Evening in The Capital (OPEN)

<...Jefferson Harker awakes in a seated position next to an old lady holding a bag of groceries in her lap, facing the back of the Blue Line Train, heading from Franconia/Springfield, Virginia. Toward Largo, Maryland...>

"Bleuuuw Line, Largo Town Center, thisiz The Benning Road Station... doors opening on the left side."

<...Jefferson just completed his daily nap on his long ride across Washington D.C. from Farragut North all the way to Capitol Heights. The recent news from the pa system indicates that he only has one stop to go before he is able to start his night job. He takes a quick moment to check his digital pocket-watch that he keeps in the chest pocket on his tough leather jacket. "10:30." It's a Friday night and with the amount of gang violence, drug use, and police corruption in the Southeast, D.C./Prince Georges County region, there was sure to be something happening. He had just enough time to meet up with a few of the usual reliable sources (or "snitches" as they're known) and maybe show up to a few of those happenings if need be. He was already wearing his leather body armor underneath his vintage "Funkadelic" t-shirt and faded black jeans. The heat of August combined with the body heat contained inside the train car made it almost unbearable to wear. He had changed just as he was leaving from his weekly visit to the laboratory downtown. It's usually an easy day for him. This week he was able to just drop piles of notes, schematics, and drawings he had jotted down over his 6-day weekend into the board of directors "IN" box and have the rest of the day to work on his own personal projects. Today, his mind has been bothered by the news report of a discovery of a body, with no face, washed up in a bank on the Anacostia River. The face wasn't separated from the body. It was just, for some reason or another, distorted so much that not a single feature could be pointed out. Nothing but a lumpy, discolored, ugly slab of flesh. With the little information he had, his research was futile, but even that can't stop the constant pouring out of questions from Jefferson's mind...>

DING DING

"Bleuuuw Line, Largo Town Center, thisiz The Capitol Heitsss Station... doors opening ontheleffside!"

<...Jefferson's train of thought is broken. He reaches underneath his seat and grabs his high-tech collapsible suitcase (which contains all of his super secret gear.) He is stuck, slowly and politely following the line of elderly that gathered before him as the doors opened. Once they reach the platform, however, he quickly finds an open space and weaves his way through the slow folks and cellphoneites. Eventually, he ducks into a crowd of people nearing the escalator to the upper level. Instead of going up, Harker walks around it. Behind the escalator is a discreet, unused maintenance closet, hidden near the end of the platform under the overhead exit platform. He uses his "fastpass" pay card to stick through the crease of the door and break the lock. Once he does this he enters the closet and quickly goes about business. He opens the latch of the collapsible case. In is cluttered with various weapons. He tucks away smoke bombs, throwing stars and darts, a collapsible fighting staff, and some small explosive charges into the pockets of his jacket. After he neatly winds up the long piece of rope attached, he clips his grappling hook to a loop on his belt. He then fastens his two gauntlets onto his arms and proceeds to load them with cartridges of ammunition. In the right hand gauntlet he loads rounds of tranquilizer darts, grenade charges, and flares. For the left hand gauntlet he screws and locks into place six sharp metal spikes around the knuckles. He then rolls over to the underside of the device where the electric taser darts are located. He loads in a fresh cartridge of darts and waits for the button to turn green signaling the electric charge is ready. After placing the remaining cartridges on his belt he collapses his box and tucks it underneath one of the empty shelves in the maintenance closet. He'll be back for it. He then escapes up a long ladder leading to a stairwell which leads out to the roof of the office building the Metro Station is located under. He sits, leaning up against the door to the stairwell. He presses a green button on his right hand gauntlet and holds the thumb up to his mouth like somebody pretending to use a microphone in the mirror...>

"Friday, August 9th. 11:02 pm. First patrol of the Capitol Heights/Seat Pleasant area. I intend to speak with Geoffrey at the Shell Station. He has intel about a shipment of heroin scheduled to arrive in southeast and a potentially legit crimescene photos of the Anacostia No-Face Body. This is extremely important because autopsies on the body have proved inconclusive as to what happened to the missing face. This will be a long journey so hopefully I don't run into any happenings before I reach my destination...Hmmm... as I sit on the roof of this building... I realize I'm on the literal border between D.C. and Maryland. That's very interesting. End transmission."

<...Jefferson emerges from his seated position and walks towards the edge of the building facing northeast. He scans the view and begins to plan his route. After a little bit of thought, he thinks it would be best to climb down the service ladder onto the roof of the neighboring restaurant, from there he can jump into the back alley where they store all the garbage and throw their cigarette butts. Just across the beltway overpass is sewer maintenance entrance he can exploit to avoid the heightened police presence in the business section. Well then, it's decided. He retrieves his grappling hook from his belt and fastens it onto the edge of the building. He then begins his descent, slowly and carefully, but as if it was clockwork. He does encounter an unexpected problem though as he reaches the end of the rope. He looks down and sees a dumpster lid that will either collapse under his weight or break his fall. He decides to gamble lets go of the rope. He feels the adrenaline rush of falling, but soon his instict kicks in and he tumbles onto the dumpster lid, rolling safely off onto the concrete floor. He gets to his feet and bushes himself off. Realizing, he was probably heard during his fall he ducks behind the dumpster and waits to hear if the coast is clear...>

In retrospect, trying to cheat the mob at cards was a terrible idea.


It turned out this small, family restaurant was, infact a “family” restaurant. It belonged to the Capocelli family, who were by all means small time; compared to some of the larger families out there, they were practically a street gang. They had contacted Clayton for a simple task: a large amount of heroin belonging to them had been confiscated by the police during a raid, and being as small as they were, they simply couldn’t afford to lose it all even if it meant paying Clayton fifty percent of the street value. It was a task that he was successful in and one that was sure to cause quite the nightmare of a media frenzy. It’s not every day that pounds of narcotics go missing in broad daylight.

Upon his success, Clayton returned to the restaurant and was greeted with something of a hero’s welcome. Clayton did not really like the idea of paling around with the mafia, but not sticking around for something of a party in his honor was likely to offend them, and offending this type of person was never a good idea as he would soon find out anyway.

Apparently, those involved with organized crime were not exactly night-owls. By 11:00 most of the men were gone and it was just Clayton (who was still dressed in police uniform) and the four men that contacted him left playing poker in the back. That was when he slipped up.

Clayton set his hand down on the table “That’s another Royal Flush, gentlemen. Diamonds this time.”

He reached across the table and raked in his underhanded winnings before the older man in the track suit across the table spoke “That’s funny, because I’ve got a jack of diamonds too.” The man turned the card around to show him.

Clayton swallowed hard and began to an attempt to explain himself , “Look, it’s uh… it’s…” Clayton’s attention to detail when it came to his disguises meant that the gun at his hip was both real, and loaded. He made sure to unbutton the holster as stealthily as possible before he raised his hands above the table. He looked around the table at the men; none looked amused.

“…not what it looks like?” the grey pompadoured, walking stereotype across the table from him finished his sentence for him and reached into his track jacket for his pistol.

Clayton knew that if he wanted to live long enough to have any more terrible ideas, he would have to get out of there as fast as possible. Moving quickly, he flipped the table over at the man which sent money and cards flying everywhere and quickly drew his own weapon. The shock of the situation was enough for Clayton to get the jump on the men before the rest could pull their guns. He shot two of them in the shoulder in rapid succession. The shots were not likely to be fatal, but they would be enough to keep them from trying anything. He threw all of his weight at the shabby door to the alley, which caused it to fall right off the hinges while his momentum pulled him into the humid alley way with the two un-harmed men likely right behind him.

<...As he was squeezed in between the dumpster and the decaying concrete wall, Jefferson realized that he had forgotten perhaps the most important thing. Concealing his identity. He slaps his palm to his forehead, grunting, before reaching into his pocket for his goggles and his bandana. He lowers the purple tinted goggles over his eyes. He has to wipe the lenses off with the bandana, the steam from the humid alley has made it hard to see. Once he finishes the minor task he ties the bandana over his face. His identity now concealed. Believing the area to be secure he pokes his head over the top of the dumpster. After a moment of relative silence, there is a loud crash as a man busts through the service door to the restaurant. Jefferson retreats behind the dumpster again, peering around the corner this time to keep an eye on things... "What is he running from? ...he thinks to himself. Soon enough his question is answered, as two big thugs come through the now wide open doorway in pursuit of the man. One of the thugs is equipped with a Louisville Slugger. Not wishing to see anybody's insides spilled across the alley, Arsenal decides it's about time to intervene. He targets the nearest goon and launches the taser darts at him from his left gauntlet. The darts pierce into the back of his fat neck and he immediately seizes up and falls to the floor with a loud thud that echoes through the alley and causes the dumpster lid to rumble. Not realizing his partner had been incapacitated, the second thug lifts the baseball bat above his head to strike the man they were in pursuit of. Before he can drive the bat down at his foe, he is met with the shock of an explosive charge launched at his hand from Arsenal's right hand gauntlet. His arms are covered in burns and he falls to the floor squealing in pain. Arsenal steps out from behind the dumpster and launches another set of taser darts at the whining thug, leaving him temporarily paralyzed...>

"Shut up!"

<...Arsenal approaches their potential victim with caution. He aims his righthand gauntlet at the man and places his laserlight target in between his eyes...>

"Tell me something... Who are you? What are you doing at this restaurant after hours? Who are these two goons? And why should I have saved you from them? You've got 30 seconds."

Clayton rolled over to face his attackers and raised his pistol, intent on stopping them. Luckily, he did not have to pull the trigger. The second thug, Nico Capocelli, was the first to fall as if he was having some sort of seizure. The odd occurrence was enough to distract Clayton long enough for the other thug, Bruno Capocelli, to raise his bat high above his head, but before he could smash Clayton’s skull, a small explosion seemed to come from Bruno’s arms and he was left on the floor writhing in pain. Clayton looked to his right to get a look at his savior; It was apparently some sort of street vigilante, complete with makeshift costume, and he was aiming some sort of gauntlet at Clayton’s face.

It seemed he did not trust Clayton any more than the mafia men he had just disposed of. His disguise seemed to be enough to convince the police officers that wore the uniform every day, so he hoped it would be enough for this guy. “Thanks for the hand there, but, uh… Shouldn’t I be asking you the questions here? I mean, I don’t just wear this uniform for fun, you know.” He pointed to the badge on his chest with his free hand. For all Clayton knew the man could have been there to take him in, so he decided to find out, “Just what were you doing out here? Not that I mind, but still, you know the city’s stance on you costume types.” Clayton did not actually know the stance himself but decided it was worth a shot. If allowed to stand while Arsenal was answering his question, he would, otherwise he would remain on the ground if that did not seem like it was going to happen.

<... Jefferson pauses before answering the apparent policeman's questions. He notices the man's passive physicality and deducts that he is not an immediate threat. He shuts off the laser target and lowers his gauntlet. Not for one second does he trust him. The Police getup was suspect as well, so he keeps at the ready. He takes a quick look at the two thugs on the floor. He notices their presentation. White undershirts, jewelery, greasy hair, and striped suit pants. Most likely affiliated with one of the mob families quietly sitting back and letting the street gangs take all the heat. He focuses his attention back to the officer...>

"...stand up and brush yourself off if you want... I'm called Arsenal. And I think we need to straighten some things up... and fast, these goons will be coming down from their trip in about 10 minutes. First of all, whether or not you're a cop doesn't effect my trust. I'd assume by their overall presentation, and choice of weaponry, these two are involved with the mob. If this was a big time bust I'd imagine you'd have backup covering your ass so you don't end up falling on your face in the back alley or even worse, having your face spread across the concrete. So... answer me this officer... are you running a crooked operation here or are you not telling me the whole truth?"

<...as much as the situation intrigued him, this was not what Jefferson had planned for this evening. He was beginning to think he should have just launched a cartridge of the sleep gas instead and let all three of them pass out. He figured he could trust this new guy about as much as the mobsters sprawled on the floor or the uniform bootlegger he got that foil-plated badge from...>

Clayton felt relief when the stranger lowered his weapon and asked him to stand up. He holstered the gun again before pushing himself to his feet. “ Well, Arsenal, I’m Officer Macklin, and I’m a ‘what you see is what you get’ kinda guy. No secrets or crooked operations here. Just a routine burglary call gone wrong, that’s all. ” Clayton lied as well as he could to the man, “These two are definitely mobsters. Capocelli family. Small time. You know, you really saved my ass here, mister. Some of the other officers might not take so kindly to you showing up here, though. I’ll cover for ya, but you better get out of here before my back up shows up.” Clayton talked as he walked towards the unconscious thugs and took the pair of handcuffs off his belt. Facing Arsenal, he bent down on one knee to handcuff the two men together. After cuffing the men together Clayton shifted his weight just a little too far forward, and gravity pulled a large wad of bills from his shirt pocket to the alley. Clayton glimpsed down at the money and swallowed hard before looking back up to Arsenal. He reached a hand into his pants pocket and gripped a marble sized smoke bomb in case he was forced to flee.

<...This is beginning to get interesting. Arsenal noticed "Macklin" getting defensive, and instead of showing aggression by aiming for him he slowly raises his hands parallel to the chest as a passive signal...>

"Relax Officer Macklin... if that's even your real name. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to ask you a few more questions, nothing too serious that you shouldn't be able to handle, and we can both be on our way. Sound good?"

<...By this point he was convinced that this man was not truly an officer. He had been taking moments to observe the scene and found evidence to convince him of it. Mostly the playing card covered in beer that got stuck underneath one of the Capocelli's nicely polished shoes. He also considered the fact that the backup hadn't yet arrived and not once did he hear Macklin call for any. The size of the money roll was impressive, but he's seen crooked officers get paid by the briefcase during his histoy in Los Angeles...>

"Are you DC Police, MD State, or PG County? What do you know about the no-face body found on the shore of the Anacostia River? It's of particular interest to my work. Actually, it's my focus for this evening. I have a meeting at the Seat Pleasant Shell for some more info from a reliable source... and lastly... I hope you didn't pay too much money for that fake badge you're wearing... It's good enough to fool the cops in a crowd, but it's really poorly done."

<...He noticed the badge earlier. It had gotten dealt some damage during the scuffle and some of the foil plating had gotten scratched off, revealing the black plastic base mold. This is the type of workmanship that gets you a "junior officer" badge when you're in elementary school...>

As Clayton reached down to pick up his money, Arsenal came at him with a barrage of questions about some faceless body Clayton knew absolutely nothing about. Unfortunately for him, he would soon learn about faceless corpses first hand. ”What are—“ Clayton was interrupted before he could speak. Arsenal called him out on his disguise. Was his badge really that cheap looking? He figured it served him right for trying to be cheap. “Yeah, well, look here, Pal…” Clayton rose to his feet and stopped his own speech this time as the sirens of actual police could be heard. They were close; too close for Clayton’s comfort, and they sounded like they were getting closer. “Sorry. That sound means we’re out of time.” It may have been foolish, but he turned his back to Arsenal. As long as Arsenal did not stop him, he was home free.

***

He exited the alley at a calm, but hurried pace. If the police passed him and somehow did not notice his outfit, running would only attract their attention. The short walk to his rented car was intense. Clayton sighed in relief as the restaurant grew smaller in his rearview mirror. As long as the Capocellis kept their mouths shut, the vigilante would probably get all the credit for helping the police find their stolen narcotics. Clayton left money in the restaurant; it was nothing to cry about compared to what he had in the duffle bag in the trunk though. All he had left to do was pay Patches his cut and he could return to LA.

Patrick “Patches” Calabrese was a well-known name in the criminal underworld. If someone needed something done but did not want to get their own hands dirty, they came to Patches because he always had the man for the job. When Clayton first split from his father, work from Patches was his only source of income, so Clayton felt he almost owed the short man with the “patchwork face” his life.

Clayton pulled up to his apartment and changed clothes in his car. He changed into one of his typical grey suits; the last thing he needed to do was walk into this apartment building dressed as a cop and attract unwanted attention. He made his way into the building with bag in hand. The building was extravagantly large; Clayton would even call it obnoxiously so. It looked more like luxury hotel than an apartment building from the outside. The elevator was down for maintenance so Clayton was forced to take the stairs, and Patches lived in a penthouse at the top floor.

After the climb up countless flights of stairs, he was finally there. Oddly enough, the door was left wide open. Clayton knew Patches well enough to know he was nothing if not security conscious; his old house in New York was practically a fortress. Clayton did not even bother knocking. Something was wrong here; he knew it. He slipped on his black leather gloves, drew the gun he kept holstered on his shoulder under his coat and ventured into the blackness of the penthouse. It was abnormally silent in the darkened penthouse aside from an unusual scraping noise coming from another room. The lights from the city below provided slight illumination as Clayton treaded across the floor to the room the scraping was coming from. There was a familiar smell emanating from the room. It was the smell of death. Clayton decided against calling out Patches’ name on the chance that it would sign his own death warrant. If this was some strange misunderstanding, Clayton was sure his friend would understand. He took action immediately by kicking the door down and aiming his gun into the room.

In what was Calabrese’s bedroom, Clayton found a dark figure standing over standing over another that was lying on the floor. There was a moment of silence between the two that were still among the living as they both assessed their situations. Their minds seemed to be working at the same speed as they both commenced an assault on each other simultaneously. The muzzles flash of Clayton’s firearm lit the room like lightning. His ammunition was of his own design; created for maximum stopping power without being lethal. He fired off four shots at the darkened figure when he felt something sharp drive itself into his leg. Clayton was puzzled at both the pain in his leg and the fact that his bullets seemed to have no effect on the person across the room. They must have been wearing some kind of body armor. He should have been aiming for the head. Clayton would not get a chance to try for the head, though. In an instant the person launched them self out the window to their back. Clayton thought the figure was surely splattered across the sidewalk. He winced in pain as he pulled the object from his leg. It was some sort of steel surgical scalpel. What the hell? He carefully placed the scalpel on the dresser to his left and flicked on the light before kneeling down to examine the corpse.

The multiple hideous scars that the man was named for were gone from his face, as was literally everything else. It was less the face of a dead man staring at the ceiling and more that of a store front mannequin with a strange plasticity to it. Clayton had seen death in many forms before, but this was by far one of the most unusual corpses he’d ever seen. Clearly, this was what the vigilante in the alley way was talking about. “What did they do to you?”

Clayton went to check out the window to make sure the assailant was street pizza. To his surprise there was no splattered remains of a body in the alley below the window; instead there was a rappel line hanging from the window that he could not have noticed in the darkness before. “son of a bitch!” The killer was still out there.

It can be easy ignore death when it is not someone you know, but now it was staring Clayton in the face. He had to put a stop to this. He owed Patches that much.

***

Clayton pulled up to the Pleasant Shell gas station and hoped it was the right one as he stepped out of the car and into the store. At that point, Arsenal was the only chance he had at finding the killer.

<...After Arsenal unleashed his barrage of questions on the man, he got his answer in the form of Police sirens. As Officer Macklin turned his back to run away. Arsenal ran out down the oposite side of the alley. He wouldn't be able to get into the sewer maintainance entrance due to the police, so he had to form a new plan. When he reached the end of the alley, he crossed the street into another vacant alley. At the end of this alley was a 7 foot fence. On the other side of that fence was an exit ramp crossing onto the Beltway. Arsenal continued running toward the fence, he scaled the fence with ease and ended up landing underneath the exit ramp bridge. He observed this for a moment. If this was the bridge he thought it was it would be heading toward Addison Road, which connected with the Shell station. He walks up to the edge of the bridge and climbs onto the beam supports holding it up. He pauses for a moment and begins to record a memo...>

"Incident. Back alley of Gino's Pizza. Mafiosos chasing a mysterious man posing as a police officer. Gave me the name of Macklin. Lost him when the real coppers showed up. These items pending further investigation. End.

<...Arsenal begins to crawl across the support beams. Every once in a while a car passes below him. Above his head, the highway traffic causes the beams to shake. Arsenal carefully selects each beam as he crosses them. It is a tedious process but Arsenal manages to make his way across the bridge. He lowers himself onto the concrete underneath the bridge and catches his breath for a moment. He rises to his feet and begins walking across the raised concrete underneath the bridge. He reaches another fence and climbs overtop of it. This leads him into a neighboorhood. It is quiet. He makes his way through the backyard of a house and onto the street. The sides of this neighboorhood are separated by what looks like a creek. He goes down into the gap and discovers it isn't a creek at all but another drainage system. He begins to walk through the neighboorhood into the business district using this urban aqueduct. The water passing underneath his boots is never more than an inch high, save for underneath the bridges where it can get a little deeper. The ground underneath is slippery, probably covered in algae and sewage...

...After about 10 minutes of walking through the system, he climbs up to the surface nearby an elementary school. Next to that elementary school is a business section containing an open all-night corner store, a pawn shop, a gun store, and an unoccupied building with a now leasing sign. Arsenal crosses through this mini mall and goes into another alleyway. He comes to the edge of his alley and peeks overtop the fence. On the other side is a shell gasoline station. Arsenal climbs over the fence and removes his guantlets, bandana and goggles. He stores them all neatly in a cardboard box behind the dumpster. He approches the shell station and walks through the doors...>

DING!

"Hey. Geoffrey. What do you have for me?"

<...The man working behind the counter is Geoffrey Butler, an old friend of Arsenal's who has recently begun helping him live his vigilante life. Geoffrey places his hands on a button which allows Arsenal to enter the area behind the counter, bordered by a wall of bulletproof glass. Geoffrey and Arsenal greet eachother with a handshake before getting down to business...>

"Good to see you aswell Jefferson... so I figured you'd be interested in the no-face case. I did some snooping online and found out the police picture was leaked. The link was taken down by the noon hour but I managed to get the picture saved... see."

<...Geoffrey opens up a file folder on his laptop called "Stuff for Harker" he clicks on "noface.jpg" and it brings up the police photo. The body is male. He looks about six feet tall. And he is big. The face is blank and smudged with bruising...>

"This is good work, G."
"If you look down here... around the shoes, you'll notice that he's wearing a bandana underneath his left sock. A whole lot of cats who run with the Tennant Street Ballers wear this... So this may have been a gang orchestrated hit."
"That's good too. But something tells me theres more to this. No street gang types I know of are capable of doing that to a human face."
"Hey man. The game runs through everything. I heard they found another one. Husband comes home to find his wife with no face. Her name was Maryse. Used to come in the store. I'm pretty sure she was one of Big Domino's shorties, at least for a while."
"Does Big Domino or his shorty have any connections with Tennant Street?"
"About five months back there was a big stink about somebody from Tennant Street snitching on one of Big Domino's guys but I'm pretty sure that's been squashed. And now that Domino is behind bars, I don't think he's got potential as a suspect. He may be in the mix somewhere though, he likes to be... ohh... hold on I think I got a customer."

<...Jefferson and Geoffrey watch as a car pulls into the parking lot of the station. Out of that car steps a man Jefferson recognizes as Officer Macklin, without a uniform. Arsenal is caught of guard, unsure what to do, he would be recognised too as he is still wearing his combat outfit, minus the weapons and the facewear. He decides to greet the man as he walks into the store...>

"Good evening sir, how may I help you?"
"Officer Macklin!"

Clayton nearly turned around to look for a police officer. Officer Macklin? Was that the name he gave? After all the night’s events he nearly forgot about that part. “Funny.” Clayton was not in the mood for jokes. “In the alley back there, you asked about faceless corpses. What do you know about them?” He continued from the doorway of the store to the bulletproof counter, and withdrew a ziplock bag from his jacket pocket. It was the scalpel he pulled from his leg; the now bandaged wound from it was still apparent on the leg of his pants, and caused him to walk with a very slight limp. He placed the bag onto the metal tray used for transactions behind the glass. “The blood is mine, but that thing came from our killer. I’m sure of it.”

Clayton was not sure that coming to this vigilante was the best idea, but at that point it was his only lead. He also was not sure that the old man behind the counter was Arsenal’s contact. He could be ruining the man’s secret identity for all he knew. If that was the case, it was simply too bad for Arsenal. Clayton was not looking to make friends; he was only looking for whatever information he could get.

"It's cool Geoffrey."

<...Jefferson gives Geoffrey a nod of approval and he pulls the lever to bring the contents of the metal box back behind the counter. He retrieves the plastic bag and observes it's contents. The scalpel was covered in dried up blood. He was a bit worried for "Macklin's" well being, it appeared the blade went pretty deep and may have cut something important. But the man seemed fine. He places the plastic bag inside his jacket pocket to take a look at later. Geoffrey eyes the man suspiciously, partially because Jefferson called him "Officer" but for the most part he was startled at this sudden development. Jefferson is still not entirely sure he can trust this fellow, but he is curious about the new information this might present...>

"Well, what we have so far is two victims. One discovered this morning. The news of the other body hasn't hit the presses yet. Through examining the photographs of the first body we've determined affiliation with the Tennant Street Ballers, a gang that operates mostly in Southeast DC, but has satellites spread through DC and Maryland. The second body may have some gang affiliation as well. The presumed suspect is currently behind bars so we have no leads. As far as the no-face thing. I'm afraid I haven't seen anything quite like this before. All I've been able to come up with are loose theories. It is however, most likely gang involved and operating from the district... But I'm pretty sure you might have some new information to give us, considering the scalpel..."

<...Arsenal peeks over the counter a bit to try and get a look at "Macklin's" leg. There was no visible blood so he assessed that the wound had been dealt with. Geoffrey, during Jefferson's rundown of the info, unwrapped a wood tip wine flavored black and mild and began smoking it, still keeping his eyes locked on the newcomer. He trusted Jefferson but he want's to know more about this new man before he is prepared to assist him in any way...>

“Make that three. Three victims.” Clayton kept his eyes to the ground as he spoke. It was strange to refer this friend as a victim. “The third is Patches Calabrese. You’ve probably heard of him. Old guy. Last surviving member of the Calabrese family from New York. Essentially ran a day labor center for the criminal underworld. Fucked up face… well, he used to have one anyway. I had to see him about some things and I’m still not entirely sure what I walked in on, but he’s dead now. So yeah, this is most likely gang related. But how?”

He noticed the station employee staring at him, so he glanced back briefly. Clayton could practically feel skepticism radiating off the man. It was clear he wasn’t trusted, but Clayton could not say he would trust them were the situation reversed. He looked to Arsenal and continued, “Anyway, the killer is pretty tall; taller than me, anyway. It was really too dark to make anything out other than that. He’s certainly no amateur, either. He had a rappel line set up for a quick get away, and he got me pretty good with that scalpel he threw there; not everyone can just do that.”

<...Arsenal ponders for a moment. The man's current mental state and nervous physicality told Arsenal that he was speaking the truth. He could also sense a deal of distrust coming from him. And there was an obvious tension with Geoffrey considering he only smokes when he's stressing. The new information was welcomed, but it threw out all of his old theories...>

"Mafia family huh? Well, that sorta throws out all the gang stuff doesn't it?"
"True. The killer doesn't seem to operate like anybody who works directly for a gang or with the mob. Much more tactical. You ever hear of a 'Patches' G?"
"Come to think of it, I heard his name every once in a while when the hoods come in to get their cigarillos and 40's and whatnot. Guys talking about 'You going to see Patches today?' or 'Hey brother, Patches was looking for you.' Never thought much of it though. But... matter fact... there's a lightskinded guy who's usually around when they're talking about him. He's always wearing sunglasses, has a fade... I dunno anything else about the guy though... I'll ask around."

<...Arsenal ponders more. He stares at a spinning rack filled with calling cards to foreign countries. Seemingly oblivious to everyone else in the room. He now has more information to consider. The scalpel is useful aswell. Fingerprints won't do much good, unless he can hack into the police database, but there may be more to learn from the evidence. One thing was important though, and that was to ensure the cooperation of Officer Macklin or whatever his real name was. Jefferson breaks from his thought and looks to the gentleman...>

"Thanks for coming here. I think we should work together on this, I'll study some more at my lab, but before we press on I think we need to diffuse this unnecessary tension. You know who I am, but if I intend on letting you into my laboratory I will need to know a little bit more about you..."

<...Arsenal looks to Geoffrey and nods. Geoffrey triggers the doors to the store to lock and the "see attendant at window" sign to light up. This is to ensure that any compromising information doesn't reach the wrong ears...

From what Geoffrey described, it sounded like they were talking about the same Patches. Unlike the majority of the other men from his background, he didn’t discriminate. Families and street gangs meant the same thing to him: money. He was an equal opportunity employer. “Yeah, they probably meant him. Don’t know anything about anyone with shades though.”

Arsenal wanted to know more about him. Clayton did not like letting anyone know much of anything about him. If he wanted to stop this murderer he would have to at least give up a little information, because working with Arsenal would be much easier than working on his own. Wouldn’t it? He did not normally like working with others and came into the gas station hoping for enough information to take the situation into his own hands. It turned out the heroes did not know much more than he did. He took a moment to consider all the information swirling in his head. Arsenal’s lab and apparent smarts would likely be useful to him in the long run. He wondered if all vigilantes had labs. “You have a lab? Do all you caped crusaders have labs?” They probably did. If he was in the habit of super heroics, he would want a lab.

“I don’t actually know who you are, but I suppose if you want to work together, there’s no harm in telling you who I am. Most people just call me Clayton. I’m a decent thief. You might have heard of me... or atleast this.” With a flick of his wrist he was holding the jack of diamonds. It was his calling card; a testament to his own arrogance and a jab at his father’s. He held the card up to the glass before speaking again. “Don’t let that bug you, though. I’m here to help. If you wanna try to take me in, you’ll get your shot once we’re done with this.” It was entirely possible that they hadn't heard of him, if that was the case, Clayton would probably be embarrassed a bit even though it would not make any of what he said untrue. It was more likely that they had though, given their extracurricular activities.

<...Arsenal chuckled when Clayton, as he was now known, made the crack about the labs. He vaguely remembered a story about some sort of heist where a Jack of Diamonds was found at the scene, but his status as a thief would have to be ignored. Going up against whoever this was was going to require some help, and this Clayton guy seemed to be able to hold his own. He just needed to calm his nerves a bit and he would be a useful ally. Geoffrey was unsettled at the news that this guy was a thief. He keeps quiet about it though, because Jefferson seems to know what he's doing, and Clayton probably wasn't interested in lifting any candy-bars or soft drinks. Arsenal writes on a blank receipt slip as he speaks...>

"I guess the lab is a bit cliche but it proves useful time and time again. If you want Cliche, this guy is sortof my butler."
"That's only cause your whole shit would fall to pieces if you didn't have a levelheaded individual like myself looking after you."
"This is true. Well, Clayton, can't say I really know much about a 'Jack of Diamonds' but I'd imagine you're good at what you do if you don't make big news all the time. You don't have to disclose any of that to me of course, and I won't be asking you any more about it. For this... the less I know about your work, the better. Here, I wrote quick directions to my base of operations on this. It's deep in the woods so, I hope you've got a car."

<...Arsenal passes the blank receipt he wrote on through the glass via the metal box contraption...>

"I'll be there tomorrow. Meet me at eight thirty. I'm going to look at this scalpel and see what I can find out from it, I'll also see if I can track down any connections to this Patches guy... actually feel free, if you think you can, to find out some more info as to what his operations were in D.C. We need to find the pattern."

<...Jefferson enjoyed the idea of having a knowledgeable connection to the underworld in his corner, at least for now. It would make the detective work a little bit simpler. As long as they didn't get into each others way during their respective "streets business" this should work out without incident...>

"So you're in then?"