[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=orangered]Caesar[/color] & [color=darkgoldenrod]Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[img][/img][hr][b][color=dimgray]Location:[/color][/b] Grimm Indiana (El Asilo/The Nuthouse!)
[b][color=ff4500]Skills:[/color][/b] Observation, Tracking
[b][color=b8860b]Skills:[/color][/b] Observation, Security Procedures [hr][hr][/center]

	Keystone was coming to grips with the fact that his child's maternal grandfather was probably having a psychotic break of some sort. Now, the problem with this was, when a normal person has a shortcircuit of this nature, a couple of imposing gentlemen in crisp, white, shortsleeve overshirts would politely but firmly stuff them into a self-hugging coat and pump them so full of Thorazine that they turn into a mumbling, oozing mess, suitable for stamping and filing away with everyone else whose cheese has slipped off of their cracker; whereas Caesar was a legend in his own time, setting the standard for unrelenting violence spanning decades of horrifying albeit creatively handled, epic rendings of flesh. True, now that he was in his later years, a stretch of relative peace and legitimacy of his business might have earned him accusations of losing a step, but he was not a man with whom to fuck. It would take several men in crisp, white, shirtsleeve overshirts to take this man down, even if they caught him drunk and asleep. And if that was an exaggeration in the slightest, it was hard and fast fact that Keystone himself, who had trained his body into a powerful, living weapon, did not want to pit himself against the man in a fair fight unless he absolutely had to, size difference be damned. Hulk vs. Thor, except that the old Mexican would be channeling Quetzalcoatl instead of that oddly speaking hammerguy.  

	Or to put it simply, if Caesar went berserk, there would be no stopping him without massive collateral damage. 

	Now that he was hearing voices, specifically the voice of his recently deceased daughter, while tearing through a sleepy little town in Indiana behind the wheel of a security company SUV chock full of surveillance gear, weapons, ammo, and various sundries of professional badassery, Keystone was pretty sure that, unless he was going through some serious Twilight Zone shit, he was going to be on the wrong side of a police shootout. If, [i]IF[/i] they got caught. He was going to follow this man exactly as he promised that he would, take care of his family, and ensure everyone's safety to the best of his ability. And if he possibly could, have another binge session of iZombie with the coroner chick. The show had grown on him. 

	On the other hand, Caesar had his brain full of interesting if somewhat vague ideas about what he was going to to do any unlucky fuckstick who got in his way, up to and including pulling their hearts out, barehanded, [i]through their ass[/i]. It would involve removing his ballistic jacket, granted, but he hadn't gotten into the habit of wearing one of those until fairly recently anyway. Those things tended to get in the way of more delicate, agility-minded activities. Like pulling someone's heart out through their ass. Okay, so maybe that was a little extreme, but it did serve to illustrate the mindset that he was getting into at the time - Driven, volatile, protective, brutal. Beyond reason or comprehension, his daughter was leading him to this place. Yes, it was nuts. It was supposed to be nuts. There was a trailing thread of thought that he had finally lost his shit entirely and this was not going to end well. But to hell with this. If he was going out, he was going out like he probably should have years and years ago; snarling defiantly and covered in someone else's blood. M'hija deserved no less than his brutal and screaming best. 

	The SUV pulled up to the Asylum's entrance, fishtailing slightly as Caesar slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel to the side. In case they had to leave in a hurry, he didn't want to have to worry about that whole "turning around" bullshit. Without saying a word, he mechanically opened the door and slid out, feet setting roughly on the ground amid the hazy, smoky environment. He immediately went to the hatchback door and opened it, picking through the basic tools of his occupation plus a few of his personal favorites. Keystone came back around to join him, concern notably on his face as he saw his boss and personal mentor gearing up for urban warfare. Caesar could sense the man's hesitation. [color=ff4500]"You have my back, Keystone. I know. This could all be bullshit, I know. Not that far gone. You see me going full off the deep end, do something bad? Like, really bad, not the other shit - you end me. ¿Me entiendes? No shame. Doing me a favor, si? Put a bullet in me and aim real good with it."[/color] 

	Keystone nodded his head, acquiescing to the man's request. He might could do that, if it meant saving other lives that needed saving. When offered anything additional from the trunk full of goodies, Keystone responded, [color=b8860b]"Nah, Caesar. I ain't as good with hardware as you, y'understand. Take me a torch, now,"[/color] pointing at an LED flashlight. [color=b8860b]"This place don't look like it's been kept up since slicin' bread caught on, if ya get me."[/color] 

	Caesar did indeed [i]get him[/i], though purely by context. The first part being whatever the hell a "torch" was, the way he meant it. He passed over a smallish LED light with a jacket clip, standard issue item since the heavy, old-school MagLites were phased out. Also one for himself, just in case. Additionally, he picked up a couple more sharp things to make himself feel better. Tiny consideration came in when he hefted two of his trademark machetes. They were the ones he had at his baby girl's funeral; he had just kept them nearby. These he strapped onto his back, over his coat. It was silly of him, probably, but he grabbed a light pack and threw a few things into it; two company issue 9mm pistols, and a few clips, holsters, and a couple more knives. Though he didn't say it, if this really [i]was[/i] his baby girl, and she [i]was[/i] in trouble, and he really [i]wasn't[/i] totally nuts, she was going to feel better with something to kill someone else with. If he had a bottle of hot sauce, that would be better. Can't have everything. 

	The two of them exploded into the lobby of the Asylum, guns in hand. The adrenaline of the hour coursing through the both of them, they didn't quite notice anything resembling a map or directions, signs, or even those colored lines on the floor that pointed you toward places in various medical facilities. Nary a one. Now, if there was someone that needed to get shot and/or eviscerated, they were right on top of that. Okay, running in blind. Caesar took point. He heard voices coming from somewhere very nearby, and held up a hand so that his lumbering Cockney bodyguard would hold back and shut up. Yeah, those were voices. One voice that he knew he had heard before, bitching about an elevator, of all things. [color=ff4500]"[i]Hura[/i],"[/color] he absently growled. Stepping into view, he called in a clear voice, [color=ff4500]"STAIRS?"[/color] because to hell with that "Oh, you're here? What an amazing coincidence!" cliche of a conversation. Yes they were there. No, it probably wasn't a coincidence. And he more or less trusted that these people wouldn't immediately shoot them. Either they could help or they could get out of the way. Part One of help, if that was their option, was the location of the stairs. 

	In an almost boyish fashion, Keystone waved his free hand, cheerfully giving a salutation of, [color=b8860b]"Oi there, Miss Cecily!"[/color], causing Caesar to glance back at him like [i]he[/i] was nuts. Keystone followed up with, [color=b8860b]"Yeah, stairs. We're in an 'urry."[/color]