[center][h1]Enoch[/h1]
[/center][hr][color=gray]Industrial Row
Charity Beach, Florida
1230 hrs
Saturday, June 11th[/color]

The motor of the Dodge growled with particular ferocity as Brooks took the turns and roads with little caution. Not speeding, particularly, but with all the care one would expect of someone of his particular position. One hand gripped the ripped up steering wheel cover loosely along the top, the other clutching a cigarette to Brooks's mouth, turning him into a fog machine of cigarette smoke. He was confident he knew where this one was. Boardwalk District, intersect of 26th Street and Boardwalk Row itself, big fuck off docks, couldn't miss it.

An idle hand turned to the beat-up stereo system. "-.3 FM, for all your classic rock needs." Intoned a smooth and calm voice. The ringing of the words in silence was followed by a [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X3IA6pIVank]relaxing drum beat, a moving bass line, strumming, and a sweet sound of harmonica[/url]. Returning his hand to his cigarette, he nodded. Neil Young, classic. One pop. Two pops. Not his stereo, it wasn't that beat up. A thundering pop assaulted his eardrums as he began to pump the brake, followed by three quieter. He pulled to the side of the street, brushing against the lip of the sidewalk as he promptly, and calmly shut the engine off.

His right hand went down to his waistband, revealing his trusty sidearm and in-line conceal carry holster. A check revealed the chamber occupied by a cartridge, and a full magazine loaded. This kind of thing wasn't usually his business, but these were [b]close[/b]. Less than a block down, westwards. And what harm was it to see, anyways? What would the cops do, arrest him for rubbernecking? He popped his door, tugging his keyring along with him, closing and locking the door behind and starting towards the nearest alley as the streets around him seemed empty, with not even ghosts seemingly calling this place home.

He crept down the alleyway, past rat and mouse alike as he encroached on the position of the last shot. But it'd been minutes since then. Whoever it was could've been long gone. No, he had to see for himself. Whatever this was, it wasn't some driveby or gang shootout, five shots at least, accompanied by something big, something powerful. Immersed in thought, he crept past a dumpster, taking care to avoid any muck or small furry creatures, alive or deceased. But suddenly, something thrust over him at speed, a blur of orange and white which threw him off balance, pressing him against a brick wall and crouching behind a dumpster, a hand now on his sidearm's grip. "Huh-" He managed to rasp out, before collecting himself and peeking from behind the dumpster.

Nothing. His imagination? A bird? Possibly. But something told him that meant he was in the right place. And from the warehouse which the figure had emerged was his destination. Drawing a pocket knife, he pressed its blade into the gap in the latch on the emergency door, peeking into his small viewpoint into the warehouse floor.