Turkey, Istanbul

"Istanbul Noir, Blood in the Sand"

Turkey stands bordered by The Mediterranean Sea and Cyprus are to the south; the Aegean Sea to the west; and the Black Sea is to the north. It is a beautiful and diverse Muslim country. Although it claims to be a Democratic Republic with a ruling council, It is more often than not controlled by the strict Islamic fundamentals. For all it's beauty and prestige it is plagued by the same criminal element and other major sovereign nation. Terrorism is prevalent here, as both a home to the insurgents, and a proving ground for up and coming organizations.

Istanbul is a bustling metropolis that is framed by it's peaked domed city's skylines. It is both ancient and modern a dichotomy showcased by cell phones, computers, and heavy city traffic congestion; right along side of camel-bound merchants, old world religious devotion, and poverty that keeps it's lowest class in the dark ages.

As with many middle Eastern countries it carries a very strict policy on Superhuman activities. The predominant religion of Islam does not allow for public displays of powers, seeing them as blasphemy against the divine power of Alha. Although some countries do have superpowered populace they are almost inherently tools to the government and religious establishment or the polar opposite, terrorists, criminal warlords and other such that operate outside of the laws reach. Displaying super abilities will most often result in imprisonment, deportation, or in the worst cases sentences of death. Sometimes even bringing mob mentality infused stonings from superstitious locals. Any Meta-human visiting Turkey is supposed to report to the JÖAK and receive a nanite infused injection, formulated to negate any abnormal power bases, essentially turning a Superperson into an ordinary citizen for their time in Turkey. Although many cases have been reported of deaths do to injection rejection, Due to this many Metas' tend to forgo the process and enter the country illegally.

The Jandarma Özel Asayiş Komutanlığı (JÖAK); Turkey's special police unit; have developed a specialized swat team to deal with any Meta-human activity deemed obscene. They are outfitted in some of the most advanced exoskeleton body armor available, complete with functioning jet packs. Their weapons are highly specialized for dealing with just those sorts of threats and their reputation is that of 'shoot first, question later'.

Other, less obvious dangers await Metahuman in this desert paradise as well. Due to the drastically fewer numbers that live or visit the United Arab Alliance countries, Superpeople are considered a hot item in the black market. Cases have been reported of kidnappings by the proprietors of Metahuman slave trade. They are more often than not sold to criminal warlords that seek to enhance their military might in the area, or dissected in order to find what ever genetic abnormality gives them their power. The most notorious of these groups is the Order of Enoch, a terrorist cell rumored to be located in the North East of Turkey.

The Centurion washed up on the desert beach of an abandon stretch of sand five days after setting off from the manufactured docks of the tournament he'd just fought and lost in. He was battered and broken by all accounts. With no healing factor to aid his rehabilitation he crawled upon the deserted bank with little more than sheer will power. He'd almost died several times during his treacherous swim; running in to an oil freighter shortly after leaving international waters and then a great white shark attack around the cape of Africa being the most notable. But despite the almost unsurmountable feat he'd persisted and made his way to the shores of the country that held the second of the displaced vestments that he sought.

He collapsed shortly after making landfall and laid, destitute, there until he could move again. There was a striking difference between those heroes whom healed extra quickly and himself. Although his wounds would not mend themselves at extraordinary speeds, once they did mend, at their own pace, he'd be experientially stronger and more hard to injure once they did (feel free to check approved character app if you doubt this fact). The truth was that the Centurion hadn't been born with his impenetrable form, he'd been injured several times through out his danger filled life and each of these experiences had made him into the Meta-Human tank that he was today. He owed a debt of gratitude to the man called; Slamfist for even being capable of doing damage to his ,now, nearly indestructible form. When he healed from this last beating he would be that much more indomitable.

The problem was, that it would be an extended period. He would have to stay hid away until properly mended. There was no way to attack his perceived enemy; the Order of Enoch, in the shape he was now. No, he would have to lay in wait; find a safe spot in this less than foreign land to lay low until he was back, better than ever.

The Centurion clawed his way up the beach and into a small sea side cave. He would make this place his temporary home, a sick bed to mend the massive wounds his formidable competitor had dealt him during his last battle. He would live as a hermit, a lonely fisherman, grow his hair and beard long until the proper time presented itself and when he was once again ready he would set out to reclaim the holy vestments that were taken from his birthright. None of this would have been a problem, if not for the dazing psychotic fog that was his professionally diagnosed , reoccurring mental illness; that was in full swing after being without his medication for such a prolonged time.

(Action Montage)

Over the next 6 month's Marcus grew better, his fight with Slamfist had brought him much damage to grow from. His physical form grew another half-foot as bones stretched and became even more dense. His steel like skin added another inch of impenetrable hide. His hair grew long and His thick black beard as well. He spent his time fishing on the ocean and living simply.

But it was a guise and nothing more, the truth was the ex-special forces soldier was learning the lay of the land; especially in the local lore of underground terrorist cells like the Order of Enoch. He watched, listened, and drank in all superstitions of the local's tales about the clandestine organization.

What he found out was that it is was a rather elitist group of former Nazis that operate in the area. They used mostly fear tactics and ignorant local culture to function in the black market aborted fetus soldier racket. The man-at-arms was a throwback to the old days and had his shield. He would reclaim it.

It was this fact that plagued him all day; his nights were filled with dreams of an enchanting young Muslim daughter of one of the fisherman. See was the embodiment of the Goddess of Love and he was smitten. Her innocence provoked him in ways that he could only describe as euphoric. A feeling he hadn't had since he'd stopped taking his medicine.

Months and months did Marcus toil in the desert nation. The simple fishing village had embraced him after he'd saved one of their small boats during a bad storm. as he drug the relatively large oared boat ashore out of the turbulent wind and surf, the villagers had watched on. What they saw was a man reaching nearly 7ft and bulging with muscle drag the craft out of the clutches of the merciless sea and back to the safety of shore. Thanks impart to Marcus's Italian heritage, he'd grown a fine think beard and shaggy hair; his tarnished pseudo-Roman robes now appeared to be old testament garb to the Muslim inhabitants, who now saw Ruuhul-'Amiin (Gabriel the Archiangel. ). His specialized training and years of covert tactical operations, over in this part of the world had given him the edge he'd needed to blend right in, in both regional diction and acceptable social customs. As long as he kept his power in check and told the locals that he wished his presence to remain secret, he would attract the attention of the bias United Muslim Republic.

This was harder said than done. After healing from the injuries he'd sustained during his last battle with Slamfist, his frame had added inches, and no longer was he just a very big man, he was nearly a giant, especially compared to the squat middle eastern peoples. His skin and bones had gained leaps in invulnerable density density. With no healing factor it had taken time, but due to his godly blessing each time he was injured he healed stronger in the damaged area. A true God of War, he fit the bill to the "T"; you may best him in battle once, but the second time you've no chance, he's evolved, become immune to your previous attacks. You could change your tactics and try to attack other spots of perceived weakness but all you are doing;in the long run; is making him more unstoppable the next time you face him. the idealism of "War".

Unfortunately the prolonged lack of medication had slipped poor Marcus Rome into a horrible tail spin of psychosis and he was none the wiser. He had to constantly remind himself that he was indeed, Mars the Roman God of War, and not some Muslim angel sent to purify the world of infidels. One day he made the mistake of answering the local virgin-prize daughter's calls of lust. When the villagers found out they anointed her through a viscous stoning and hung her martyred body up as a religious icon. If Marcus had moved to stop it he'd revealed himself as a Meta-human and been hunted down by the special police. He let the smite go, as he'd done many times working here as a covert operative.

His real objective, now that he was healed was to start following the bloody trail of the Order of Enoch. Start small, find a human trafficker and work his way up, without unneeded attention. When he got high enough onto the food chain to take a shot at the prime targets, he'd do it and do it big. Securing his Vestment in the process. In the City he could find the filth he was after, he posed as a tourist and stalked the streets looking for the right dark alley during the nights, and help the local fisherman during the day. He worked tiressly but with his prize so close he could not give leave.

It was just another shitty lead he'd gotten about a cafe in town that had sent his mission into a tail spin. Dr. Anastasia Siren walked back into his life. He was siting sipping at a glass of tea when she strut in an stood in front of him.

"I''ve got something I want to say to you mister........." she screamed in an out-of-nature shrill.

Hearing emotion out of her, instead of her usual analytical/ emotionless tone was a nice surprise.

The Centurion's eyes were large and surprised at his ex-girlfriend's arrival. She'd betrayed him twice now and still she persisted but looked great doing so. She was dressed in a cute desert style with khaki carpi pants, a cargo shirt and Boony hat, her silky hourglass frame silhouette perfectly in the sunset. She was yelling and pointing at the biggest man in the room and the other men laughed at how their wives were such bitches.

The Centurion bowed his head and tried to control his temper, " Ana.....You have betrayed me twice now, and yet you follow me to Turkey, for god's sake.....are you a Stalker?" He boomed and slammed his fist down on the table. It was the least strength he could muster, and still it split the large stone table. The men lined along it grabbed there drinks as it gave way.

"WHAT?.....I am not a ....'Stalker'! A$$hole...............I am a person that cares about you.....I want you to be better..." She started in on her pathetic speal. Marcus had heard it before, and certainly wasn't about to have an intervention here in the middle of his black ops operation. He held up his hand defiantly, stopping her in her melodramatic prose.

"ANA........this is not the time.....I understand your concern, but I have greater concerns of my own on my mind right now....If you'd like to discuss them further......I am not apposed to having dinner with you...later this week....BUT NOT NOW!" He was direct and assertive in his tone, and the thought of it made Dr. Siren whimper subconsciously. No matter how much she as a Psychiatric Doctor knew that he was a complete maniac; She also loved him and was deeply attractive to his dominant nature. She turned her eyes away, not able to look him in his intense eyes and answered: "Okay...There is a Cafe up the street....Tuesday afternoon, promise...or I'll track you down again....promise".

"promise....but listen...I am only going to say this once....Don't not involve authorities....do you understand? " He said with the angriest of tones. The last time things had ended badly for them. Marcus didn't want a repeat of that.

(post under construction, battle to come...any joiners welcome)

Clayton hadn’t been in Istanbul long, it had only been a couple of hours since he arrived from Bulgaria. He had been in Bulgaria for a job, he was hired to steal a priceless artifact from a museum, and it was a job he had nearly botched. His employer sent an agent out to meet him to retrieve the artifact and escort him to Istanbul, where he was to lie low for a couple of weeks before his employer would send a private jet to bring him back to the states.

After checking in at a run down rat’s nest of a hotel, the best he could afford until the money for the Bulgarian job would be wired to him, he decided to check out the area. The streets were crowded and it was a bit hot, but overall it was nicer than he imagined though he still wasn’t thrilled to be there. He wanted a cheese burger, he wanted to watch TV in English… he wanted to go home. Clayton wandered the streets for roughly 45 minutes before hunger set in, he searched around for a place to eat, but unfortunately for him all the signs were in Turkish. He continued on down the street when he caught a glimpse of himself in a window, his normally short brown hair had gotten a bit longer and he was starting to grow a bit of facial hair, he’d have to take care of that later. In the window’s reflection he noticed the sign across the street there was a word he recognized, “café”. He decided to go in and grab a bite to eat.

Upon entering the café he couldn’t help but stare at the unusually large, bearded man sitting at a table sipping a beverage of some sort. The man’s gargantuan stature made the table seem small and the drink in his hand seem almost like a Dixie cup. After ordering coffee and what he assumed was French toast with surprisingly little difficulty he took a seat at the only open table, the one behind the large man. He sat with his back to the giant, pushed up the sleeves of his suit and sipped his coffee when he heard a woman's voice yell, “I’ve got something I want to say to you mister.........” and then the man said something, he sounded angry. There was an unexpected crash that made Clayton jump and he nearly spilt his coffee before turning around to get a look at whatever it was that the noise came from. It was hard to see past the big man and the people scrambling around him, but it was good to hear fluent English again, it had been days since he had an actual conversation.

Marcus looked around and scolded himself silently as the older gentlemen in the bar whispered suspiciously at his outburst. He noticed a man in a suit behind him, this was a tourist, no worry about him but the locals may be bold enough to report him to the JOAK.

"Benim özürlerim, Allha kesnlikle bu alçak gönüllü bol bol güçlü balıkçı olmuş." (My apologies, Allha has certainly bleshed this humble fisherman with bountiful strength.) Marcus said in passable Turkish. He picked the table up and rested the pieces on his knees, allowing the men to go back to their conversations. He needed to find someone with connections here in Turkey, underworld connections. Someone that could get him information on how to get a hold of a local terrorist cell. The Order of Enoch was secretive but they still had basic needs, food, transport, any one of these information avenues was enough to put Marcus on the right trail.

Now with the added complication of Dr. Siren showing up, things were only about to get more complicated, but the mission at hand took prevalence. He'd just have to deal with that bridge when he came to it, either way he certainly didn't need the added heat of a crazy white woman following him around.

After the woman left and excitement of the incident died down Clayton returned to his coffee and French toast. The beverage was bland at best and the food was worse but that didn’t stop him from wolfing it down. With a mouth full of food, and without turning around he said “Hell hath no fury, eh?” loud enough so the guy would know who he was talking to before he finished chewing and swallowed “You must have really done something to piss her off.” Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have said anything, he didn’t want to end up like the table after all, but he was about to leave anyway. He pulled a pair of shades from his inside coat pocket and began to wipe the lenses with a napkin from the table. He held them at just the right angle so that he could watch the man in the reflection, but it wouldn’t be obvious that he was doing so just in case his new friend felt like breaking him in half too.

" A spurned courtship, Her family wanted too many goats in exchange for her...." Marcus said with a smile. It was nice to hear English, and he turned around to regard the small man. "Would you care to join me.....Or perhaps I could take refuge at your table since mine has developed a slight warble...."

Marcus walked over and carefully leaned the two broken pieces of the table against the wall and then took up residence at the English-speakers table. "Greeting, benim adım Samson olan....Marcus Samson. Sen olur ve ne Türkiye'ye seni getirir?" He held out his giant hand to shake

"A spurned courtship, Her family wanted too many goats in exchange for her...."
Was… Was he serious? Clayton didn’t think people still did that, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the man was telling the truth despite how American the woman seemed. "Would you care to join me.....Or perhaps I could take refuge at your table since mine has developed a slight warble...." the man asked, and before he could reply the man was already at his table, speaking Turkish and holding out his hand. “Uh… Sorry, I don’t speak Turkish, but I’m guessing Marcus is your name...” he said as he shook the man’s hand “You can call me Clay.” Marcus had a quite a grip, but he didn’t seem threating. Clayton wondered if this simple man even knew his own strength. “That’s quite a grip you’ve got there.” He commented. It was at that second when a man burst from the back room behind the counter, he was a short, heavy set white man with thick, neatly combed blond hair. He was dressed much nicer than most of the people in this part of the city, and he looked furious. The room was deathly silent, “Which one of you filthy animals destroyed my table?” he shouted, in English, with a heavy German accent. The young man behind the counter's eyes were wide, they looked like they might pop out of he skull as he pointed a trembling finger at Marcus.

"şimdi'nin aşağısına, benim zararlar için ödiyeceğimi sapta! Senin kendi işinin veya benim seni bir dinleme aygıtı gibi ezeceğime dikkat et." Marcus said in a low growling voice. He stood slowly and let his size draw a shadow over the angry barkeep. The short fat man nodded his square fat head and went back into the kitchen without further protest. "Bize likör getir veya çay iyi...Beni iki kez iste yapma." Marcus finished. He knew Islamic states were dry but also knew that this was a black market cafe, and unless the man wanted troubled, their next kettle of tea would have the spice of good rum in it.

Marcus sat back down at the table and smiled his dog snarl smile at his new acquittance. "I am not a foolish man, and you are not from around here." He said in a low stern tone to Clay. "There are two types of people that hang out in Cafes like this; Tourist that are lost and have very short life spans, or gentleman wold travelers of ill repute that want to keep a low profile for one reason or another. I can assure you I make no assumptions on your behalf, But I have need of some information.....That is, would you happen to know or know a person who would know.....about the general location that most of the prostitutes on this side of the city come from? All I wish to know is a general area that the hail from. I have money and are willing to pay for it" The Centurion concluded in a very business like nature.

Just then the Cafe owner returned and had a hot-tottie of tea for the two men. He set it on the table with even looking the giant in the eyes.

Marcus’s question had certainly caught Clayton off guard. This guy just kept getting stranger; he came to Clayton looking for hookers? He had to be joking, right? He tried not be intimidated by Marcus but he couldn’t help it, this guy was huge. Despite the intimidation a chuckle still escaped his lips, “You’re serious. You want girls?” he said as laughed a bit more at the odd situation and leaned back in his chair, “Buddy. I’ve barely been in this country a few hours and you think I know where to get…” WAIT!
It was at that moment when Clayton remembered something the desk clerk had mentioned to him upon checking in “Hey Buddy, if you need anything, you let Ferhan know. We have many nice girls working here.” The man, Ferhan told him with a knowing look. He hadn’t thought anything of it, if the man was talking about prostitutes Clayton certainly wasn’t interested at the time. Marcus looked like he could probably break him, so Clay decided to give him what he wanted. He leaned in towards Marcus, “Yeah. I think I know somebody. Come on, I’ll take you to meet him.” He stood up; ignoring the tea the terrified man had placed in front of them. He put his raybans on as he turned towards the door.

Marcus stood and smiled, placing money on the table, hard earned currency from working the seas. It was enough to buy a table and new chairs to boot. He walked out and followed Clay's lead.

They walked together down the busy merchant filled streets as vendors barked out orders. Marcus hunched as much as possible but his size was not an easy form to hide.

Even though the sun was beginning to set as they walked to the hotel it was still miserably hot out. Clay was thankful it was setting behind them which allowed him to walk in the big man’s shade. Marcus’s size pulled the attention of many in the crowded streets, to them he was truly something to behold.

“You’re not from around here either, are you?” He asked as they walked, “Your English is too good for you to be the Turkish peasant you pretend to be. Besides,” he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches out of his pocket and placed one in his mouth before offering another to Marcus “if you were, you wouldn’t be asking me for directions to the nearest whore house.”

Clayton struck a match and lit his cigarette and continued talking, he had a bad habit of asking 50 questions before a person could answer one, “ I caught a look at that girl in the café, what do you want a hooker for when you’ve got that anyway?” He exhaled gray smoke “What? Does she just not put out enough?” they turned a corner, nearly there, you could see the hotel down the street.

When they made it in Clayton would point the man out to Marcus.
Ferhan would be the sickly thin looking man with dark circles under his eyes, a patchy beard and a wide, forced, shit eating grin sitting behind desk.

Marcus strode forth, pushing through the dense street crowd, he saw this, Ferhan, as the forigner as said. The voice in the back of Marcus's head was a constant scream now, he'd never been this long without medication. 'kill him, skin him, turn him inside out...level this city block while your at it!' It begged him for stimulus. It had been month since he'd seen any action and the God of War inside of him was begging to be let out. It was taking nearly all his strength to keep his composure, if he didn't get some release soon he was going to explode.

Marcus made a B-line for the tiny dark eyed man. He walked up to the desk and placed both his fists down onto the desk making it creak under the pressure. "Senin arkadaşın burada senin yerel pimp olduğunu söyler. şimdi beni anlat kızın birçoğu o dolu senin için çalıştırır. Bana...Onlar locals değil onlar gelir?" Marcus said and stared hard into the small man's eyes. "In case you are immune to knowing the language of the land you are in.....I want to know where the Order of Enoch is, You may not know where their headquarters are, but you know at least where one of their Cells can be located. They sell girls, they buy unwanted child." Marcus restated in English, to emphasize his point.