[center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019e8243-27d1-7331-978a-99ae0cb6dd64.webp[/img][/center] It was late and the caffeine, the burger had worn off from his late night visit from Sandra’s. Dusk rubbed his face with his hand, looking at the spread of documents before him. The missing person reports, the witness statements. The deaths. Atop one file he had attached the photo from the scene today. He lifted the photo and looked at the photo of her when she was alive. Paloma Torres. She was a first generation Grey, used her powers for her job as a courier. Her mother had even gone as far to say she always had her head in the clouds, if she wasn’t flying for work she was doing it for leisure. The only thing, her mother had said, that had grounded her was her fiancé. Ethan Bishop. He looked at the two files side by side, and leaned back in his chair allowing a sigh to escape his lips. Paloma had come to him early on in the disappearances, it was a week before the wedding and Ethan just… vanished. She went to bed and he had been there beside her, and then he was gone. At first they thought it was a bachelor gone wild, but when his best friend denied any knowledge of it red flags started to go up. The police didn’t care, they chalked it up to him having cold feet, and considered the case closed. Dominic was embarrassed to admit he had a large caseload at the time, and it hadn’t been his top priority. The last he heard from Paloma she felt like she had discovered a lead into Ethan's disappearance. He had told her to wait, but in her place would he have waited? Damn it, if he had just- There was a knock at the door, and he nearly shot out of his skin. [center] [sup][h1][center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019e955d-c7ac-71af-ab26-948b50548d89.webp[/img][/center][b][center][color=black] R O C K[/color] [color=green]R O C K[/color][/center] [/b][/h1][/sup] [center][b]Chapter Two[/b][/center] [i]“A black belt only covers two inches of your ass. You have to cover the rest.”[/i] - Royce Gracie[/center] Rock couldn’t remember the last time he’d done so poorly in a fight. He’d been hit before, but never by someone so amateur. If Scott had any real idea how to use that sword, how to maintain its edge alignment, the sense to actually keep it sharp, he could have filleted Rock. The blow to his side would have meant a punctured lung instead of a bruised rib. The one to his leg would have left him bleeding out on Phone Swe’s floor. Instead all he had were angry welts, reminding him of his failure with every step. Had his weapon defense truly atrophied so badly? It was the first thing Saw taught him, he said it was one of the most critical skills in superheroics. Disarms, locks, feints. The need to protect the bases of your limbs against edged weapons. How to dodge bullets by reading the movement of the hand and the eye. On patrol with Saw, they fought against weapons every night. But the man Rock was after tonight used [i]no[/i] weapons. The Count of Combat claimed he did not need them, that he could always achieve victory from the might of his four limbs alone. Weapons or not, The Count would punish any gap in Rock’s technique. Just as he had with The Mountain. As far as the public knew, only Darksaber could truly harm The Mountain. Saw’s healing was so robust, his body could even process large quantities of griseosporine with superhuman speed. But Darksaber’s cursed blade could bypass his regeneration entirely, forcing Saw to heal at the pace of a normal human. The only scars on Saw’s body came from that sword. But The Count could deal damage just as devastating. He had encyclopedic knowledge of martial arts from around the world, a physician’s understanding of the body, and untold decades of combat experience. His attacks were relentless, and fractionally precise. He would target pressure points, shatter bone, remove eyes. He could deal damage so quickly Saw could not recover. It was some of the closest Rock had ever seen Saw to death. This man, who Rock had seen stabbed, shot, blown up, crushed, burned alive, could be taken apart by a simple martial artist. But in the end, Saw would [i]always[/i] find a way out. It must have gnawed at The Count's fighting soul that there was a man out there he could [i]not[/i] defeat. The Mountain, the one who had taken his son and shown the boy a better life. It had to have pushed him beyond his martial arts, to dive into the realm of his cruel sciences that had kept him alive far beyond his natural lifespan and make a poison that could end his rival in the paroxysm of his hatred. With it, he could twist the bounds of their combat and leave Saw broken and dead in that alley. He was the only man alive with a mind that could accomplish it. Now, all that was left for him to do was appear at that funeral, and incense his betrayer son to find him and kill him with his own two hands. But The Count could not have accounted for Rock. Saw was almost a match for The Count, but Rock was twice the fighter The Mountain ever was. He was [i]ten[/i] times the fighter. His knowledge, his [i]drive[/i], had to surpass even The Count of Combat. Rock would beat him down and [i]break[/i] him, just as The Count had done to his [i]real[/i] father. If only Rock could [i]find[/i] him. He’d been across half the city, checking The Count’s old hideouts. The warehouse in The Docks that used to export exotic chemicals on his behalf was now used by a candy company. His lab in Corsair’s Cove in Pointe Bordeaux beneath the Swashbuckler’s Splashdown Park was ransacked, all the old equipment vanished. His waterside gym in Wicklow was converted to a Calder-Cola office. Rock [i]knew[/i] The Count was still in the city. It was impossible for him to leave a job half finished, and Rock was still alive. Maybe he thought making Rock go through this hunt would make his defeat all the sweeter. But Rock was no investigator. He couldn’t take it to the Vanguard. The Count was unknown to them, an enemy Saw kept close to his chest. He had never committed any major crimes worthy of their attention, only menaced Saw and Rock. Even if he had, Rock didn’t have hard evidence, only this burning certainty. But even with evidence in hand, the Vanguard would balk once they discovered The Count could not be brought before any court. Through a combination of force and bribery, The Count had convinced a group of Polish bureaucrats to grant him diplomatic immunity, an immunity the Poles would never challenge, lest the flow of his designer drugs and technologies cease. That left the private sector. The business card William left him was burning a hole in Rock’s pocket. ‘Dominic Dusk’ sounded like a parody of a private investigator, but it was the only connection Rock had. He stood in front of the address stipulated on the card, one of many converted warehouses in Steel Acre. The corrugated metal siding had been painted a cherry red that had once been inviting, but now after years of weathering had the effect of a layer of rust. Darkened windows pocked the surfaces where there had once been industrial exhaust vents. A sign proclaimed it the “Coal House Building” The doors were locked to anyone without a keycard. It figured, it was still early enough in the morning that the sun hadn’t come up. But Dusk’s card indicated no office hours, and if the name was any indication, he’d keep odd ones. It wasn’t the first building Rock had broken into tonight anyway. He made sure his old utility belt was hidden beneath his hoodie and zipped it shut, then forced the lock. He made his way to the second level of the warehouse, passing kitschy apartment decorations of plastic flowers and trite phrases on welcome mats. A few had put out impromptu memorials for The Mountain, hand sized statues of him in costume or trinkets bearing his emblem. One house had a Mountain action figure, paint worn away from finger oils, posed triumphantly at the doorside table. It turned Rock’s stomach. Saw always said he wanted to inspire people to do the right thing, but all he had gotten was worshippers. Rock reached Dusk’s door. Unassuming, tucked between the apartment of some old bat that spewed chemical hospital smells into the hallway and the office of a landscaping company. You could only tell it was Dusk’s from the amateur nameplate and the sign that read “No case too small”. He rapped his knuckles on the door, still swollen from slamming into Scott’s helmet. There was a stirring of movement from within, the main light turned on giving clear illumination to the sign upon the door. The faint rustling of things being moved about in the room and then the telltale echo of footsteps on a hardwood floor. They slowed as they approached the door, several locks clicked before the door opened until it could barely be considered ‘ajar’. A single eye could be seen through the gap staring out into the hallway, framed by the door’s chain. The figure’s entire body was at a slight angle that suggested he was twisted, holding something. A gun, Rock’s intuition whispered to him. He tensed. He wanted to kick down the door and wrest the weapon away, but he had to stay calm. [color=slategray]“Can I-”[/color] The man cleared his throat loudly, to free the croak from down his gullet. [color=slategray]“-can I help you?”[/color] It was vaguely familiar to another voice Rock had heard only recently, one he hasn't heard for many years. [color=green]“Are you…”[/color] Rock worked to make the connection. [color=green]“You're Albert, aren't you?”[/color] It tracked. William had given him the card. The Lichtensteins were a prime example of nepotism in the hero community. It figured it would extend to even The Beacon's failure of a son. He was always there, at the periphery of all the Vanguard gatherings, just like Scott was, until he wasn’t. [color=slategray]“And you're [i]Ken[/i], aren't you?”[/color] Albert bit back. There was an acid in it even his brother hadn't brought to bear. Rock bristled. [color=green]“Fine. Dusk. [i]Dominic[/i].”[/color] Rock felt ridiculous saying it. He had to cut to the chase before the urge to ridicule him much more bubbled up again. [color=green]“I have a lead on The Mountain's death, and I think you're the only one that can run it down.”[/color] It was a bald faced lie, there was no lead but Rock's inkling, and he'd work with any other detective, had he known any. But here he could dangle it over a starving PI's head like a steak. Dusk’s leering eye snapped open. A hand emerged from the darkness and removed the chain, and the door swung open. The hovel inside was a mess of corkboard and colored string. The desk that dominated the space was antique, older than Rock and Dusk put together, ruined with a lifetime of coffee stains, anonymous cuts and dings. It was home to a pyramid of used mugs and a wheezing, dust-caked desktop. [color=slategray]“You never were one for small talk,”[/color] Dusk said, ushering him in. Rock did not miss him tucking his pistol into its holster, trying to hide the action with his coat. Dusk gestured for him to sit in a wooden courthouse chair in front of the desk as he whirled around the apartment, hunting through his stacks of papers. [color=slategray]“You want coffee? You look like hell,”[/color] Dusk said, like he didn’t himself. Rock had been up for at least twenty four hours, he’d been awake since he landed, searching the city since the funeral. Rock eyed the pot, sitting on a heater. It was at least a day or two old, with a thick ring of burnt liquid bubbling on the surface. Rock waved the offer off. [color=slategray]“How was the funeral anyway? William passed the invite to me through Matilda but,”[/color] Dusk rambled. He scratched the back of his neck. [color=slategray]“I couldn't go. It didn't feel right. I wasn't really part of that life. I owe him though, as do a lot of people... Ah! Here we are.”[/color] Dusk produced a manilla file, just a slice compared to the thick tomes of casefiles around it. There was a crude sketch of Saw’s logo on the cover, the Himalayas silhouetted. [color=slategray]“I'm not going to lie, I have a personal stake in this. So you give me what you've got, and I'll see what I can do,”[/color] Dusk said. He settled into the rolling chair at the head of the desk, a high-backed, moth-eaten office chair that looked like it’d been pulled out of a dumpster. [color=green]“I have a name. Does ‘The Count of Combat’ mean anything to you?”[/color] Rock asked, as if it would. He leaned in, put his arms on the desk. [color=slategray]“No. They give the Sesame Street character a new gimmick?”[/color] Dusk replied. [color=green]“Is this a joke to you? You --”[/color] Rock bit his tongue before he said anymore. He’d taken enough disrespect from the Lichtensteins and he didn’t need an ounce more. But right now, it seemed Dusk was his only shot. Dusk shrugged. [color=slategray]“Well, when you say you’ve got a lead and all you have is a name…”[/color] Rock took a deep breath. [color=green]“Real name Edward Baskerville. English nobleman and plutocrat. Publicly, he’s a diplomat. Privately, he’s a world class martial artist and scientist. Clashed with The Mountain more than once,”[/color] Rock said. It felt wrong to tell someone else. Like he was spilling the secrets of Saw’s private war. At the least Rock didn’t need to mention [i]his[/i] connection to the Count. [color=slategray]“Plenty of people did,”[/color] Dusk countered. [color=slategray]“Darksaber, Null, Colonel Carnage,”[/color] Dusk rattled off the greatest hits, but he didn’t need to. Rock was there for most of them. [color=slategray]“Archfiend, Mister Mayhem--”[/color] [color=green]“There’s only two men I’ve ever seen actually [i]hurt[/i] The Mountain for real,”[/color] Rock cut him off. [color=slategray]“Two?”[/color] Dusk crossed his arms and leaned back. [color=green]“Darksaber, and the Count of Combat,”[/color] Rock said. [color=slategray]“Why haven’t I heard of him?”[/color] Dusk asked, watching Rock’s expression. He looked like Saw used to when the old man was trying to suss out if Rock was fibbing. [color=green]“Did your old man ever publicize who kicked his ass the worst?”[/color] Rock snapped. [color=slategray]“Fair point. Still a dumb name though,”[/color] Dusk relented. He leaned back in his chair and knuckled his mustache as he thought. [color=slategray]“You said he was loaded, right?”[/color] [color=green]“Invested a lot into Calder City over the years, carved out a lot of little niches. But all his hideouts are abandoned. I’ve checked.”[/color] [color=slategray]“I can look into that. Got a lot of financial records I can dig through, compare to his other haunts, see where his money’s ended up,”[/color] Dusk said. Rock nodded. It was as good a tack as any. Dusk’s hands set to work at his keyboard, thick keycaps yellowed with age. [color=green]“Then I’ll nail him to the fucking wall,”[/color] Rock mumbled, half to himself. He focused on the throbbing in his knuckles, to ignore the weight around his eyes. How they’d feel connecting with The Count’s face. Dusk looked up, frown illuminated in the monitor’s glow. [color=slategray]“Listen Rock, you look like shit. Like you haven’t slept in days. Take a load off. I’ve got this,”[/color] Dusk said. He gestured to his couch, a tattered two-seater draped in homemade blankets and a plain color comforter. Rock grunted and moved to it. He would sit and rest, but not sleep. He had to be ready to move on The Count as soon as the lead materialized, before the bastard had a chance to move on or prepare for him. He just needed a tiny bit of rest… Rock opened his eyes and the room was filled with an ocean of sunlight, but something yellow was covering his eyes. He pulled a sticky note off his forehead. ‘Found him. Out for coffee, back soon to touch base - Dusk’. The words bounced around in Rock’s head. Found him. Found him. Found him found him [i]found him[/i]. He rolled off of the couch and squeezed his fists. The swelling was gone. Dusk’s computer was still unlocked. The record onscreen was listed as Form 990, donations pertaining to the creation of the Everyday Heroes Center. The crowning achievement of Saw’s charity work, a beacon of edification for every citizen of Calder. There were hundreds of donors listed, providing thousands upon thousands of dollars to the most desperate. But one name had put in more than anyone else: E. Baskerville. Rock closed the PC and vanished into the morning light. He had his target.