[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=orangered]Caesar Gonzalez[/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[center][img]https://www.trbimg.com/img-54da3b87/turbine/sf-danny-trejo-shock-pop-comiccon-lauderdale-20150210[/img][/center][sub][color=orangered][i]His childhood bedroom. Caesar sometimes comes back here to think.[/i][/color][/sub][hr][b] [color=orangered]Location:[/color][/b] La Hacienda 
[b][color=orangered]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][hr][/center]

	[i]...Upstairs...[/i]

	Sorting through all of the information was difficult. The coding and format seemed designed to make reading it as difficult and/or as taxing as possible, but the steady stream of information was, presumably, helpful. Only she had no idea why it would have been helpful, not having been dealt in to this particular game of massively high-stakes poker. The thought occurred to her once again that this would make a ton more sense if her Big Bad Uncle gave her any sort of fucking clue as to what happened back in Justice, especially as it concerned the only member of her family she felt she could actually relate to, then maybe, [i]just maybe[/i], it would allow for a single puzzle piece to fit onto another. Right now, she might as well be pulling up the Irish National Anthem. In phonetic Swahili. "Hey Dad, um... does any of this bullshit mean anything to you?"

	[b]"No, M'hija. Maybe a name sounds familiar, like I heard it on the news a while back. But no, Caesar never told me anything. [/b]

	"Then maybe it's time he [i]did[/i].


	[i]...Downstairs...[/i]

	Caesar contented himself by pulling up a random piece of furniture to the tables where the abuelitas had set up the vast majority of the spread of delicacies that Central America had to offer, not the least of which being a whole, roast pig, apple still in its mouth. Other sections were piled high with similar porcine flesh cooked to tender perfection, but Caesar wanted to attack the beast in its natural habitat: A roasting pan. Yes, he was in mourning. Also yes, he was suddenly hungry. Those two pieces of fruit served mostly to arouse his appetite without bedding it back down, and he realized in that moment that he hadn't really eaten in a couple of days. Oh, he had drank a fair amount of alcohol in that time, (that realization reminded him that he still held a bottle of mescal in his hand, prompting him to take a long, painful pull that exploded into his belly like Mexican fire) but food? Not so much. The smell was intoxicating. Or was that the booze? No matter. His Alicia wouldn't want him to starve to death, not until the people responsible for her present, not-alive state elsewhere in the vicinity. 

	Yes, Alicia. Through the mild buzz of bewormed, golden alcohol, he remembered that he had something of hers. Caesar reached into his back pocket, leaning forward to do so, and pulled out a very fine, stiletto style switchblade. Classic weapon of last resort, or first choice for many out of pure intimidation factor. In this case, Caesar used the weapon to pry out one of the pig's big, round eyes. The iris and pupil were charred somewhat and sunken into the main body of the eye like a concave deviled egg, but that wasn't going to stop him from impaling it on the end of Alicia's switchblade and ripping off a section of it with his teeth like a chewy, malformed lollipop. Mmm, piggy piggy. The aqueous and vitreous humors splashed outward from the ocular party snack in a vision of flame-roasted barbarism. He went after the tongue next. Then the heart. Then his hunger turned him toward... [i]the empanadas[/i]. 

	Caesar's phone buzzed in his vest pocket. He too a moment from his repast to check it. At first, he grew angry. Very angry, prompting him to raise from his seat in a start. Then his brain processed what he had read, starting with the name "Wentworth". He told them not to do any more investigating. Told them directly, and in simple words. But this... he needed to see this. Hell, he needed to let that big son-of-a-bitch (who he was looking forward to beating the crap out of) in California about some of this. Maybe even broadcast the whole of this news to as many sources as possible, just to cover his own back and that of people he still cared about. Should he tell Cecily? If that woman Natasha was in on everything, it could mean the end of the young Coroner. Okay, not yet. Ignorance was not bliss, but it [i]was[/i] safer that evening. But now, upstairs. 

	[i]...back in Justice, Queensguard R&D Industrial Complex...[/i]

	It took time to run a diagnostic. It took time to get results back from facial recognition software. It took time to gather proper information on current events within a secure facility. Wentworth was the primary interest of concern, but he was the show card. Keystone wanted to know what was being held in hand, close to the vest. Unfortunately, you had to plow through one to get to the other, and this guy... well, he didn't know him, but he didn't trust him a bit. Call it a hunch. He was in a conversation of some kind with a more than fairly buff looking woman. Personal bodyguard, perhaps? Or one of Juno's enforcers? For all he knew, she just snuck into the party because she heard a rumor they were giving out free liquor. He'd done it before, why not others? 

	Well, while he was taking a lot of fun time waiting on reports to come back, the broad Security Agent known as Johnathon I. Keystone weighed his options in dealing with this man. [color=b8860b]"Oi, buggerall question, but can we get ears on this Wenty fella?"[/color] he spoke into his comm. Meanwhile, Vinters gave a quick glance over to her new boss, wondering how the man became a Director in the first place and why she was so lucky to have a Cockney Jackhole for a superior. A least he looked like a damn handy guy. If stuff became loud and violent, she'd have no problems with holding a line with the man.