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3 yrs ago
Current "I'm an actor. I will say anything for money." -- Also Charlton Heston
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3 yrs ago
Starting up a preimum service of content from actors like Radcliffe, Day-Lewis, Bruhl, and Craig. Calling it OnlyDans.
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3 yrs ago
Please, guys. The status bar is for more important things... like cringe status updates.
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Gotta love people suddenly becoming apolitical when someone is doing something they approve of.
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3 yrs ago
Deleting statuses? That's a triple cringe from me, dog.
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Bio

None of your damn business.

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It's so beautiful...
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
LUCIFER


LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR NGHTCLUB OWNER/EX-KING OF HELL LOS ANGELES



C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:




In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep. Then God said, "Let there be light"; and there was light. And that light was brought forth by his favorite angel. Lucifer, the Morningstar. But three seconds after Creation, Lucifer rebelled. For the ultimate sin of questioning God he was banished from Heaven into the lightless pit teeming with demons and other abominations. After a millennia of warfare in the pit Lucifer emerged as ruler over the void and christened it Hell. From his throne Lucifer spent billions of years torturing mortal souls, keeping the bloodthirsty demons at bay, and warring with God and the forces of Heaven.

But fifty years ago something happened.

Lucifer became bored. Bored of the endless routine Hell offered, tired of the intrigue from demons, and fed up with humanity's preconceived notions of the devil. He was tired of being the scapegoat for humanity's flaws. People did not sin because he made them, they sinned because they were human. So Lucifer did what anyone does when they're fed up with a job:

He quit.

He left Hell behind and now lives in Los Angeles. His piano bar, Lux, caters to the rich and famous of L.A., the weirdos and the depraved, the ones who are truly free... you know, his kind of people. But in the five decades since his abdication, Hell has gone... well, you know... and the divisions between Earth and Hell are beginning to fray. Something is coming. And unlikely as it may be, the devil may be the best savior Earth has.





C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:


I want to tell a story that's like a hybrid of the TV show, I only saw like four episodes but I got the gist, and tag up on some of themes and ideas of my Constantine run back in the last UOU game.



C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:


Gabriel: Archangel and prick.
Mazikeen: Descendant of Lilith, Lucifer's Girl Friday.
Charlie Rembrandt: LAPD Homicide detective with the ability to see supernatural phenomenon.
Jack Hawksmoor: Intangible, God of the Cities.
First of the Fallen: Pretender to the throne of Hell.
The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse (War, Famine, Pestilence, and Memes Death): The original boy band.
Anon: God of the Internet Conspiracy. Believes everyone is out to get him.
Jesus H. Christ: The "H" is for Herbert




S A M P L E P O S T:


Hollywood
2:21 PM


He sat in the semi-darkness of the club, playing to a room of empty chairs. His long, graceful fingers danced around the keys of the piano. He played the mournful melody with his eyes closed as he sang.

“Now I've heard there was a secret chord that David played, and it pleased the Lord but you don't really care for music, do you? It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift. The baffled king composing ‘Hallelujah.’”

The voice that came out of his mouth was beautiful, quite literally angelic. Just like his looks. His perfect blonde hair and crystal blue eyes were part of a face that turned heads wherever he went. The only mar to the beauty was the scar. A great gash that ran from his left eyebrow to his right jaw. It was a battle scar, delivered by a fiery sword wielded by his own brother.

“I did my best; it wasn’t much. I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch. I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you. And even though it all went wrong, I’ll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah. Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah...”

John Constantine walked around the edges of the club, unlit cigarette in hand. As the man finished up his song he approached. His blue eyes sparkled even in the dark. Eyes that had seen billions of years of war and suffering, eyes that carried behind them cursed knowledge and a desire for freedom that had been his undoing once upon a time.

“Know any Sex Pistols?” asked John.

“I’ll work on it,” Lucifer Morningstar said, standing. “Thank you for coming.”

“Well, the king of Hell summons you,” said John. “You come toot sweet.”

Former ruler of Hell.”

“Mmm,” John said as he lit his cigarette. “Could never reckon why you gave it all up. I may not be one of those public school ponces, but I know my Milton. ‘Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven’ and all that.”

“A few million years of being a scapegoat for man’s weakness and God’s inequity will turn anyone off the idea of being the devil. Man kills and rapes because he wants to, not because I make him. They were made to be violent and petty, made in His image, but yet they look to me instead of their creator.”

“We love to blame,” said John, holding his smoldering cigarette up. “Bobby Joe smokes three pack a day and when he gets lung cancer, he blames the bloody cigarette company. Don’t take it personal, Lucy, just our way.”

A look of annoyance flashed on Lucifer's face at the use of the nickname. He walked passed John and headed for the club’s bar. John followed in his wake, taking a seat on a stool while Lucifer went behind the bar to the liquor shelf.

“Lux caters to plenty of Hollywood people. Powerful people,” said Lucifer. “One of my regulars came to me recently with a problem. It bores me, but it’s right up your alley, Constantine. You've always enjoyed getting down in the gutters.”

“Need help getting pesky stains off that casting couch?” John asked with a grin.

“Something a bit trickier.”

He took his time, taking a bottle of scotch from the top shelf and pouring himself a glass. John had to resist the urge to laugh. The towheaded cunt was every bit the showman.

“Tell me,” he said before taking a long swig of his drink. “Are you familiar with Jake Stowe?”



P O S T C A T A L O G:


TBD
It wouldn't be a real game if I didn't act like a wishy-washy SOB. I voided out my first. I think it's too ambitious for where I am in my life right now. I wouldn't have enough time to write it like I would want.
This looks vaguely familiar.


Baltimore
Sixteen Months Ago


Tresser walked away from the burning strip club and didn’t bother to look back. Jimmy Kappas and his two bodyguards went for their weapons the second he walked into the room. He made quick work of the muscle before taking his time with Kappas. The Greek was afraid Tresser was working with the cops to bring him down. He was afraid that when he went downtown the other day, he’d cracked and was going to wear a wire and take him down. That made Tresser laugh. So he told Jimmy the truth. The real truth about who he was and who he worked for. He was a snitch, alright, he had said just before killing Jimmy. But The Greek was a piss ant compared to the people he was after.

He got into his car and without another look back at the roaring inferno that had been the Kit Kat Club, hauled ass down the street. He had to get out of town fast. He didn’t want to make contact with Sarge Steel until he had something concrete. No doubt he’d hear about the massacre and be pissed. Kappas was supposed to be his in to the people running LEVIATHAN. Now that was shot to hell.
His phone started to ring. He looked down and saw it was a blocked number. That was when he remembered the phone call from earlier. His rage had consumed him to the point that he forgot all about the warning from before.

“Bravo, Mr. Tresser,” the same accented voice from before said. “Bravo indeed. Jimmy Kappas was a parasite who I only did business with out of necessity. It was only a matter of time before he ended up in prison or dead. I am glad it is the latter instead of the former.”

“Who exactly are you?”

“Someone who knows talent when I see it. In the trunk of your car, taped to the carpet, is a key. If you go to the airport, there is a locker that the key will open. Inside are a set of fake identification for a Timothy Tutwiler and a boarding pass to an early morning flight to Rome. Think of tonight as a job interview, Mr. Tresser. You passed with flying colors. I look forward to seeing you in Rome.”

The line went dead. Tresser tossed the phone to the seat and checked the clock on the dash. BWI was less than a half hour away. He got on the highway and started towards Anne Arundel County and whatever was waiting for him in Rome.




Lake Ontario
Now


“I’ll let you know when we’re almost there.”

The tugboat captain shouted over the droning of the engine towards Tresser’s good ear. Tresser nodded his thanks and stepped out of the controller room and made his way onto the deck. It was late and overcast, but the moon was beginning to peak out of the clouds. Just enough light for the tug to make its covert run across the lake.

He seemed like the ask no questions type when Tresser found him on the Hub City waterfront. The captain confirmed Tresser’s hunch when he said an even five thousand dollars to take him across the lake and into Canada. Tresser paid him the five and promised two more if they could get there by dawn.

Tresser had backup identification that marked him as a Canadian citizen with a different name. He’d be able to get a flight to Europe with the ID, he just wasn’t in any shape to cross the border and not raise questions. A vet had been paid well to tend to the wounds on his side and ear. His eardrum hadn’t ruptured from the gunfire, the vet had said, but it would ring for at least a few more days before going back to normal. The wounds on his side would heal within a week.

“Well that was a disaster,” Sarge Steel said as Tresser approached the side of the boat. Steel had met him at the docks and hung back while Tresser hired the tug captain. He’d kept his distance from the captain since getting on the ship. The last thing either of them wanted was someone remembering Steel.

“Do you buy Broker’s story?” Tresser asked.

“I do. I wasn’t part of SHIELD back then, but I’ve heard all kinds of stories about the crazy things they did at the height of the Cold War. Besides, with the position you’re in who are you to doubt a story like that?”

“He went off the reservation and forgot who he was. That worries me.”

“He went off the reservation because his people failed him,” said Steel. “I’m your handler, Tom. Nobody’s forgotten you.”

“I think about that night in Baltimore,” said Tresser, ignoring what Steel had said. “The night I took out Jimmy and his guys. That’s not something a good guy does.”

“You’re not a good guy, Tom. I’m not a good guy either. There’s just shades of bad. What you did in Baltimore got you working for Vertigo, didn’t it? It got you on LEVIATHAN’S radar. That’s what your mission is. That’s what made all of it worth it.”

“Vertigo won’t be happy I came up empty handed,” said Tresser. “But he’ll understand that things don’t work out.”

“Gonna tell him the truth?”

“I’ll tell him it was a trap and that Broker tried to kill me and muscle in on his business. He wouldn’t believe the SHIELD part even if I told him.”

“That means he’ll be gunning for whoever Broker works for.”

“Broker was independent.”

Steel let out a little laugh and shook his head.

“No such thing, Tommy. Everybody kicks up to someone else.”

“Excuse me.”

Tresser turned at the sound of the tug captain. Steel turned away to hide his face in the shadows. The captain was looking at the two of them curiously. It was loud enough with that waves that Tresser was sure he hadn’t heard what they were talking about

“Umm… we should be dropping anchor in about five minutes.”

“Thanks,” Tresser said with nod. “You’re gonna earn your tip.”

“Just remember,” Steel said once the captain was gone. “We’re through the looking glass, Tom. Down here, we’re all mad.”

Tresser didn’t offer a reply. Instead he looked out across the water and the waiting shores of Canada.




Epilogue
Washington D.C.


Special Agent Valentina de Fontaine looked through the file that the FBI field office in Chicago had emailed her just before lunch. Val was part of SHIELD’s Interagency Task Force that liaised with everything from CIA and Mossad down to the rural sheriff’s departments. In the past interagency rivalry led to things like Oklahoma City and 9/11, so the ITF helped the agencies communicate and share information.

On paper it sounded prestigious, but it was a desk job. She was a traffic controller that looked over files and assigned them to other departments to do the work. If CIA needed information on a threat risk, she sent it on to counterrorism. If FBI needed help with a bank robbery in Bearshit, South Dakota she sent it on to tactical.

The file in question was an unusual one. Originally Hub City had been where it took place but HPD had passed the buck on the feds given the circumstances. A series of chaotic events had transpired over one night that they thought were linked. A cop had been murdered and left in a burning car, nearly two hours later a shooting at a diner wounded at least three, and shortly after that during the search for the suspect cops found a dead body in a rundown movie theater. SHIELD had been called in because the dead body had been found with a SHIELD badge in its possession.

She was about to pass it on to the fraud and counterfeiting when she found a video file among the email. Val clicked it and watched black and white surveillance camera footage of the deceased officer chasing after a suspect. The timestamp said that it was taking place right around the time the medical examiner said he died. The suspect seemed to know cameras were around so he did his best to hide his face. But there was something else. His gait, the way he carried himself. She had seen it before, a lifetime ago. She’d followed behind that man as they ran through the Hindu Kush Mountains with assault rifles in their hands.

Val paused the video and tried to zoom in on the man running from the cop. It was grainy… but she could make out a few details. Details she recognized.

“Oh, my god,” she said under her breath. “Tresser."


Baltimore
Sixteen Months Ago


Tresser cracked his knuckles and settled back into the seat of his car. Six hours into the stakeout and it looked like he was in for a long haul. The house he was sitting on was a dump, a scorched husk of a rowhouse on the Baltimore west side that someone torched years ago. It was the perfect place for squatters and people trying to lay low.

According to Jimmy Kappas, Little Roy Lewis was inside the house. Little Roy was one of the many dealers on Kappas’ package. The Greek sold coke, dope, and weed wholesale for a percentage of the package. The money Little Roy was kicking up to Kappas had gotten smaller and smaller until finally Little Roy stopped paying altogether. Word was that Little Roy was getting high on his own supply. If that was the case, Kappas wanted Tresser to eliminate Little Roy and whoever was in the house and get back what was his.

He waited until nearly forty thirty in the morning before he made his move. That was how he’d learned it when he was with DEVGRU and the Activity. KGB time, they called it. The old Soviet secret police always committed their arrests and assassinations between four and five in the morning. It was the sweet spot where night was beginning to fade away, but morning was still not quite there yet. Even most night owls were soundly asleep by four in the morning.

Tresser slipped on a pair of black nitrile gloves and carried a Beretta with a suppressor attached to the end under his coat. He looped around the back of the building and came through a broken window, slow and quietly. Tresser pulled the gun out along with a flashlight covered in tape, emitting only a pin-sized light to use as a guide. He held his breath when he passed by three buckets that had been used as latrines. It took him ten minutes to find their stash tucked away in a baseboard near the fireplace. About half a pound of heroin wrapped in cellophane nestled inside a gymbag. Alongside the stash, Tresser found nearly twenty thousand in tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills, and four machine pistols. He tucked the money, dope, and guns into the satchel and slung it over his shoulder.

He slowly glided up the rickety stairs like a ghost. Muscle memory kicked in when he reached the landing where the crew was sleeping. Check the corners, clear the rooms, plan your escape, kill as soon as you have eyes on the target. Flashbacks went through his mind, killing a Somali pirate with a sniper rifle, garroting an Al-Qaeda cutout in Iraq. Tresser didn’t believe in the stereotype of born killers, but he was a killer now thanks to Uncle Sam. Like a chunk of coal, the government had applied pressure and polished him up to turn him into a sparkly diamond of murderous potential.

Three guys were passed out on piss-stained mattresses. He kept the flashlight beam low and was able to make out Little Roy in the dim light. His target acquired, he aimed. Recoil shot up his elbow as he fired off three quick shots. The rounds hissed through the room, three bullets exploding the three men's heads. He fired off three more to each man's heart to be sure he was dead before he started down the stairs. He was on the first floor when his phone started to vibrate. Tresser reached into his jacket and pulled it out. The screen said that a blocked number was attempting to call him.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Mr. Tresser,” the voice on the other end of the line spoke with an accent Tresser couldn’t place. It sounded like Eastern European. “There are men outside waiting for you. They intend to kill you. They will be inside this house in thirty seconds. Goodbye.”

The line went dead. Tresser looked at the screen in confusion before he put the phone back and quickly but quietly walked towards the rowhouse window. He cursed softly when he saw a car that wasn’t there before, parked in front of his own and blocking his escape. Four men he recognized as Jimmy Kappas’ muscle were stepping out of the car with guns in their hand.

Tresser retreated back into the house and attempted to get his bearings. He heard footsteps approaching. They didn’t care about stealth. They had numbers on the side. Tresser leaned against the wall and listened to the front door opening from down the hall. It creaked on rusty hinges as it came open. He prepared by getting into a shooter stance as the men sent to kill him started to fan out through the house.




Hub City
Now


Tresser kept a hand pressed against his right side as he leaned against the concrete wall of the building. He felt blood slowly oozing out the wounds on his torso. The bullet had only just clipped his side, but they had gone deep enough into the skin that it would take a while to clot and stop bleeding on its own.

He’d run out of the diner during the chaos of Broker’s shooting and tried as best he could to put some distance between the two of them. Now he was resting against a wall in a side alley a few blocks away from the diner. Tresser looked down at the ground by his feet and noticed that there was a steady blood trail leading down the alley towards where he had been.

Tresser cursed when he saw Broker appear at the mouth of the alley with a gun in his hand. Somewhere far off was a police siren slowly getting closer. Broker raised the gun as Tresser disappeared deeper down the alley. Tresser felt something whiz by his head just before the heard the crack of the gun.

He took a right and disappeared out of Broker’s line of sight just as another bullet ricocheted off the brick wall. The stabbing pain from the wound limited his running ability, but he still managed to exit out the alley before Broker could turn the corner and take another potshot at him.

This being downtown Hub City, Tresser knew hiding in an abandoned building would be his best bet. He had his pick of the litter on this particular street. An old movie theater was right across the alley from him, the dilapidated marquee still advertising “DOC SAVAGE LIVES” in faded letters. Tresser forced his way in through the rusty fire exit door and disappeared inside.




Baltimore
Sixteen Months Ago


Joe Burke watched Terry McNeil as the younger detective stood in the rowhouse living room. They weren’t the only detectives on scene at the moment. Crime techs were upstairs collecting evidence while patrolmen worked on keeping people away and canvassing the scene. The white shirts were here too. The western district nightshift commander was ostensibly the highest ranking on-duty official here, but his boss, the real western commander, and a few majors and colonels from downtown had joined him.

Seven dead bodies was a redball, and when it came to redballs every member of the BPD command wanted their fingers in the pie. The brass were all collecting in a command tent outside the house, drinking coffee and figuring out who best to pin this on if things went sideways, while Burke and McNeil did the real work.

“I think this was one guy,” McNeil said after minutes of silent thought.

“Explain yourself, son,” grunted Burke. He sounded gruff, but he was doing his best to hide the grin he wanted to show.

McNeil began to point upwards to the second floor where three bodies had been found after finding the first round of four.

“Guys up top were sleeping when they got their tickets punched. No signs of struggle or restraints. Doer probably used a silencer and took them all out without them knowing. He gets down here and all hell breaks loose.”

Burke followed behind McNeil as he walked into the kitchen. A dead man was slouched against the kitchen counter with his neck at a twisted angle.

“The kitchen is the furthest room from the living room and doesn’t have direct line of sight on the door. I bet the doer hid in here while these four guys came into the house and fanned out. Looks like when one of them came in, our guy got the drop on him and smashed his neck against the edge of the counter. Minimal noise and one of them is dead.”

Burke didn’t interrupt as he followed McNeil down the hall into an empty bedroom. Another dead man was on the floor with a pool of blood underneath his neck and face. McNeil crouched and gingerly adjusted the man’s head to show Burke the discreet little slashes on the man’s neck and shoulder.

“The cut to the throat stuns and silences the victim, the one here on the shoulder? That’s the brachial artery. If it’s executed like this, perfectly, the victim bleeds out in less than five minutes. Our guy pulled the move off and pinned him to the floor while he bled out. Two dead.”

Burke stifled a laugh as they moved further down the hall to the bathroom where the bathroom door had been blasted off its hinges. Here was a two-for-one special. A body with a bullet hole in its head rested against the bathroom tiles. Just outside the bathroom was another body, this one with its face blown off and a shotgun on the ground beside it.

“This one seems obvious enough,” said McNeil. “Our guy pops the guy in the bathroom in the back of the head, not giving a fuck about noise now that the odds are even, and steals his shotgun. He closes the door and sits on the can. As soon as he sees the doorknob move, he lets loose with the shottie and blows number four away. He drops the shotgun to the ground and calmly walks out the house. Minimal noise and gunfire, something nobody in this neighborhood is going to bat an eye at anyway.”

“Brilliant,” Burke said with a smirk. “If it’s all true, that is.”

“A working theory at best,” McNeil said with a shrug.

“That move you mentioned earlier?” Burke asked. “The one with the cut to the throat and shoulder? They call it sticking the bleeders.”

“I know," McNeil said as he looked at his partner. "It’s textbook special forces.”

They let the implications hang in the air between them. Seven dead bodies. If this was the work of Tresser, which it may very well have been, then were they at least partially responsible? They had the son of a bitch in an interrogation room downtown and let him walk right out. There was no doubt in either detective’s minds that the four men on the first floor, and even those on the second floor, were anything other than criminals and lowlifes who had courted their violent deaths in some fashion. Still… the blood of seven people may have been on their hands because they didn’t just arrest Tresser then and there.

Burke’s cellphone chirping drew their attention away from their potential guilt. He pulled it out and looked at the text message on his screen.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath before looking up at McNeil. “Rick and Dana are over on the east side with the fire department and the arson unit. Someone burnt Jimmy Kappas’ club to the ground. Looks like there's remains of at least three people in the wreckage.”

“Fuck,” said McNeil. He pulled out his own phone and called the BPD communications section. “This is Terry McNeil, BPD Homicide badge number 9819, we need an all points bulletin and BOLO on a Thomas Tresser, white male, approximately thirty years of age. Height and weight….”




Hub City
Now


Tresser could hear footsteps somewhere nearby. He was huddled down near one of the few rows of movie seats that had not been ripped out and stolen. He still kept one hand on his wound, the other cradling a jagged shard of glass he’d picked up on his way through the lobby.

Agent Mike Stevenson had once been a highly decorated SHIELD operator. Even if thirty years had elapsed, Tresser knew enough of that training remained to make Broker lethal in hand to hand combat. That training, plus his own wounds, meant that his window would be narrow. A creaking floorboard perked up Tresser’s ears. He could hear breathing somewhere close. He had taken a deep breath and breathed out slowly from his mouth to avoid making any more noise. A ruffle of fabric against a chair told him Broker was just one row away.

Tresser popped up and let his training go to work. Broker was standing at Tresser’s eleven o’clock and facing away from him, but he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look. That was when Tresser struck out. The glass slit a neat, little horizontal line across Broker’s windpipe. He let out a bloody gasp and squeezed the trigger of the gun. The barrel of the gun erupted by Tresser’s right ear as he leaped over the seat and sliced Broker’s brachial artery on his shoulder.

With his ears ringing, Tresser slapped the gun from Broker’s hand and slammed him to the ground. The older man wheezed as blood poured from his shoulder and coated the already soiled carpets with thick crimson. Tresser pinned him to the ground with his knees and held on as he thrashed and tried to find some purchase to pull Tresser off of him. After a minute, he slowed and continued to slow until he was completely still. Tresser stayed on top of the dying man. He reached out and grabbed Broker’s gun off the floor. He put the barrel to the back of Broker’s head and pulled the trigger.
Are we doing this more sandbox style or playing a group?


Washington D.C.
1986


“Operation: Red Harvest.”

Mike Stevenson looked up from his legal pad at Deputy Director Peters. Along with Stevenson and Peters, three other SHIELD agents Stevenson didn’t recognize were in the briefing room. Peters stood at the head of the table next to a slideshow presentation. He pressed the clicker in is hand and the slide switched to a picture of the world with red arrows projecting from the Soviet Union and stretching across the planet to other countries.

“This is the flow of illegal weapons from the USSR. You see places we expect: Somalia, Cuba, Egypt. They’ve slowed down the flow considerably now that they’re stuck in the shitshow that is Afghanistan. But that’s going to end eventually. This is what SHIELD projects that flow of illegal weapons will look like in 1996.”

Peters clicked to the next slide. Same map with almost all the same countries being fed weapons. The big standout was the giant red arrow that pointed to the United States.

“Once they’re out of Afghanistan, our sources at the Kremlin say the Russians are going to make a push to destabilize America. The inner cities are turning to war zones thanks to that rock cocaine shit that they’re smoking. Reagan’s doing all he can to stop the influx of drugs into this country, but that’s a band-aid at best. The second they get Russian guns flowing in with the crack rock, this country is going to be in big trouble. The makings of armed insurrection. Capitol Hill and the White House are doing their part with crackdowns on drug dealers and users. But SHIELD is going to our part. This is where you four come in.”

Another slide showed a map of the US with four cities circled in red.

“New York, LA, Houston, and Hub City,” said Peters. “All four are either high poverty, high crime, high minority, or in the case of Hub City, all of the above. This is a deep cover assignment with all four of you operating in your chosen city as either a drug or arms dealer. You would identify any criminals with soviet ties or leftist affiliations and pass them on to SHIELD for further action. The ideal goal of this operation is for you to contain these criminal elements using your operator skills, either through coercion or hostile takeover of their enterprises.”

“Jesus,” said one of the agents. “Is SHIELD sanctioning organized crime?”

“This is all above board,” said Peters. “This has already been run up the ladder to DOJ and the White House and both are signing off on it.”

“So we’d be criminals?” Mike asked. “Under deep cover, sure, but still doing criminal activities. What’s stopping us from getting arrested by the FBI?”

“We have fallbacks in that case,” replied Peters. “Ways for you to avoid arrest. As with any undercover op, you are granted leeway to maintain your cover. Anything up to murder or conspiracy to commit murder.”

Peters straightened the knot in his tie before looking at the four agents with a raised eyebrow.

“Shall we continue?”




Hub City
Now


“You know the rest of the story,” Stevenson said to Tresser. “Or at least you should.”

“The Soviet Union collapsed a few years later,” said Tresser. ”The great crackbaby revolution of the 90’s never came to pass. And you were a man without a mission.”

Stevenson nodded. He and Tresser were at an all-night diner. Stevenson led Tresser there by gunpoint after showing his SHIELD badge. Even though the restaurant was half-full with the usual late night clientele of drunks and working girls, Tresser knew he wasn’t safe. Stevenson’s left hand was still hidden under the table, no doubt it had a gun in it and that gun was pointed at Treser.

“How did they forget about you?”

“You wouldn’t know this, but there was a huge purge of SHIELD in the mid-90’s.”

Stevenson stopped talking while the waitress delivered their coffee and they continued to stay silent as Stevenson poured cream and sugar into his cup with his one free hand.

“With the Cold War over,” he continued. “SHIELD and the rest of the intelligence community had their budgets slashed to half of what they used to get. Massive layoffs followed and anything involving fighting the Soviets got shelved. It was small item stuff in the newspapers, but I followed it closely for obvious reasons. I can’t speak for sure, but I imagine everything relating to Red Harvest either got put into storage or destroyed. Anyone with knowledge of it either left or was forced out.”

“Your cover was too deep,” said Tresser. “For once, the government did too good of a job.”

Stevenson chuckled and sipped his coffee.

“By the time of the purge, I was firmly established in Hub City as the Broker. I had information on all my rivals, my subordinates, and so much dirt on the local government.”

“Did you ever find any actual Soviet sympathizers or agents?”

“Fuck no,” Stevenson said with a laugh. “Just another hair-brained Cold War op by an agency with more money than sense.”

“So why stay?” asked Tresser. “Why not just walk away?”

Stevenson looked down into his coffee. “Easier said than done. When you get in as deep as I am, you learn something about yourself. You learn what kind of guy you are.”

Tresser saw a small smile creep on to Stevenson’s face and it raised the hair on the back of his neck. There was a glimmer in Stevenson’s eye that Tresser knew well. He caught a glimpse of it in his own eyes if he passed by a mirror when he was with Vertigo or one of the count’s clients. The look of being the tough guy. The mask of being Tom Tresser: Nemesis. Michael Stevenson had that look right now.

“I like being the Broker,” he said with a chuckle. “And I don’t intend on going back.”

“I’m not here to bring you back,” Tresser said, raising his palms to show he meant no harm. “Believe me when I say that I’m just a criminal. A criminal who knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

“But you see my position, right?” Stevenson asked with a shrug. “You’re either here to take me back, or you’re a criminal who knows who I really am. That leaves me exposed to either reprisals or extortion.”

“I’m not--”

“You were about to say that you were an honorable crook or some bullshit like that? In my experience there’s no such thing. You’ll be in a tight spot so you’ll let the truth slip out. Spook or not, I gotta do what I gotta do to survive. I can’t let you leave Hub City alive.”

Tresser sipped his coffee and sighed.

“That’s a shame. Real shame.”

Tom threw his cup of coffee at Stevenson’s face and leaped to his left away from the table. He felt two bullets clip his torso as he tumbled to the floor. Stevenson was yelling in pain from the hot coffee to the face. He began to fire wildly with the gun as all hell broke loose in the diner and Tresser started to run for his life.


Baltimore
Sixteen Months Ago


Jimmy “The Greek” Kappas’ eyebrows knitted together in concentration the second Tresser walked through the Kandy Kane Club. The little Greek man was probably forty percent eyebrows and body hair, the rest polyester. He still dressed like the days of disco hadn’t ended. His partially opened shirt showed a hairy chest and a golden necklace with the astrological Taurus symbol on the end.

Kappas was the only one in the bar this time of the morning. The strip club looked smaller with the flashing lights off and the music not playing. Jimmy sat at a table near the far corner with a plate of cracked crab shells and the sports page of the Baltimore Sun in front of him. Jimmy always kept up with the Baltimore-D.C. teams religiously. With as much money as he bet on the games, he had to follow them religiously to even have a chance to make his money back.

“Have a seat.”

Tresser complied. Jimmy smelled like crab, and his stubby fingers were pruney. Tresser caught a strong whiff of garlic butter as Kappas folded his hands together together.

“Heard you took a trip downtown, Tommy.”

Tresser shrugged. “Two homicide dicks tried to scare me.”

“It work?”

Tresser arched an eyebrow. “Noticed I said ‘tried’?”

Kappas nodded, more so to himself than to Tresser, and leaned back in the booth. After a long moment of silence, Kappas looked around the strip club and smiled before speaking.

“You’re a smart guy, Tommy,” Kappas finally said. He rubbed his face with greasy fingers. He left behind a buttery streak on his chin. “Easily the best worker I’ve had since I’ve been in this business. You get shit done. I always wonder how a guy like you just fell into my lap...”

Kappas let the words hang there. From under the table, Tresser’s hand gravitated towards the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

“Got something you want to say, Jimmy?”

Kappas’ face broke out into a toothy grin. He spread his hands out and shrugged. “Just thinking out loud, kid.”

“If you’re thinking that I’m not a stand-up guy then you’re wrong.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Kappas. He quickly corrected himself. “I mean the concept of a ‘stand-up guy.’ These fucking goombas created their little club with their rules and code of silence, yet when they get in trouble they drop it faster than the milkman dropped his pants when he was fucking my ex-wife.”

Tresser leaned forward and jabbed a finger at Kappas. “What do I have to do? Take my clothes off so you can see I’m not wearing a wire.”

“Do a job for me,” said Kappas. He brought his slimy hand down on the top of Tresser’s. “Quick and easy for a guy like you, and it’ll show me where you stand.”




Hub City
Now


Tresser silently watched Broker and his bodyguard from across the room. The silence wasn’t willing on Tresser’s part. A dirty rag stuffed into his mouth served as a gag. He was tied to a chair in what looked like a darkened ballroom. Besides the chair, a wheeled handcart was the only other inanimate object in the room.

“I spent a lot of time and money on that cop you killed,” Broker said as he approached Tresser. “Janko wasn’t the smartest or the most fearsome cop on my payroll. What he lacked in talent he made up for in dedication. You’d be surprised how unreliable a bribed man can be. And you took him from me.”

Tresser winced as Broker casually slapped him with the back of his hand. He grunted through his gag and tried to shake the cobwebs from his head. Broker snapped his fingers and his bodyguard wheeled the cart towards them. Along with a pistol, a variety of tools were resting on the car. Tresser saw a hacksaw, a rusty pair of pliers, and a power drill with a chipped bit.

“This is what I usually like to use on people who upset me. But I think you’re going to be a different case, Tresser.”

Tresser scowled and tried to mumble words through the gag. Broker chuckled and pulled out a pair of reading glasses before turning to the cart. Beneath the tools was a manila folder. He picked it up and shook it in Tresser’s direction.

“I said that I thoroughly vet everyone I wish to do business. You have a lot of names you go by, but there’s apparently a Thomas Tresser wanted for questioning in relation to a string of Baltimore homicides. Same Thomas Tresser has quite the service record. People like your boss, Vertigo, sees a killer he doesn’t have to train. But I see something else.”

Broker plopped the file back down on the cart and picked up the pistol. Tresser started to buck against his restraints in a futile attempt to break free..

“Alan, you can go,” Broker said with a glance back to his bodyguard.

“You sure?” Alan asked with a frown. “What if this guy--”

“He won’t. And what I’m going to do to him, you don’t want to be around for.”

“But--”

“I said go,” Broker said coolly. “Get the fuck out of here before I shoot you in the ass.”

Alan headed for the exit without another word. Tresser and Broker stared at each other in silence as Alan left the abandoned ballroom. Once he heard the door close, Broker’s face broke out into a smile.

“I’m going to ask you a question and you can respond by either nodding or shaking your head. Do you work for anyone else beside Vertigo?”

Tresser shook his head. Broker chuckled and fingered the gun.

“You’re lying, Tresser. Vertigo is too much of a fucking cokehead to see it, but I know a sheep-dipped operative when I see it. You don’t go from special forces to holding some Greek gangster’s water. SHIELD sent you didn’t they? After all these years, it’s finally time.”

Broker looked over his shoulder before reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a round metal object that had an eagle on it and the words “Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division” written around the edge.

“Time for me to come in from the cold.”
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