the stone beneath him and crashed into the torso of the gruesome, partially capitated thing in a vicious front kick. Caesar used the momentum to bend backwards almost impossibly, blades reaching out and striking two more to his rear. One got it in its belly, the other its crotch. He twisted his body around to plant another bunny into the knee of the first, bringing to to the stone floor where it experienced a half-second of continued existence before the tip of the old man's blade finished him from above. The forcibly circumcised creature grabbed after its own wounds, patiently waiting to taste death at the hands of Caesar Hannibal Gonzalez. Its writhing patience was well rewarded as it was chopped to ribbons. He was not done yet. He would never be done. Caesar was the flesh representation of gods older than eons; concepts of Death and Fire and Rage, fitfully coexisting with Justice and Revenge. A beast in the shape of a Man, motivated by love and honor, dragging fear beyond that of mere mortality along with him against its will, kicking and screaming, begging to be released from the shadow of this horrifying force of nature that acted solely in the best interests of that which was good and wholesome. A living contradiction, a harbinger of mutilation. The blood stained Caesar lifted his blades to the sky as the first rain fell and lightning struck the stone around him. He let out a wordless bellow; a primal scream in proud Latino bass. The sudden and intense increase of illumination allowed him clearer view of the land around him. It was crawling with hordes of adversarial creatures at all sides. This was likely his last battle, but he would fight it in such a way as to be deified after his passing. He would make them suffer for every drop of blood the took from him. He would make them pay dearly for every inch. He was El Jefe. Gods would take notice. He would make them. Hoisting his blades, Caesar welcomed the coming onslaught. He was going home.[/i] [hr] Sleeping in the reclined seat of his private plane, a small smile cracked the old man's face. Words could not describe how unsettling that sight could be. [hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=b8860b]J. Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h1] [img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/9c/ba/f3/9cbaf3be02b57676c6708b37c484110a.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=b8860b]Location:[/color][/b] Justice Airport [hr][hr][/center] The jogging woman had the appearance of one who was about to pack up her sweatbands and leave. Not that it had any particular impact on Keystone, he was merely observing the situation play out and judging it against diversion or surveillance technique. That, and that manner of extremely casual behavior that he never would have seen in an airport in London, likely symptomatic of the very American concepts of "Make Yourself At Home". Ironically enough, it seemed to sit right alongside another of America's notable signposts; "Trespassers Will Be Shot". Common language (barely) aside, Keystone didn't figure that he'd ever really get the United States, let alone someplace as culturally fluid as California. He spared a look at the television that the formerly jogging lady became transfixed by, noting the headline. He gave a tiny, dismissive head shake. That wasn't exactly how it went down. But if you looked at it from a slightly skewed point of view, the Insane Striking Back did have a truthy grain to it. Ah, spin. Keystone took the first few steps to get a little closer to the television, curious as to how badly the media would slant the facts. Then something more pressing was announced over the airport speakers; apparently Flight 1873 was arriving a half hour early at Gate 18D. This called for a direction change. Excellent. Now he could gather the Tech crew, head back to MSS's setup back at Queensguard Industries R&D, and get them both settled in [i]and[/i] hard at work. People one could trust were a rare commodity in this town, or so he had been informed. Recent days had him fully believing it. Keystone found a nice, visible spot in good view of the passengers from Seattle who were deplaning, and made certain that his MSS credentials were in plain view. He wasn't sure exactly who was gong to show up, nor how many. The most he could do was check their credentials against current employees; a simple task with his sat phone's work app, but they had to arrive and recognize each other first. So, Keystone stood and waited.