[b]11:47 PM, August 2nd, 158 East 23rd Street, New York.[/b]

"Sweet Mary Mother of Jesus... Christ... God Protect Us All, there's a fucking psychopath on out there."

Graphic images were seen, countless bodies pulled out under white sheets, a tally of the ever rising number. One report was not enough, three sites attacked, but dozens of networks seemed to cover the story. First the train, and now this, what was the world coming to? Madness it seemed with the authorities baffled on who would do such heinous acts. What sick, twisted individual would butcher people like that? Mutilated bodies, shredded beyond recognition, disemboweled with dried blood oozed out from every remaining orifice identifiable as the remains of a mouth or ear whatever hole that ought to align with the anatomical approximation. There would be no witnesses to come testify, and no family members would be allowed to see the sorry state of the last memory of the dead who were adequately identified by dental records and surviving prints. And what ever could possess someone to leave the only solid piece of evidence behind with such terrible market branding? The game makers were quick to release a public statement, expressing concern and more so severing any affiliations the company had over these horrible acts of depravity. Yet the damage was done, it was over, and within 24 hours, the media was exploding with whatever the "DS Killer" topic was about. Of which certainly on some forums there would be some would be hoodlums who would claim to be the dark artist behind the chilling act, but certainly none could provide the evidence. Young kids who wanted to dabble in the gory glorious infamy, punks who wanted to prove their dangerous edge, even the occasional actual demented deviant who got off to this sort of stuff. What times to be alive, what times to die.

Whatever the case may be, whatever that demon girl decided to do, yes it had her signature of mindless maniacal mayhem to it, Rufus took little care. She wanted to make it into a farce, a competition of who could stir up the masses more, and for what? Let the child have her carnage and slaughter, there was something more tactical Rufus had in mind. Sitting down to his dusty dark pint with a side of whatever passes for potato skins around here, the Timekeeper looked within the regular limits of age for such a rowdy crowd. Somewhere in his late thirties or so, enough to pass without requiring to be carded, and certainly intimidating enough with his appearance to unnerve the bartender from thinking twice, let alone anyone else sober enough to stay away from the man with a scar across his eye. The two screens were blaring out the latest updates on the investigations that shook the city. A church, a club, and a diner, most of the public places were on high alert, with blue and brass swarming out looking for clues like teenage detectives and their stupid bloodhound. Sure the lass was messy, but she was keen enough on not leaving a trial of blood right back to base, hopefully. What Rufus did however was far less flamboyant and mysterious, sticking to his guns and what lifetimes of conflict prepared him for. On Third and Twenty Third, a stone's throw way from where he was this morning to collect some old personal effects he had left there as his time serving in the american forces during the great war.

He once was Captain Herb G. Wells, or "George" as the Americans tended to call him on the fact they never felt right pronouncing their damned H's. Correcting them became tedious enough, but the nickname stuck to the character's grave. Rufus certainly looked the part however back in the day, dressed in uniform with that wicked scar across his face. They wondered, but all those who knew the false story behind the mark were dead now, the respectable men he had worked with during the so-called 'War to end all Wars' would be rolling in their graves in knowing that a scant decade later the world would be once again at war. But that, as Rufus learned, was the nature of the human race, war was the one language that they all spoke, and one principle they all understood. It mattered not their family ties as King, Kaiser and Tsar fought. It mattered not nationalities: Serbian, Italian, french and Ottoman came to the fray. It mattered not vast distances: America, China and Siam came to partake as well dragged by the global pull of strategic alliances. It was the greatest ability of mankind to unite against a common foe, and that was what Rufus was placing his bets on. It was only matter of time before The Guild would be forced out to make a reveal, a public announcement of the existence of magic in the world and the danger the humans were in from rogue magi. Of course centuries ago humans burned witches and wizards alive for being ousted, and with a little luck and clever manipulation Rufus could aim the human fear and hatred directly at The Guild. Let all magi be suspect, let The Guild tremble at the wolf they have been protecting.

"Looks like it, what kind of sicko does that sorta stuff and sleeps at night?"

The discussion around the counter seemed to revolve around Cerce's murdering spree, sober and drunkards alike watching in horror as reporters scrambled picking up news of whatever investigation was leading underway, advisories about safe practices, looking out of suspicious characters, reporting to the local authorities and the numbers running across the screen. All the resources and time spent dissecting apart three random sites for the trinity of means, motive, and murderer. All the perfect distraction for Rufus to do his part in their dark orchestra, and to finish the job, a glass or two of Guinness. Watching the clock on the bottom of the screen as the time came closer and closer to the midnight hour. In and out, the old ways from the old days, a way to cause trouble, the Troubles. A random target, unknown and faceless, with not a single care who or what would be destroyed. Somewhere in the city, a bomb was rigged to explode tonight filled with ancient explosives from another era, if the car belonged to someone and would be driven, or if it would just stay there sitting in the lot or structure or street mattered not. A message needed to be sent, it would be small, almost meaningless compared to the recent crimes and usual problems the city had, but for Rufus it was a symbolic act to mark just the beginning. The beginning of the old spark returning in him as his tankard ran close to dry. And evidently as the seconds ticked away towards midnight... A new spark started within the vehicle.

[color=40c10c]"Aye, terrible little bastard I'm sure, Lass, give me a shot of Jameson to cap off the night."[/color] And all he needed now was a shot of cream. But Rufus already made himself a proper car bomb earlier this morning, and this was just the pièce d'occasion he would drink as the hour, minute, and second hand aligned themselves.

00:00:00
Boom.