Byrd Man

Inside The Beltway

Name: James Priest

Age: 53

Appearance:

Party: Democrat, Leader of the Blue Dog Coalition

Current Position: Congressman, TN 5th District

State: Tennessee

Bio:

James Priest was born and raised in Nashville, Tennessee to a middle class family. Priest attended Vanderbilt, graduating with an undergraduate degree in History followed by a JD at Vanderbilt Law. After passing the Tennessee Bar, he worked as a civil attorney in the Nashville law firm of Johnson & Hardy. After a successful tenure, where he made partner, Priest resigned from the law firm and was elected District Attorney of 20th Judicial District in the year 2000.

As District Attorney, James Priest was responsible for prosecuting all criminal cases in Nashville and Davidson County. He had an eight-year record of solid and scandal-free stewardship of the DA's office. Veering more on the side of rehabilitation instead of punishment, Priest was criticized for being soft on criminals and recidivist. He barely won reelection to the post in 2004.

After Congressman Cooper Celement resigned from his seat to run, and lose, the race for a Senate seat in 2008, Priest opted to not seek a third term and instead announced his intentions to run for the open Congressional seat. Though Tennessee is a red state as a whole, the 5th Congressional District is heavily democratic. Priest's opponent in the Democratic primary was outgoing Nashville-Davidson Sheriff Edmund Shivers. Each man charged the other with being soft on crime and more liberal than the other in a nasty primary that saw Priest take the victory by just five percentage points. Priest won the November general election in a runaway, 70 to 30 against a Republican who served on the Nashville city council.

Since 2008, Priest has served as one of Congress' few conservative Democrats. He serves on the House Foreign Affairs Committee. As someone not completely in line with the House minority leadership, he has little power within his own party's leadership structure, but is able to use the other Blue Dog Democrats he leads to effectively cross the aisle and work with Republicans and fellow Southerners.

Past Positions:

Private Lawyer (1988-2000)
District Attorney (2000-2008)
US Congressman (2008-Present)

Inside The Beltway

Are you going to try to make a character sheet or just let us go with it?

Modern US politics group RP?

Yes, please. I tried to do a similar game a few years back.

Marvel - Dawn of Heroes

Your Name: Byrd Man

Character Name: Bullseye

Character Alias: N/A

Character Allignment: Neutral Evil

Characters Abilities: No powers.

Characters Skills: Bullseye is one of the most deadly assassin's in the world. He is a master with almost any form of weapon, from conventional firearms to edged and throwing weapons, and is an expert in creating and using improvised weapons.

Origin Story:

Bullseye true origin is mysterious and unknown. His early life is a mystery. After dropping out of high school, he enlisted in the Army and was soon drafted into special forces where he excelled. He joined special forces just as the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were started and worked in the Middle East as a solider, eventually becoming a contract employee of the CIA.

After the Wadi Massacre, where Bullseye and two other soldiers slaughtered a village in Northeast Afghanistan, his employment was terminated and the event was silently covered up by US authorities. Returning back to the US, Bullseye didn't have to wait long until he was contacted by the shadowy criminal underworld that was desperate for his services. Now he works as a gun for hire. If it absolutely, positively needs to be killed as soon as possible, accept no substitutes.

Story Arcs:

Dead Man's Hand -- A casino hires Bullseye to eliminate a ring of card cheats. Soon, Bullseye finds himself going to war with a whole outlaw biker gang.

White Lines, Redacted Lines -- Bullseye is hired by a drug cartel to dispatch a police informant. The murder attracts the attention of intelligence officials who recognize the fringerprints of one of their own.

Barracuda -- After killing a mobster in LA, the mob responds in kind by ordering Bullseye's death at the hands of Barracuda, a vicious assassin who shares a past with Bullseye.

Supporting Cast:

Hyde -- Bullseye's go-between with the criminal underworld. For a free, Hyde sets Bullseye up with people in need of his help.
Alex Stone -- FBI agent investigating Bullseye.
Barracuda -- Current killer for hire and ex-special forces operative.

Sample Post:

Yuba City, California
1:14 AM

Bullseye walked through the smoke filled casino floor. Old ladies chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes while they worked clattering slot machines with dead eyes. A half dozen dolled up ex-strippers wobbled across casino floors on too tall heels while they dished out chips and cigarettes. The heavy make-up did a bad job of hidding the miles and the years. Bullseye figured for the right price a man could take one of them home. Drunk businessmen played blackjack while geeks in Hawaiian shirts and Shriners in fez hats played roulette.

The Gold Rush Casino got its name from Califronia's past. The city sprung up in the wake of the old Gold Rush. Someone found gold nearby and it became a boomtown overnight because of it. Like a lot of boomtowns, a primarily male populace needed a place to spend their money. Saloons and brothels popped up across the town to serve the thousands of rough prospectors passing through to find their fortune. The gold rush dried up and the boom years faded like they always do, but Yuba City pushed on. Its origins in human desire explained a lot about the current state of the area. How could the city be asked to clean up when vice was in its DNA?

Bullseye found a pit boss walking around the craps table. He had his eye on a pair of hot hands rolling eight the hard way for the third consecutive time. The man seemed mildly annoyed when Bullseye got his attention.

"Yes, sir?"

"Here to see Milligan. Hyde sent me."

Annoyance quickly turned to deference. The pit boss pulled out a walkie-talkie and radioed some unseen party. A moment later, a security guard in a red blazer and slacks was escorting Bullseye off the casino floor and into the back. They passed a room crammed with monitors. Every inch of the casino seemed to be under surveillance. Another room down from the monitors had its door open. Bullseye saw soundproof padding and a single metal chair bolted to the floor. That was where cheaters went, and he was almost sure there would be no cameras in that room. Based on the pit boss' look, the lucky craps shooter would soon find himself in that little room.

"Mr. Milligan? He's the guy."

The security guard led Bullseye into a sprawling office. It was decorated in a very gaudy fashion, leopard print wallpaper and a faux fur carpet. Fake Venus De Milo statues flanked a walnut desk big enough to hold an orgy on. A long glass window behind the desk looked down on the casino floor. Behind the desk, his leopard fur slippers up on the desk, was Joey Milligan. Milligan looked like an extra from a bad disco movie. He wore a bright pink shirt with half of it unbuttoned, a large gold necklace and medallion caught in the steely gray fur on his chest. He also wore a white pair of pants that would have looked embarrassing on a man half his age, but made Milligan look that much more clownish.

"Bullseye," said Milligan. "The man, the myth, the legend."

Bullsy took a chair, a plush leopard print wingback, and nodded as Milligan took his feet down off the desk.

"So why am I being paid so handsomely to come to this... casino?"

Milligan rooted through his desk. He came up with a remote control and pointed it at a television mounted on a table to his right. The thing clicked on and, after a few button presses, security camera footage rolled on the monitor. Four minutes worth of footage, all of it taken at different parts of the casino at different times over the past month. Bullseye noticed the pattern before Milligan even opened his mouth.

"Notice something?"

"It's the same two guys in every shot, always dressed differently and on different nights, but always at the casino and never together. Casers?"

"That's what my security guys think," said Milligan. "They've been here a long time, well long for case job. That's got me nervous, something may be coming very soon. I want you to case the casers. Find them and make them pay for even fucking thinking of trying to rob my joint."

Bullseye nodded his head and started to stand.

"I'll be on the floor if you need me."

---

"Twenty-two. Bust."

The dealer slid the chips across the green felt of the blackjack table with one long and lanky arm. The man at the table let out a sigh as he watched a few hundred dollars in chips disappear down a slot to the dealer's right. Two chairs away, Bullseye stood firm on eighteen and waited for the dealer to flip his card over. It was already showing a queen of diamonds, so it came as no surprise when the dealer revealed an ace of spades.

"Twenty-one. House wins."

Bullseye's chips disappeared down the chute. That made a even grand he lost at the tables since he'd hit the floor earlier this morning. That was okay. After all, he was playing with house money. He took the chips he had left in his hand and stood, throwing a small token of appreciation to the dealer as a tip, and walked the casino floor. Despite being there for over nine hours, Bullseye still recognized plenty of faces from this morning. He would stake the chips he had left that plenty of people had been here for nearly twenty-four hours.

They all had the same look, as if they were slightly unhinged. Their eyes were too wide, they radiated something he knew was dangerous: Hope. Hope had no place in a joint like this. This was where hope came to die, but still suckers lined up around the block to let the house take their money. That was because they all believed in that dream that this country sold wholesale. They all played games rigged in the house's favor, but as long as that small glint of hope remained they would keep coming to the tables until they had nothing left take. In many ways, this dingy little casino with its clouds of cigarette smoke and people looking to score easy money was America in a nutshell. The games in these walls were just as rigged as the big game outside, but as long as people ate it up the house would always take and it would always win.

Bullseye walked the floor, glancing up to the long glass pane above the casino. Joe Milligan's god's eye view of the casino he lorded over like a king with horrible taste. Out the corner of his eye he saw the man he first noticed two hours ago. He was a red head with a thick ginger beard and a navy blue suit and white shirt, no tie. He was groomed but Bullseye saw the tattoos from a mile away. They were on his knuckles, a single letter on each, that spelled out LOVE on his right hand, HATE on his left. He was one of the men in the security footage Milligan showed him. While the security footage helped, he had made him as a caser right off the bat. He wasn't too obvious with the way he watched everything going on around the casino floor, but he wasn't subtle enough to elude Bullseye.

He slid up to the roulette table where the man was putting a bet on 28 Black. Bullseye laid down a bet on 17 Red just before the little ball went into the spinning roulette. He stared at the table and only discretely glanced at the man out the corner of his eye. His hair was recently cut, the tanlines around the back of his neck made it obvious. They both lost money when the ball clattered into 22 Black. Bullseye stayed and played a few more spins while his target took his money to the blackjack table.

After a few more hours of playing, the man left. He spent all his chips, nothing to cash out at the teller's cage. Bullseye waited a few minutes before leaving behind him. He was leaving the casino parking lot in a red sedan as Bullseye stepped out into the evening. He got his Charger and caught up with the sedan on the parkway, speeding east away from the coast and towards the interior of the state. Bullseye lit up a cigarette and kept a long leash on the car, especially as traffic began to thin and the city disappeared into the distance. The car took an off ramp at a town called Nelson, some thirty miles outside of the city. He followed and kept going as the sedan pulled into a dilapidated gas station.

Bullseye doubled back and parked the Charger down the block, the lights off, and watched the sedan idling at the gas station. A few minutes later, a roar filled the air and six motorcycles raced down the street and pulled into the gas station. Six burly bikers dismounted their bikes and walked over to the sedan as the caser got out. He talked with the six bikers about something. In the dim light, Bullseye caught a glimpse of the leather cut one of the bikers wore. It read Horde MC.

"Shit."

The Horde was among the baddest biker gangs in America, especially out west. They cooked and sold crystal meth to rednecks, sold guns to Mexican cartels and LA gangbangers, massacred rival MCs, and terrorized the communities were their chapters formed. And now, it appeared to Bullseye, casino robbery was about to be added to that list.

Marvel - Dawn of Heroes

Scratch Cage and DD. I'll void my one post if need be. I'm going back to the drawing board on something.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Brooklyn, New York
May 24th, 1976

The crimson Cadillac Coupe DeVille glided at a slow and steady pace down Coney Island Avenue towards the beach. The neighborhood the car drove through was known as Brighton Beach. This part of Brooklyn was created as a beach resort one hundred years earlier, but was soon restructured into a residential community in the 1920's. Since the 30's, Jewish immigrants drifted to this patch of New York upon their arrival to the United States. Many of the residents bore marks on their body, scars and reminders of their time in concentration camps.

Since 1970, the demographic of the neighborhood had begun to shift again. Although plenty of Jews still found their place in Brighton Beach, more and more of them were coming from the Soviet Union and Eastern Bloc countries. The shops in the area were accommodating, the writing in the store windows in Cyrillic script as well as English. Like Little Italy and Chinatown in Manhattan, the growing influx of immigrants gave rise to the nickname of Little Odessa.

The Coupe DeVille sped past kosher butcher shops, makeshift synagogues, and jewelry and appliance stores that lined both sides of the avenue. Red, white, and blue streamers were hung from light posts and storefronts in celebration of the America's upcoming bicentennial anniversary.

The car contained three men. They were stern-faced and silent, the only sound coming from the car was the steady drone of the engine. Today marked their fifth day in America. They had flown in from West Berlin, their passports marking them as residents of various cities in West Germany. In actuality, the names and locations on the passport were a grand fiction. The names and identities were just one of many the men used for their work.

The man driving was the oldest by at least twenty years. His steel-colored hair had been grown out from its usual military crew cut. He wore a thick mustache matching the color of his hair. A pair ray-bans on his face and the current American fashion, a burnt orange turtleneck with a checkered sports jacket and a golden medallion, made him look the part of an average America. In truth, he felt ridiculous and foolish in this get-up. It was too flashy and ostentatious, like something a clown would wear.

The two other men dressed in similar clothing of various colors, each article of clothing chosen to help them blend in with the current styles and trends of the country. They all smoked cigarettes, their brand not the common Marlboro or Pall Malls. These were Turkish brands purchased from a special store many miles away from Brooklyn. The foul-smelling smoke of the cigarettes spread through the car and out the cracked windows.

The car turned right onto Brighton Beach Avenue and sped along with the traffic. The Cadillac turned off the Avenue and swooped into a parking spot outside a four-story apartment building. The driver kept the car running as he looked at the two men in the back of the car. His hard eyes sized them up. He removed his sunglasses, excitement glittered in his eyes as he gave his men one last look.

"Bewegen," he said in the harsh German tongue. Move.

Quickly, the two men exited from the running car. They hurried up the concrete steps into the apartment building's foyer. The man in the car checked his wristwatch. It was 2:14 in the afternoon.

The next five minutes were the most crucial of their operation. The three of them had practiced, trained, and prepared for months. They had committed the map of the area to memory, knew the schedules of the NYPD patrolman who passed by the apartment once every fifteen minutes, knew who would be in the apartment building at this time of day and when others would be back. The man in the car would run interference if any of the apartment's residents attempted to go in, waving them away with a forged NYPD detective badge and speaking in perfect American English that there was a gas leak in the apartment and it was not safe to go inside.

Short of an epic fuck up by the two men inside, this operation would go off without a hitch. A successful operation today would be their sixth such outcome in the past two years. The three were the best of the best their service had to offer. Clever and ruthless, they were the proverbial sword for the party. While other directorates and sections did more acceptable work to protect the GDR, they were the unseen knife that those in control slipped between the ribs of the state's enemies. They were the necessary evil the politicians that ran the world did not want to face.

The two men inside came off the stairs on the third-floor landing, their cigarettes gone from their mouths. The older of the two was a squat, chubby man with a wrinkled face and watery eyes. Sweat clung to his brow. His black hair had traces of gray in it. The grayness, mixed with the wrinkles, made him look ten years older than his current age of thirty-three. The man beside him was taller by at least four inches, coming in around six-foot-three. His dark blonde hair was close to his scalp in a buzzcut. His cobalt blue eyes stared straight ahead calmly, never once betraying the nervousness he felt.

The fat man looked up at his younger comrade and nodded. The man tall returned his nod. Today was the young man's first time doing work of this sort. He had been part of the unit for six months now, acting as runner and lookout for the others. But now, it was time for him to truly become one of them.

As they approached the apartment marked 3H, the two men reached into their sports coats and produced weapons from hidden shoulder holsters. They each had a Browning Hi-Power nine millimeter. Screwed on the end of the barrels were two suppressors. The older man nodded as they stopped outside the apartment. With no further words, the tall man thrust a shoe forward at the door. His foot crashed at the base of the doorknob, splintering the door jamb and snapping the lock in two. He led the way into the apartment, rushing in with the short man close behind him.

They came through the door and into the dirty, dimly lit apartment that reeked of the same sour cigarettes they used. Standing in front of a television set, wearing only an undershirt and a dirty pair of underwear, was a thin bald man with a ginger mustache. He held his left hand up while his right hand stayed by his waist where he cupped a velvet bag. He looked at the two men in front of him with no fear or defiance in his face.

"Stasi," he said in a thick German accent. It was a declaration and not a question.

"Ja," said the fat man. "Schild und Schwert der Partei."

"Verpiss dich, du kommunistischen bastarde," the bald man sneered.

Without hesitation, the tall man opened fire with his Browning. The gun kicked three times, three soft pops accompanying the bullets. The bald man fell to the floor, the three shots striking his head and chest. The tall man ventured forward to the body and looked down. The dying man stared up at him, his eyes opaque and his dingy shirt stained with dark red blood. What caught his eye was the bag beside the dead man. The little pouch dropped beside the body in the ruckus, its contents spilled out onto the floor.

"Fritz," the tall man said urgently, picking up a shiny stone and holding it up in the light. "Ich habe etwas gefunden. Diamanten."

---

Berlin
Now

The custom agent looked at the passport in front of him and scanned it with his well-trained eyes. The stamps of other countries' custom officials dotted the side of the passport opposite the photo. India, Australia, France, Serbia, and the United States were the freshest stamps on the paper. The official looked at the photo and then back up at the man before him.

"You need to update your photo," he said in English. "For the scar."

"Right," said Theodore Roosevelt. "I'll remember that when I get back to the US."

To the customs agent, the man before him was not the 26th president but instead a nondescript American traveler with a common name. The magic that Roosevelt and his organization employed made them routinely forgettable to almost all those that they encountered.

"Welcome to Germany. Next."

Roosevelt collected his papers and walked through Terminal A of the Berlin Tegel Airport. The pedestrian traffic in the area was a shadow of its usual bustling activity. He chalked it up to the time. It was a half hour past midnight and only red-eye flight travelers were out and about at this time. He collected his black attaché case at baggage claim and headed towards the exit.

The warm summer night greeted Theodore as he walked through the airport's sliding doors. Taxis and shuttle buses were coming and going from the picking up and dropping off sections. The traffic was pretty steady considering the time. A bored voice came over the PA system, first in German and then in English and French, reminding all incoming and departing traffic that the white zone was for loading and unloading only.

A navy blue Mercedes-Benz with heavily tinted windows sat parked in the white zone, openly flaunting the PA address. Leaning against the passenger side door was a tall thin man with jet black hair. He finished smoking a cigarette before flicking it away.

"Mr. Roosevelt," the man said as his form shifted.

The tall man with jet black hair disappeared, becoming instead the tiny figure of James Madison.

"Mr. Madison," TR said with a nod.

"Welcome to Germany," she said, flicking the cigarette away.

"Back to Germany," said Roosevelt. "I haven't been here since '45."

"The Götterdämmerung," Madison said softly. "Shall we?"

"Let's."

Roosevelt placed in the back of the Mercedes and then they were off. Madison pulled the car on to the Autobahn Hamburg and sped up to draw even with the fast traffic of the highway.

"Where are we headed?" He stared out the window and looked out at the city as it whizzed by.

"A safehouse outside the city. We have Zimmer stashed there."

Ten hours earlier, Roosevelt heard the named Friedrich Zimmer for the first time in his life.

Now in his late 60's, Zimmer had defected from East Germany to the US in 1981. With him came his story of being part of a five man Stasi hitsquad that traveled the globe doing the KGB's dirty work. The team consisted of the best men the Stasi could offer. All of them were fluent in multiple languages, were expert tacticians, and they could each blend in across the world in any country with a Caucasian population. The squad killed twenty men in twelve different countries during Zimmer's eight years with them.

For his intel on the inner workings of the Stasi's assassin operations, CIA had given Zimmer full immunity and a lump sum of three million dollars. He then quietly shuffled off to a rural house in Oregon. Then came the end of the Cold War. The Berlin Wall fell, the Soviet Union imploded, and the intelligence community began to primarily focus on terrorism. In 2001, Zimmer left the States for his native homeland. The Stasi's demise eleven years earlier meant that Zimmer's life was no longer at risk by being in Germany.

That changed a week ago. Gunter Lang, one of Zimmer's former hit team members, had been gunned down in his home outside Düsseldorf. Joseph Baer was then found dead three days ago in Dresden, a slit throat bleeding out on the sidewalk three blocks away from his apartment. Like Lang, Baer had been a member of Zimmer's team. Following up on that was the brutal bludgeoning death of Whilem Furber. Three murders in as many days. Any other time, the Executive Branch wouldn't be bothered to investigate. But the witnesses who saw the death of Furber reported the murderer as matching the description of Manfred Ackerman, a Stasi major and leader of the former hitsquad.

The only problem? Ackerman had died of lung cancer in 1980. The presence of the supernatural had drawn the shadowy Executive Branch into the case.

With all this information relayed to Roosevelt, FDR had laid out the mission parameters in five simple words: Get Zimmer to America alive. Extract Zimmer as quickly and as quietly from Berlin as possible. All magic users were out of pocket, so they had to rely on traditional methods. There was a flight booked for the next morning in Roosevelt's fake name for two seats. Come hell or high water, Franklin had said with a sharp look, Zimmer would be in one of those seats.

"We're here," said Madison

TR blinked suddenly, being pulled out of his stupor. The car was pulling into a dirt driveway outside a two-story farm-house. He could see chipped white paint covering the house even in the dark. The bad paint job aside, the house looked sound. The most unassuming place to keep a safehouse.

"Where is here?" He asked.

"Spandau," said Madison, parking beside a black Mercedes SUV. "Outside the city."

Madison led them into the house. Three men were in home's dully furnished sitting room. The Executive Branch employed security work, low-level agents and minders staffed from former law enforcement and intelligence personnel. Two young men stood from a card table as Madison entered. The three had a rapid conversation in German that TR understood enough of to know that he was sending them outside to patrol around the yard. They nodded and headed off while Roosevelt approached the third man in the room.

He was squat and fat, his gray hair receding back in a widow's peak. His face was heavily lined and wrinkled, making him look closer to eighty instead of his mid-sixties. A smoking cigarette clamped in one nicotine stained hand. His watery eyes looked up at Teddy as he approached the sofa he was sitting on.

"Mister Zimmer?"

"Yes," he said, swallowing hard and taking a long drag on his cigarette. His right knee bounced nervously up and down as he watched.

"You're with CIA?"

His accent was nearly non-existent and his use of a contraction implied comfort with English. His team was fluent in many languages, Theodore remembered, and spending years in America would have softened his harsh German accent.

"Something like that," said Teddy.

He pulled a metal chair from the card table and slid it over beside Zimmer. He sat down in the chair and looked into the fat man's watery eyes. The eyes of a hardened killer, TR reminded himself. Was this what it looked like to stare into his eyes?

"Who want to kill you Mister Zimmer?"

"Ackerman," he said without hesitation. "I don't know how, but he's come for me..."

"Why?"

"Because of greed." There was a pause as Zimmer took a deep breath and sighed. "And a stupid mistake we all made in America."

Marvel - Dawn of Heroes

“If someone puts their hands on you make sure they never put their hands on anybody else again.”
― Malcolm X

Your Name: Byrd Man

Character Name: Luke Cage

Character Alias: Power Man

Character Allignment: Hero

Characters Abilities: Cage has steel hardened skin and super strength.

Characters Skills: A street wise resident of New York City, Cage is adept at going places and making connections with people that conventional authorities cannot. In addition, he is a practicing PI proficient in surveillance and investigative technique.

Origin Story:

The story of Luke Cage can be told in verse. The early days are when his life went from bad to worse. Carl Lucas, a would be gangster working around Harlem town, working as a strongarm lackey to that Willis Styrker clown. Styrker had Harlem tight in his grasp, strangling the community with his criminal clasp. Young Luke fell for Lenore, Stryker's sweetheart. Styrker went mad with jealousy, his sanity fell apart. One day Carl was headed home when he got stopped, ya dig? It was two NYPD uniforms and a detective pig. They ran Carl in because an eyeball witness, the man said Carl was around a murder scene the night before and acting suspicious. Carl's fingerprints matched the ones on a piece, so he was arrested for murder by the police. A swift trial commenced, so fast you couldn't blink. The end result was predictable, Carl sentenced to life in the clink. Carl's heart was tortured, his spirit maimed. He knew that he was framed.

Ten years in the slammer seemed to rapidly pass, all the while outside Stryker's kingdom gained mass. Losing hope on getting out and his prospects dim, Carl decided to volunteer for a project most grim. An experiment to create the durability of a famous super-soilder ended in disaster thanks to an evil poacher. Carl lay in a science chamber, his body resting, when a vindictive guard broke in to where they were testing. The guard smashed the console and dial. The chamber began sparking, its insides filling with bile. A massive explosion rocked the prison then, a force that was like a keg of dynamite times ten. The guard, the doctor, and the whole experiment were lost in the detonation, nothing could survive that great conflagration.

Out of the fiery rubble and debris a lone figure came crawling. It was a naked Carl Lucas who ran, his own ass he was hauling. He ran into the woods to avoid any guards. Through some odd happenstance he was now out behind bars. What's more his whole body seemed unreal. The explosion hadn't hurt him, his body tougher than steel. With new powers at his command and ten years spent spurned, he set his sights for Harlem and home he did return.

Once home he started a crusade for payback, Willis Stryker and his criminal rackets were prime for attack. A new life and fresh start he had acquired. Carl Lucas was dead, believed perished in that fire. Soon after coming home he sought out his former love Lenore. He was shattered when he discovered she was no more. She had died six years back, overdosing from mainlining pure smack. He made a promise that day, for letting her die Stryker would pay. Adopting the alias Luke Cage, he tore up Harlem fueled by his powers and rage. It didn't take long for Stryker to get mad. He put out a million dollar hit for Luke Cage, man he wanted that brother reaaal bad. Cage tore trough Styrker's men like butter, setting the residents of Harlem's hearts aflutter. For a long time now they had needed a defender to help them thrive, but Cage didn't want none of that jive! He wasn't a hero to speak for the masses, he just wanted to kick Styrker and his men's asses.

Cage dispatched Styrker's men at their nightclub without breaking a sweat. They were the bad mothers, but to him they proved to be no threat. Cage finally set his sights on Styrker, that villain. The two fought each other, both intent on killin'. Stryker tried his best to fight off his former friend, but the steel skinned man was too much to defend. Desperate to kill and half crazed, Stryker decided to kill both he and Cage in a massive blaze. Up went his nightclub in a red hot spire. Nobody was getting out of that fire. If you think that's the end of this story and Cage is dead, then what the hell's wrong with your head? Out of the fire came Cage choking, unharmed and unhurt but his body smoking. While he came out of the fire okay, Stryker had been consumed in the infero's fray.

Gathered around the blazing hulk were the people of Harlem so grateful, they were glad to be rid of the crime boss that was so hateful. In the embers of the building Cage watched it burn, while a feeling inside him did churn. His vengeance was complete now that Stryker had died, but he still felt hollow and empty inside. That day Cage made a solemn vow, he would change his life and his ways somehow. From that day forward he decided to work for the people as best he could, writing wrongs and injustices in the 'hood. If you need help and your situation is dire, then you can always call Luke Cage: Hero for Hire.

Story Arcs:

Kings of Harlem -- Cage tussles with a gang taking over the streets of Harlem. During the fight, he begins to see links to the kids running the gang and his own troubled past.

War, What is it Good For? -- A local store owner hires Cage to fight off an extortion plot by members of the Puerto Rican Army. Soon, Cage in embroiled in the middle of a gang war between the PRA and the Harlem Kings.

No Justice No Peace -- High-powered defense attorney Matt Murdock hires Cage to investigate the credibility of a witness in a police-involved shooting case. Cage uncovers a seedy cabal of corrupt cops in the local NYPD precinct.

Supporting Cast:

Sgt. Alex Stone -- NYPD squad sergeant and occasional ally.
Sister Mercy -- Streetwise junkie and snitch for Cage.
Franklin "Foggy" Nelson -- Local defense attorney and routine employer of Cage.
Marcus Drayton -- Harlem community activist.

Sample Post:

131st Street
Harlem

Luke stood on the sidewalk and watched the traffic coming and going. The tension from the afternoon had all but evaporated once news got out that the grand jury on the Alderman case were going to need further time. After a week in deliberation, they were still deadlocked. That didn't bode well for the family of Isiah Hamilton. A deadlocked jury would mean a potential mistrial, which could mean a dismissal of the charges. It was one of the many sneaky ways the criminal justice system could get away with not punishing one of their own. It was why they needed Tommy Drayton more than ever. Luke wasn't foolish enough to think one politician could turn things around overnight, but he knew a guy like Tommy could implement a cultural change that might take a decade to see the benefits of. But incremental change was sure as shit better than what they had right now.

"GIVE TO THA LAWD!"

Luke had to suppress a laugh when he heard the shrill cry. On the corner of Lennox and 131st street, was Sister Mercy doing her thing. Sister Mercy had been working the corners of Upper Manhattan for nearly twenty years now, dressed in her black nun habit and ringing that bell while she shouted about fire and brimstone and the only way to heaven was to give to the lawd.

"'For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils' First Timothy 6:10, people. GIVE TO THA LAWD!"

You wouldn't think it by looking at her, but the sister was without a doubt the best street hustler of all the would-be conmen and scammers operating out on the streets. It didn't hurt that she has a dynamite racket. It takes real balls to impersonate a nun, and the sister had balls. The truth was that sister is a brother by the name of Jackson Coleman. Jackson was a former B&E man who hit the right racket to feed his drug addiction. Luke knew him back before he went to jail, back when he was gangbanger Carl Lucas. They got back in touch after Luke's homecoming and Luke found an unlikely ally in the hustler. From time to time over the years Sister Mercy helped him out with errands and intel for a price. A cross-dressing junkie nun who cons people with a bell and the bible. Luke had to grin. Where else but Harlem?

"Say, Sister Mercy," he said as he palmed two twenties and shook the good sister's hand. "What do you know good?"

"'Blessed are they who observe justice, who do righteousness at all times', Psalm 106:3," he said loud enough for the pedestrians passing by to hear before whispering. "Luke Cage, my man. What's up, homie? GIVE TO THE LAWD, PEOPLE."

"Wondering if you had your ear to the ground on something, Sister. You know Tommy Drayton? Someone tried to snuff him earlier today."

Sister Mercy let out a low and soft whistle before returning back to the work of yelling about damnation and monetary salvation. She thanked a passerby as they tossed a dollar into the bucket at her feet. After a few moments of thought, she finally shook his head.

"That's out of my range, brother. Politics and shit. You need a Day of the Jackal-type motherfucker to pull off something like that. I just know about hustlers. It's been quiet the last few weeks around Harlem, far as any action is concerned."

"What about your network? All those homeless fools."

Sister Mercy stopped ringing her bell for a second before she nodded. "Joe the Bum. He's a homeless guy that bottom feeds by hanging around political campaigns. He gets a few sandwiches here and there for running errands and wearing signs at rallies. I think he was hanging out around Drayton and his people. He may have seen something. I'll run him down for you."

"You better, Sister. I don't want to kick a nun's ass."

"I do what I can nigga," she whispered softly. "I'll be here tomorrow morning with Joe the Bum."

"Sister, I could kiss you..."

"'But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart,' Matthew 5:28, brother. Repent and GIVE TO THA LAWD!"

Luke laughed and started home to Jess and Dani. It'd been a long day, and he had a pretty big task in front of him. Sister Mercy was right that this kind of case seemed a bit out of his range. He wasn't a political intrigue guy. But he was a Harlem guy. Harlem was where Drayton was from and that was where they'd tried to kill him. This was a Harlem crime, and when it came to Harlem crimes he was very much in his depth.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

"Nickel's looking for a dime."
-- Tommy "DTF" Jefferson

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Go for it, motherfucker. No disrespectful to anyone else, but you are the best writer in this game and I love reading your posts.

Marvel - Dawn of Heroes

"Never miss a good chance to shut up."
-- Will Rogers

Here's how it goes:

You are a citizen of a free nation. Having lived your adult life in a land of guaranteed civil liberties, you commit a crime of violence. Whereupon you are arrested -- "jacked up" in the parlance of the street-- and find yourself here; in an interrogation room complete with brick walls, three chairs and a metal table.

There you sit for almost an hour until a police detective, a man who is clearly not your friend, comes in with a smile and offers you a cigarette. The detective also brings with him a notepad and pen and a digital voice recorder. After you take the aforementioned smoke, he launches into a non-stop monologue that goes back and forth, back and forth, but comes to rest... in a very familiar place.

"You have the right to remain silent."

And you do. You're a criminal. Criminals always have the right to remain silent. You've seen Law & Order, right? Your Fifth Amendment rights prevent you from self-incrimination. If it was good enough for all those greedy CEOs and juicing athletes who testified in front of congress, who the fuck are you to argue? Let's get some prespective, shall we? A police detective -- a man paid by the government to put you into prison -- is explaining that you have the right to shut up before you say anything stupid. Think about that for a moment.

Also think about your right to an attorney.

The man with the smile and the tired eyes tells you that you have the right to talk to an attorney anytime. Be it before questioning, after questioning, or during any questioning sessions. The man who wants to arrest you for violating the peace of the great city of New York is telling you that you can talked to a person who is a trained professional in legal matters, someone who has read the relevant code... or, he's gotten his hands on some Cliff Notes. Either way, he is sure as hell more up on his shit than you are. Let's face it, pal. You just shot a man in the head behind 112th Street Bar. You are many things, but a legal genius you ain't. You're going to need the help of an expert. Take whatever you can get.

After his long speech and informing you of your rights, the detective says that he wants you to be adequately informed of your rights. Right now, there is nothing he wants more than to help you out in this very confusing and stressful time in your life. He also wants you to know, and you can take it from him because he's been doing this for awhile, your right to an attorney isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

He says that once you call for that lawyer, there isn't a thing in the world he can do to help you. Nope, once that bell is rung it can't be unrung and your good friends here at the 18th Precinct won't be able to lend you a hand. The next authority figure to get their hands on your case will be a no nonsense prosecutor from the District Attorney's office.

And God help you if a three-piece suit wearing bloodsucker like that gets a whiff of your case. You'll be halfway to the Attica on a ten to life bid before you can even fucking blink. You ever been to Attica? They say Ryker's is the roughest prison in the state, but my money is on Attica. They'd eat you alive in a place like that.

Your best bet is to speak up. Speak up now.

With that little tidbit, the detective leaves the room and lets you think on it. Suddenly you realize how small this room, how without windows its a lot like a prison cell. That gets to you as you finish off you smoke and wish you had another. The detective returns minutes later, this detective who is not your friend, and smiles at you as he sits down at the table across from you with two cups of coffee.

"I got the coffee right? Two sugars, no cream?"

"Yeah, the coffee's fine, man." You say with a nervous twitch.

"But, uhh...what happens if I want a lawyer?"

"We'll get you a lawyer!" The detective springs up from his seat and heads towards the door. "No problem, we got a line of lawyers waiting outside."

A few feet away from the door, he spins on his heels and looks back at you with his hands clasped together.

"But! Maybe you should think first." He walks back towards the table and leans over it. He's crowding you, but not in a threatening way. Kind of like how your mom or dad would get in close when you were a kid. There's a warmness there. This man, this man who you have been taught would just as soon beat you than look at you, genuinely cares about your well being.

"Like I said, once that lawyer is called we can't do anything. This will be your only time to speak, remember that. So... he came at you, didn't he? It was self-defense."

You look down into the coffee and then back at his face. Swallowing hard, you answer.

"Uh-huh." You say cautiously.

"Wait one minute." The detective says as he slides you a piece of paper.

"Might want to read that first."

The form reads "I do not wish for an attorney right now, and I am willing to answer questions without an attorney present, and I do all this voluntarily on my part."

You sign the paper, initial it to be sure.

The detective looks at you, his eyes dripping with innocence, and says:

"He came at you didn't he?"

"Yeah. He... uh, he came at me," you whisper.

That's it. You're done.

If the detective wasn't too busy taking down your statement and writing a murder warrant, he'd tell you as much. He'd say something about your ignorance and the fact that you just admitted to killing another human being. He'd also mention that, in all his years of working murders, he's still amazed that even works.

Stop and think. When you came through those doors what did it say? That's right, Homicide. Who lives in a Homicide Unit? Homicide Detectives, so far so good. And what does a Homicide Cop do for a living?

You got it.

You took a human being's life tonight. So, when you opened your mouth, what the fuck were you thinking?

Bar none, the homicide detective is the best salesman on the face of the earth. He sells life sentences in prison to a customer base who has no need or want for them. And he's damn good at it too. Through lies, half-truths, and cajoling he gets the truth -- or enough of it to build a murder case -- from you. And it's all entirely legal. His weapon isn't violence anymore, it's his prey's own stupidity.

There is a thing in interrogations known as The Out. Every suspect who opens their mouth in an interrogation pictures The Out. The right series of answers, the right amount of charm, the right bit of an alibi that will allow them to stroll out of the interrogation room and head home unscathed.

It is a lie, as blatant as any lie that detectives can use in their interrogations. Once you are in this room, there is no amount of words that can lead to your freedom. Only silence. Only asking for a lawyer can get you out of this room. You go to a jail cell, yes, but you do not willingly sign your life away in search of The Out. The truth is that The Out leads in.

You better get used to these small spaces, son. You're gonna be calling them home for at least the next thirty years.

----

Manhattan Criminal Courthouse
Part 21
Lower Manhattan
11:21 AM

"Mr. Murdock, do you plan on a lengthy cross-examination of the witness?"

"No, Your Honor," I said as I stood. "I'll be brief."

I couldn't see it, but I could hear the muscles in Judge Sandra Young's face form into a smile. Noon was fast approaching and Judge Young likes her smoke breaks. I was honestly surprised that she had allowed the current session to run now for over three hours without breaking.

"You may proceed," she said.

I made my way from the defense table, passing by Assistant DA Blake Tower on my way towards the lectern facing the witness box and the jury. I heard Tower's right eyelid flip in a wink at me, a force of habit I assume. His gait was that of a man who was confident on the point of cocky. And who wouldn't be cocky after the testimony he had just withdrawn from his witness?

With Tower holding his hand, Detective Sergeant Michael Tork had just delivered an hour's worth of testimony that guided the jury through his investigation. Working out of the NYPD's 33rd Precinct, Tork and his four-man narcotics unit conducted a two month investigation into the suspected drug dealing activities of one Jesus Reuben Martinez, resident of Washington Heights and a known member of the Puerto Rican Army.

Jesus sat at the defense table, looking on while his heart raced a mile a minute. I could probably have smelled the sweat beading on his forehead from outside the court room it was so pungent. He had every reason to be worried. Tork's testimony was solid. He had explained in that clear and clipped cop-speak that his unit had observed Martinez in and around the Wilson Terrace Housing Projects where he lived, but they could never get concrete proof that he was dealing. He was careful on the street, conducting his business in the housing project where the cops couldn't go without arousing suspicion. Martinez would take the train somewhere downtown, but they always lost him in the shuffle of the commute. Close to packing up the case, they turned instead to the eye in the sky.

Jesus Mendez had the honor to be among the first targets of the NYPD's new drone surveillance program. The drone in question caught Jesus taking a re-up from a supplier and then meeting with the dealers who worked for him to move his product. Jesus had alluded police ground surveillance thanks to his keen observations. But he hadn't thought to look up into the sky.

"Thank you for taking the time to be here, Sergeant Tork," I said a I prepared for the cross.

"You're welcome," Tork said tightly.

A genuine hater. I figured the cop for one of those right off the bat. Now my suspicions were confirmed by the stand-offish answer and the increase in his pulse. A lot of cops make no effort to hide their contempt for defense attorneys. Instead of seeing what we do as a necessary check on the system, they instead see us as quasi-criminals who are just a few steps above the scumbag clients were represent. Not that he would be completely wrong in that assessment. But if he hated defense lawyers now, he sure as hell was about to hate them after I was through with him.

"Sergeant Tork," I said with little to no delay. "Who operated the drone that took the surveillance photos of Mr. Martinez?"

"Officer Pierce," said Tork.

"And he's a member of your narcotics unit?"

"Yes, he is."

"I've been told that the photos you took are of good quality." I turned towards the jury with a half smirk. "I wouldn't know for myself."

I've found that self-deprecating humor can go a long way to disarm juries. Especially given my reputation over the years, playing up my blindness offsets my other less desirable qualities.

"They can clearly make out your client dealing drugs," Tork replied.

"Move to strike that from the record," I asked the judge. "It's inflammatory."

"So noted," said Judge Young. She looked down at Tork from her perch. "And I would remind Sergeant Tork to stick to simpler answers."

"Sergeant Tork, did you write the warrant that led to the use of the drone on my client?"

"No," said Tork. "We didn't have to write a warrant."

I smirked and squared my glasses up. Tork's heartbeat was steady, but starting to rise. He was telling the truth -- a refreshing departure from a lot of cops on the stand -- but he was beginning to get nervous. He knew something was up. With this cross, I was setting the fuse on the bomb that would destroy the prosecution's case.

"Drones and the use of them are relatively new in law enforcement, Sergeant. Are you up to date with all the rules and regulations?"

"I know how to do my job if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, so you know about the rules on surveillance distance with drones? They're much more restrictive with them than they are with planes and helicopters. If you're less than a thousand feet away from the target, you need a warrant. Anything without a warrant is considered and illegal search."

I held up the photographs, making sure they were the right side up and facing Tork.

"From how far would you say these photos were taken, Sergeant Tork?"

Now Tork's heart was racing. I could smell the sweat on him. Along with his change, I heard Tower groan under his breath from the prosecution table and Juror #4 laugh under his breath.

"I'm not an expert on distances," he said defensively.

"No, you're not," I said with a nod. "I'll have one of those come up when the defense presents. No more questions for Sergeant Tork, your honor."

And just like that, the seeds of acquittal have been sewn. Is Jesus Martinez guilty? Of course. The photos prove that. But they weren't obtained legally. That, more than anything, is my job. I have to make sure the cops play fair. I have to test the state's evidence and make sure it holds up. I am a necessary part of the threshing maw that is the American criminal justice system. I poke and prod and pull threads. Better that a guilty man go free on a technicality than an innocent man be convicted on faulty evidence.

At least, that's what I tell myself to make it through the day. At night I cope a different way.

---

Williamsburg, Brooklyn
2:15 PM

Yussel Goren had never seen so much blood in his life. It seemed to coat the floor and walls of the small Brooklyn apartment. It covered his hands and arms. The thighs of his navy blue pants were a deep crimson now due to the blood. Neta was face down in the carpet, her blood pooled out from the spot where she had fallen and oozing out through the rest of the room.

Yussel stumbled forward. He took his yarmulke off with his blood-stained hands and stuttered out some words in Yiddish. He fell to his knees and began to weep. His free hand found a bloody knife buried in the carpet. He held it up and looked at it just as the door to the apartment burst open.

"NYPD," the heavyset uniformed officer said, his gun out and aimed at Yussel. "Drop the weapon!"