Red Skies RP (IC)

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It was raining. Well, not really raining - more like a drizzle, really, one of those which you could avoid without getting wet if you run really, really fast. That didn't really matter to Dr. Michael Sands, phD in all kinds of drugs and currently owning a store called "Sand's Clocks And Works", mainly because labels are expensive and because plastering "Willy Lee's Alternative Medicine Repository" would get him shot by 6 different people for 12 different reasons.

What however did indeed matter was clients. Fortunately, Red Skies was without it's drug addicts seeking a quick fix, or simply people who decided that in this dog-eat-dog, a bit of advantage might not be a bad thing. And indeed, for the most part, his works did provide it. That, or it eliminated it's client, thus eliminating the need for an advantage, but also another potential drug addict. Which didn't matter for the good doctor, as he only wrote something in the line of "T3-49: POISONOUS! Contact Lionel.".

"Slow day, Mr...Sands? Which of the fake names do you wanna use?" Miranda said
"Just use my alias. The..(he sighed heavily)..Enzyme. Otherwise, someone might hear it, and then the devil's to pay. And he accepts payments only in life or ironical bets. And it's Dr. Sands, and I'll return you to that guy in Los Angeles if you ever call me "Doc"." replied The Enzyme
"Well, in that case, Enzyme. It seems that it'll be a quiet and slow day. Without people waving unwieldy weapons in order to kill us"
"Miranda, you sure haven't been to this town. When there's a quiet and slow day, it means that something is very very very bad."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes."
"It seems that it abides by the ancient prov-"
"Don't say it."
"What?"
"You were going to say it."
"The ancient Chine-"
"Goddamnit, I said don't say it! Every time someone says it, something terrible happens in nearby vicinity of me. Last time someone said it, his head exploded like a bloody tomato!"

Unfortunately, in spite the fact the saying wasn't uttered, interesting times did indeed happen. A few.. well-armed to say the least, gentlemen went in.

"Might I interest you into some of our fine articles? It seems you might need a bit of T-23, or some F-21?"
"Unless you have cyanide, no."
"Oh, we have poisons, as well!"
"For personal use..Dr. Willy Lee."
"Oh, no. Not again."
"Threat level: 110%!"
"Don't be stupid, you can't go over 100%."
"Of course. That was actually my sarcasm module."
"Which doesn't matter! You're all going to die!"
"You have no idea how many people tell me that. Miranda, duck!"

Miranda obeyed, and he ducked below the stone reception, which probably had a few bullet holes by now. But what can man do?

"Come on, by now Zhao-Chao or whatever his name probably bought half of North Hollywood!"
"No, he went into heavy depression! His son took over business after he jumped off a bridge!" one of the goons exclaimed
"Uhh, boss, didn't we sh-"
"I said he fell off a bridge! This asshat dies now!"
"Enzyme, what did you do to anger a bunch of angry Chinese types?" Miranda asked
"Oh, well, I'll have to give you the annotated versi-"
"This bastard lost at the casino, then he robbed it, and he used the Boss's daughter!"
"And then he dumped her!"
"Yes, yes, let's not put salt in the wound..Instead, how about bullets!"

He went over the stone bureau and attempted to shoot one of the bastards. While the shot wasn't fatal, one of 'em will have trouble trashing stores.

"He shot my arm!"
"Oh, right in the brachium! Good luck shooting your lil' rifle with a serious infraction in the axillary vein, you ass!"
"Sigh. Why do they always have to resist. Ah well.. It seems, we'll have to be a bit more coercive..and by that I mean we'll have to use explosives."
"...why did you tell them our plan, Boss?"
"Because I'm the boss and you're a random Triage member who is asking stupid questions!"
"I really wouldn't advise using explosives. In the back, there are a number of unstable, and quite possibly, explosive chemical components. Very expensive, as well. And do you know how many stores in the financial districts come with unrented backrooms?"
"Well, you'll see! In the afterlife! At meleeeee!"
"My calculations show that if we both fire our weapons, there's a higher chance of preventing them to reach us and shoot us with their pistols."
"Good plan."

Indeed, Miranda was equipped with lasers. Also indeed, The Enzyme had a .44 Magnum. A curious combination, to say the least.

Anyway, the pleasant people with guns were coming with pistols and whatnot. It seemed like it'll be a desperate, brutal close melee combat, if it was not for the lasers and well-aimed legshots, accompanied by the appropriate response, i.e screams of pain and anger, usually in Chinese. Although there was one American. Lee tried really hard not to think of him as a traitor.

"Why don't you just..give in?! It'll be either us or the Russians or the Yakuza or the more lawfully good heroes! This is an impossible existence!"
"Well, it could also be pneumonia, cardiovascular disease or even diabetes! You can't get away from these things, but at least, you can try to kill all the bastards trying to kill you."
"Grah. Don't.. think.. this is over! Zhen-Ghen is desiring vengeance more than his father!"
"What, did he marry his sister?"
"Ow, right in the feeeling, Dr. Sands!"
"I..will bring..anotherguytoshootyou! Onlybecauseof.." and then he dropped down dead. The rest, moving as fast as they could, went out of the store.

"Good lord, these people talk more than me."
"Hella of an accomplishment, that would be."
"Mhm. Oh, well..another store trashed...my momma told me never to mess with guns, but I was born on the opposite side of USA, and I visited Reno when it was all too late. What can a man do."
"You gonna look for new store, Enzyme?"
"Not currently.. Mr. Zhen-Ghen will most likely come vis-a-vis. That, or his sister, which is worse. Like a woman scorned, but with guns and angry Chinese."

With that, yet another shootout in Red Skies ended. Willy Lee went back to his dissertation in "testing drugs and their effects on Man's Body", while Miranda was dealing with the clients. It was just another day, after all.

((I gave color to the character's dialogue (Claire/others)for easy comprehension of who she is in the illusions. And this is a RP divided in parts. ))


Three months ago.

Wet footsteps echoed in the alley as the drug dealer struggled breathless against time. He knew he was next.

“Who are you?” he shouted at the rainy sky as he stared at the rooftops of the buildings around him. No reply.

For a moment could be heard raindrops hitting the ground. The silence was disturbing, an agony that would leave anyone insane. He was being hunted but he didn’t know by whom or by what. Then he heard a sound like a sword cutting the wind. Above his head, something was moving, fast. Fast enough to frighten him.

“Leave me alone!” the drug dealer yelled again while trying to pull a gun off his belt holster with trembling hands. He turned around, looking for a target on the rooftops. Nothing.

But Claire had expected this, and in the silence hidden in the shadows, she threw a rock. It was not a perfect trajectory, but it was enough. The gun was thrown, spinning until it stopped a few feet away from him.

The dealer tried to run toward the gun but after two steps, another rock was thrown. Now the target was him. He fell to the wet ground, disoriented, long enough for Claire to descend the roof of the building and approach him.

“I do not know anything!” He yelled. “Please!”

☄​

“As I said, you’ll get half of the money now and the other half when the drug is delivered at it destination.” A man in black suit said to the drug dealer while showing some information on his tablet.

“What?” he said, unfocused, looking around. “Are you sure we're safe in this car?”

“Are you listening?” the man spoke again, with a disappointment face. “My boss don’t like half done jobs. He trust you, can you do the same for him?”

“You do not need to worry about me,” the dealer said looking at the church across the street. “But the b****...”

The man in suit turned back to him straightening his tie and then grabbed the dealer left arm.

“Tell me, who is this... b****,” the man spoke with a dry throat. “Maybe my boss can do something about it. You know he has several mercenaries working for him.”

“We do not know... she appeared three days ago,” the dealer itched his head, trying to remember. “One chinese told me that he was being followed by a shadow. I didn’t believe in his . You know... they could be selling out the drug and making that nonsense. But yesterday one of my men say that he was attacked by a woman who had the devil in her eyes.”

“Do you believe?”

“Man... I don’t know.” He looked around, as if searching for something that was watching the conversation. “They call her Nǚ yāo... Banshee. Or some crap like that in chinese. I honestly don’t know how we’ll sell the drug with her loose.” He looked back at the car’s smoked window.

“You can start by saying the location that the chi...” The man began to choke in blood.

“God! You’re bleeding!” he said, trying stop the bleeding on the right man’s shoulder. “Come on! We need to go to a hospital... !” He cried again to the driver, but with no reply. Both were motionless, frozen in time.

And then, like a mist, all around him began to unravel.

☄​

A gentle wind traveled through Claire’s spine as she struggled climbing the fire escape with only her left arm. Her clothes wasn't helping against the early winter cold.

Please, be open. Claire spoke to herself while forcing the window up. She tried to let out a smile of relief as the windows opened but the pain was unbearable. Damn! she mumbled pressing her lips against each other to not to make noise. A broken rib... again.

And there she was. The apartment was no longer strange, after all, it's been three days since she shows up there. Not as broken as now, but it was a relief.

“What now?” Cheryl said, running up to the first aid drawer. Claire knew Cheryl from military service. She was one of the doctors in charge of monitoring the meta-human and, from time to time was in charge of "patching" the wounded in missions.

Claire muttered something incomprehensible. She was too busy trying to open a bottle of whiskey with her mouth. Ptooey, she spat the cap in a corner of the room. “But I got nothing. The most I got was something that looked like chinese swearing. When I discover what is I’ll let you know.”

“What we have today?”

“Bullet, scratches, bumps, bru--ises and a broken rib that is hurting like hell.” Claire finished off half a bottle of whiskey. “I was about to get... to get the answer I wanted and two idiots appeared. I hadn’t imagined that they would have guns.”

“Amateur move?” Cheryl started cleaning the wounds.

“Y-yes. Note to myself, steal a riot shield.”

“Oh... right. Big shield. Inspire fear in the enemy.”

“Argh...” Claire groaned. “That... hurts.”

“Just try to not get shot in the first place.” “Cheryl smiled. Here, drink more.”

“You--you should get... some... sedatives...” Claire said as she took another sip of whiskey. “I should’ve killed him. He called me... he called me a b****.”

“No way!” Cheryl replied with a sarcastic smile filling her face.

“Yes!” Claire yelled pointing her left arm toward the ceiling. “I'll... I’ll show him who is... is the b****.” she tried to get up but Cheryl gently pushed her back to the couch.

“Not tonight. Now you will relax and let me clean the wound and close with stitches.”

“But...” Claire tried to speak but fell asleep.

(OCC: Colour code: green is Miranda, blue is Enzyme, red is everyone else)

Or it would be. Unfortunately, since the shootout, during the entire day, nobody entered. Perhaps it was due to the nearly comical noir rain that was flushing outside. All that was needed was a detective in a wet trench coat with a funny hat asking questions with a voice that has been long destroyed by whiskey and other alcoholic beverages. But considering his fame, he would be rather the villain that the detective is looking for. After all, plenty of rich kids decided to check out what this new stuff is. Not all of them lived. Sadly, rich kids also meant rich parents, and they wanted to get the bad dealers out of the streets.

And even then, he never liked detectives. Not solely because they kept prying their noses into his business and then he had to shoot and bury them in the nearest garden available, or if desperate, to hack 'em up and stick them into a fridge which would be dumped down the nearest river, but how they looked. They were inane. With their cheap trench coats, stupid fedoras and mean behaviour - they were just plain rude.

But, it is far more likely that the clients were driven away due to other, more practical reasons, to be exact the dead Chinese lying on the floor, the huge blood splotch, and the bullet holes in the walls. Which was strange, as this was rather standard fare for Red Skies. Perhaps the Triage spread rumours about how anyone related to the respective Dr. Michels Sands will be interrogated, and very possibly, dead.

"Oh, looks like we'll need to change offices.. and names, too."
"That's unfortunate. Hauling out complex chemistry sets across Red Skies will be seen as suspicious."
"No, look. We'll just mark it as "DEAD BODIES INSIDE". Nobody will ask anything. Besides, why would they?"
"According to my highly-cooled processors, this is what is known as a very very bad idea."
"According to my head which has managed to survive two whole years by only changing names once without even having to do a plastic operation, this isn't the worst idea I've had."
"I still believe that the best course of action would be telling the truth, and then staring into the eyes of the unbelievers."
"Or into the barrels of the guns said unbelievers own...but fine. We can always call it a garbage truck."
"Isn't that slang for a person getting rid of bodies?"
"Yes, but it's also legitimately possible that the friendly inhabitants of Red Skies will give us the benefit of doubt and believe that we're an actual garbage truck. Which.. bring us to the next point, we need to steal an actual garbage truck."

Night. Silent rains continues to pour over Red Skies as if it wants to prove something. Probably how much of an inconvenience nature can be. That didn't matter to the two shady figures. Mostly because it was very good for them, as nobody ever goes out without a reason in the famous rain that always plagues Red Skies. One more side effect of the meteor, some thought. It provided excellent cover, as they approached the parking where garbage trucks were. Even in a lawless city like Red Skies, some things had to be up to level.

"There! Some idiot left a truck open!"
"Well, either the rain is creating some sort of a mirage, or the driver of the truck merely didn't have a chance of closing the door."

Indeed, a dead trucker was lying dead. A note ominously said "YOU SHOULD HAVE PAID YOUR DEBTS, KARLOS!". Typical.

"Hmm. I suggest we leave the dead in a respectful position, or, in this case, as we found 'em"
"Good idea."

All other trucks were locked. Whoever killed Karlos, he probably wouldn't be pleased if a runaway drug dealer and his trusty robot stole the final resting place of Karlos. Which meant that Operation Steal A Garbage Truck was a failure. Like angry spectres wandering through the city, or like really wet and cold people, they went back to "Sand's Clock and Works". As if some kind of an angry God decided to pile it all up, the lightbulbs exploded.

"Now what?"
"We pray the Chinese have some kind of a strange foreigner festivity during which they're too busy killing people?"
"I was thinking of abusing the unwritten property laws in Red Skies, stating that if you can hold it, and the previous owner in one or another way backs down, it's yours to find a new place to sell drugs? And then find a counterfeiter?"
"That works too, I guess."
“But that will be for another chapter.”
“Chapter of what? A book?”
“No, of life! What else would it be? You’re so strange, Miranda.”
“Says the drug dealer who tried to rob a garbage truck.”

"Considering the circumstances, it's actually a logical leap in logic that if it wasn't for some stupid dude Karlos who couldn't pay his bloody debts, would have been an unparalleled success!"
"Right."

-snip-

(OCC: Colour code is the same.)

Sleep. It was necessary for all human beings, even the ones who sneaked up other people's houses with a rather obsolete photograph. Without sleep, well, people change. And not the good change, no, the one that makes you pick up a fire axe and stuff people in fridges or lavatory machines.

For the Enzyme, sleep worked... rather differently. As in, it was quite often a swindling pendulum between an awesome dream, like the one in which he was going around into the Mojave with the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson, aand right down to the one with the spiders dressed in Deadpool costumes. Of course, he had more normal dreams, or at least, dreams that everyone else had, or erotic dreams. Which he didn't really liked talking about. Considering his past, probably for a good reason.

This was one of the.. neutral dreams. As in, nothing too awful happened, but neither anything too good did. Those were good for exploration, or character development. Then again, there was this one dream where some ass was pounding on the keyboard and things happened. He counted it amongst one of the worst, as he was writing about some drug dealer.

Dragons flew through the skyline. They were normal dragons. As normal as they can be. As much as he could claim to be the determinant of normalcy. Which, to be fair, wasn't too much, so when a dragon landed near him, and asked...

"Interlooper! What are you doing here!"

...he didn't take it too much to heart...

"Lookie, a dragon! Are ya gonna turn into a girl with a dragon tattoo?"

...probably because it didn't matter that much...

"No. I do not. That would be stupid."

...mainly because he was drugged out of his miind...

"That's depressing. What kind of a magical dragon you ar-"

...but also because he woke up.

"You're awake. It's 9 am already!"
"You mean I spent seven hours sleeping so that I can have a short conversation with a dragon?"
"Life is hard like that sometimes. Or, in your case, constantly."
"Sometimes I'm wondering if you aren't a woman in a robot costume"
"What, it'll be stranger for you to have the first sentient AI or a woman in a sweaty suit?"
"With my luck, I'll be on board with the first sarcastic AI of all of 'em. At least you can somehow deal with the murderous ones."
"I assure you, the short feeling of pain will subdue soon,. followed by an eternal bliss in a paradise of your own choosing!"

That conversation would have went on for eternity, as their exchanges could go for hours. Otherwise the Enzyme instead would spend the remaining time in a strange drug-induced psychosis that would kill him. That or he'll accidentally re-invent mustard gas and kill everyone in the next two blocks.

It wasn't exactly meant to be, sadly. A band of friendly folks that would enter, usually asking "Where's the money! Where's the money, Dr. James Jamison! You own the mafia a lot of money, Dr. James Jamison!" while trashing the place they are in. However, these "friends" weren't there for that, as they were one of the many unaffiliated gangs; they robbed everyone regardless whether he's Russian, Chinese, American or whatever. They also offerred their services at very reasonable prices and with discounts if you order five murders you get one brutal dismemberment, for free!

They were clients. Looking for their quick fix that will either satisfy their need for something more exciting than murder, theft and arsonry, or increase their sexual drive so that they can have fun time in the many, and sometimes, overtly specialised brothels that Red Skies had to offer. Sometimes, including horses. It's a weird place.

Of course, from time to time, some certain shady people that might be on the run or want to assassinate someone, they sought after more.. specific things. F4-21, an interesting compound he made while thinking about mining a fridge and waiting to see how much until a random FBI agent tries to open it. It boosted combat prowess and reflexes and in a city like Red Skies that was invaluable.

By the looks of the gentlemen and how they were equipped however he doubted they're looking for TS-22 or even ER-11. They were ready for kill.

"So! What it will be?"
"According to informants in Red Skies, you have drugs. Specialty drugs."
"Indeed I do!"
"We're ready to pay a solid sum for 'em.."
"Of course you are. How about, hmm, say, 50k dollars?"

A suitcase was suddenly raised up and slammed on the desk.

"Count 'em. Should be 55k even."
"Oh, generosity! Always a sign of civilized people.. Hold it up, gotta go to my basement..pick up the loot, you know?"

He went down to the basement. There, he was storing his drugs. Most of the things he sold were watered-down versions of the stuff he created in his lab, as clients ODing wasn't a good business strategy, and because slowly addicting 'em to it paid so much better. It also meant that he could have.. certain friends that are sadly and unfortunately claimed by the sin, and without a constant and steady supply of drugs would go bathorsehocky insane in mere moments. Influence and whatnot.

He gave the drugs. They gave the cash. A most civilized exchange of currency and stocks. And they say Red Skies is raw and uncivilised.

"Miranda! Do you know what this means?"
"We potentially have enough cash to buy off a nice Pacific island?"
"No. We can patch up the store. Maybe even install a new security system.. my oh my, the possibilities!"

((Thanks to everyone who helped by correcting my bad english. I took the liberty to try by myself, I bet half of the text that I made alone is incoherent. :3 ))


Lyan calmly entered Jiao-Long's office. Red walls provokes a somber tone to the dimly lit room. Jiao-Long was smoking a cigarette next to a red wooden table. He said something in chinese and then bowed, leaving the room through a beautiful wooden carved door featuring a chinese dragon.

He followed a corridor, heading up to a steel door which ended at a kitchen. “Jiao-Long wants to hear from you,” He took a step to the side and raised his arm toward the gallery, “Please follow me.”

“He’ll help?” Jack said.

“Maybe.” He replied, maintaining a steady pace through the gallery. “Likely yes. He is confident that you do a good job.”

Lyan stopped Jack when both were standing by the door and with his left hand on Jack's shoulder, he said, “The interest of Jiao-Long is sufficiently high. Your operation is important for our Triad’s branch. If someone wants to stop you he also disrupts the entire Triade.”

Lyan opened the door and Jack was soon welcomed in chinese.

“He thanks you for having reached him first. Was wise of you.” Lyan translated.

Jack bowed clumsily. “I don’t know where to start,” he said. “The Banshee attacked again. If not for Loyd I would have died there.”

He nodded to Lyan which soon translated into chinese.

Jiao-Long remained silent for a full minute, thoughtful, staring at the dragon in the door.

“Don’t worry. We'll take care of her.“ That were the Jiao-Long’s words translated by Lyan. A strange feeling of peace enveloped Jack. “Now go.”

Jack responded with a nod, leaving the room after.

“Take care of him.” Jiao-Long said, in a perfect English. “Put one of our trust in the warehouse. Tell them to not worry about this girl. I know someone who can end this Medusa.” Jiao-Long scratched a tattoo on his left hand, one of many. A triangle with a circle inside, divided in four parts. “Call the Blacksmith, tell him I want a meeting.”

And with a snap of his fingers, he lit a cigarette.

☄​

Four days later.

Claire lowered her leg cautiously as she disembarked from the bus. She tried not to injure her rib, a difficult task as her right arm was still bruised. She sported a purple halter dress underneath a blue woolen overcoat, beneath she was wearing tight pants accompanied by knee-high boots. Not exactly a discrete choice of clothing, but that didn't really matter to her. Looks can be deceiving, and in her case, more than ever. Everyone saw her as Emily, a woman in her thirties, about one meter sixty with long, curly brunette hair accenting her green eyes.

“Philippe?” she said.

The workshop was empty and Claire took the time to wander the workshop. In one corner she found the torso of a scaled crimson armor.

“Hello my dear child!” A voice in the back yelled, surprising Claire who was giving a close look at the armor. “Beautiful piece, if I may. Prototype, fireproof. Unfortunately it's heavy as hell.”

“I’m no longer a child,” she said, taking another close look at the armor. “I thought you was a man of connections. I bet you can get lighter materials than those scales.”

“This armor is not meant to prevent fire, my dear. It was made to project fire. The scales open and allow the passage of fire. I'm the Blacksmith, remember?” Philippe said while hugging her.

Claire was uncomfortable with the pain.

“No...”

“Yes...” she said. “A Beretta's shot in my shoulder, two ribs and some bruising. Nothing that vegetables and some good sleeps can solve.”

“My god, I almost killed you.” Philippe's face turned pale. “My source almost killed you.”

“Was my slip, Philippe. Don’t worry, not happening again. Come on, give some color to your face. Is not the first time someone nearly kills me.” Claire patted his shoulder. “Your source was right. It’s heroin. And that's why I came here. I need to stop this operation and I'm running out of black clothes. I need a uniform. And you’re the only one who know which ones.”

Those words seemed to turn Philippe’s imagination.

“I already know what you’ll use!” he yelled, quickly undressing Claire's coat and raising her arms at shoulder height. “An early draft, I drew when you joined the Vigia’s junior team.”

“Black... no... purple!” He said as he wandered around the workshop looking for fabrics.

“Winter.” she said and then coughed.

“Yes, of course. Needs to handle cold temperatures. Mask, helmet, preference?”

Claire nodded negatively as she admired one mask. “Unmasked... d’Ark? You really love to put your name on everything... Philippe you haven’t changed. ”

“Focus please!” He yelled, running to one side of the room. “Preference for equipment?”

“You already know it,” she lifted her hair, revealing a tattoo on her neck, a triangle with a circle inside, divided into four parts.

He laughed.

“I also have one, remember? Just because you can’t kill doesn’t mean you can’t hit people.”

He opened a locker and took out two batons.

“Expandable and together can form a Bo staff. Perfect to throw in people if they try to run and even better to fight. Here, they are yours.” He pulled some papers from a shelf. “I have a small list of equipment. You need tranquilizer darts, lasso, tear gas and perhaps grappling hook...”

“I can’t even afford a house, how do you think I’ll pay? I want a uniform, not an war suit.”

“You've always been like a daughter to me. And then you almost die by my information, consider this one a gift.”

“What part of I'm alive you didn’t understand?”

“Shush!, you're messing up my thinking.”

“Okay, okay! I'll be at Cheryl’s home, call me when done.”

Red Skies wasn't a bad city. It was just full of bad people. That's why Katrina Groves didn't go out during the daytime anymore. There were always too many people around, and even in a world where everyone and their mother could shoot laser beams out of their butt, Katrina was just too unusual to blend in. Sure it was cold, dark, and often raining, but in the dead of the night the few people you did manage to bump into would have their own reasons not to pay you too much attention. Katrina was fully aware that she was different from everyone else, even radically different, and she didn't need a crowd parting like the Red Sea as 'that monstrous thing' walked by or mothers to spirit away their children at the sight of her to remind her of that.

So here she was, strolling through Rosemary Park in the dead of night, sipping vanilla hot chocolate out of an over-sized coffee thermos. Even by the light of the moon and the flickering lamps overhead, Katrina's peculiarities were hard to miss. After the Great Comet streaked across the sky and spread around mutations like Stan Lee making a cameo as the common cold, you might be forgiven for overlooking someone with fire at the ends of their fingertips or a women who floated slightly off the ground. Not Katrina. Try as she might, it was pretty much impossible to hide the fact that she was an eight foot tall, three hundred pound, dragon-faced behemoth. Not that she didn't try, of course. But after a few years of trying to go out in public with every venture ending badly, she eventually gave up entirely and decided to avoid the public altogether. People were jerks, especially if you were different enough to scare them, Katrina realized. Besides, she didn't need people to keep her company anyway.

"Adri, where did you run off to?" Katrina said aloud to the seemingly empty park. There was a rustling of leaves and branches, followed by a happy sounding 'woof' from a damp pile of leaves. Katrina nudged the pile with her toe, and out popped the head of a German Husky with mix of gold, black, and white fur, his long tongue hanging out as he panted excitedly. Grinning, Katrina shot the dog a look of false admonishment as he leapt out of the pile and started running laps around her legs, sniffing anything and everything he could reach. "You're such a nut, Adri," Katrina said, leaning down to scratch the excitable mutt behind the ears. "You know you could get in trouble again if you're caught without a leash, right?" Adri the German Husky merely gave a happy little bark and smiled up at her innocently. Katrina shook her head, a bemused expression across her face, before starting off down the path again with Adri prancing along beside her. Yet another peaceful night with her best friend to keep her company. Or at least it was until Adri darted in front of her and started barking her head off, nearly tripping Katrina up in the process.

"Whoah!" Katrina exclaimed as she jerked backwards and splattered scalding liquid on her chest, enough to burn most people but barely worth noticing by the draconic girl. "Adri, what are you doing you goof?" Katrina asked before noticing the Husky growling defensively at the unseen something, his hackles raised in alarm. Then out of the darkness, a shadowy figure leaped from a tree and landed roughly on the concrete path. Katrina began to shout at the unknown intruder for running around like an idiot in the middle of the night but was silenced when the tree the figure jumped from exploded into bright orange flames. The figure drew and began unfolding some sort of compact bow as another figure jumped from the burning limbs, dressed in some sort of bright orange jumpsuit, rusty metal nozzles at the ends of his hands, and spiky neon red hair. Katrina stood off to the side to watch the spectacle unfold, as Adri retreated to the safety of a nearby bush to do the same.

"Can't keep running forever, Wolfy!" the man in the orange jumpsuit shouted as he landed in front of the burning tree, a manic grin plastered to his face and both eyes refusing to look in the same direction. "It's time to play the game!"

"Can't agree more, Firebug," the figure named 'Wolfy' said before firing an arrow in his direction, pinning one of his arms to the burning tree by the nozzle on his arm. The pyromaniac named Firebug gave a girlish shriek as he tried to wrench his arm free. Another arrow shot out, this one attached to some sort of grapple hook that pulled the archer towards Firebug at breakneck speed. He tried to stop the archer with a flamethrower burst from his free hand, but Wolfy sailed clear over the bout of flames and slammed into the guy's head with the force of a bull's charge. Katrina was sure the guy would have been out cold after a hit like that, but to her surprise the crazy arsonist merely giggled after the impact before tossing his assailant off and pulling himself free from her arrow. Unfazed, Wolfy pulled out a pair of compactable tomahawks and charged into the fray again, swinging for his arms. The archer was fast and clearly the more skilled fighter, but Firebug was so unpredictable with his movements that neither of them could draw a bead on one another. Finally, Firebug's arm was caught by the blade of an axe, and Wolfy was able to drive the point home and rip the metal nozzle from his sleeve along with a length of rubber hosing. Firebug stared at the missing piece in shock as the archer leaped back to wrench the nozzle from the axe and crush it underfoot.

"One down, one to go," Wolfy said stoically. "If you come quietly that might be the only thing of yours I break."

Firebug simply looked at Wolfy with both eyes this time, before glancing towards his disarmed hand, the smashed nozzle under his opponent's foot, and finally back to Wolfy. With a screech like a banshee, the mad arsonist rocketed forward, launched clumsily into the air and leveled a flying kick at the archer, who lazily sidestepped to avoid the errant attack. The arsonist landed unsteadily behind his opponent, who merely spun around to face him.

"Word of advice," Wolfy said, brandishing the tomahawks threateningly. "Know when to quit."

"Word of advice, Woofers!" Firebug echoed gleefully. "Know when to watch your back!"

Katrina and Wolfy both noticed the circular disk that had appeared on the latter's back far too late. Katrina tried to shout a warning but her voice was drowned out by the disc detonating in a fireball, launching the archer directly at Firebug. Everyone watching knew the fight was over as Firebug outstretched his arms, spun on his heel, and delivered a brutal hook kick to his opponent's jaw. An audible crack was heard as Firebug's attack struck home, and the archer flipped over in midair and fell to the ground in a heap. Firebug looked like a child waiting to open his Christmas presents as he dashed over to his defeated opponent, making sure that he trod on the archer's fingers in the process.

"Oooh, we're going to have so much fun together, Wolfy!" the arsonist exclaimed as he bent down to try and pry the mask off of his opponent. "First we'll take you back home and roast you over a slow fire, then we'll chop you up and send choice cuts to all of your friends! I'm sure your Canadian soldier friend would love some roasted wolf, and your Russian atom bomb man might go for a nice juicy steak with his-"

There was a firm tap on his shoulder. He looked up to see an eight foot tall, incredibly muscular dragon girl, complete with crimson red scales and mouth full of razor sharp teeth, towering over him. And she did not look especially pleased to see him.

"If you don't mind," he said, oblivious to Katrina's threatening presence, "I'm just going to collect my friend here and go."

"Yeah, about that," Katrina growled, crossing her arms to look just a bit more scary then she already was. "Why don't you just go on your merry way, leave your friend here with the bows and axes behind, and I'll forget that I ever saw you?"

"Well gee, I'd love to comply," Firebug said, rubbing his arm shyly. "But I'm afraid I can't because YOUR FACE IS ON FIRE!" He punctuated his last words with a blast of his flamethrower, laughing maniacally as Katrina took the full brunt of his attack. His smile quickly faltered, however, as Katrina merely reached through the blast of fire, grabbed the remaining flamethrower nozzle, and ripped it off effortlessly. Katrina tossed the nozzle aside, completely unharmed by the blast of fire, and looked down to see her shirt, or what was left of it, reduced to burning bits of fabric.

"I liked that shirt," Katrina said, her eyes narrowing.

"Oh, I see," Firebug said, the manic energy draining from his voice like a punctured water balloon. "Well, it was nice meeting you Ms. Scary Powerful Dragon Lady but I think I should be getting back or I'll be late for-"

Firebug was lucky. The initial impact of Katrina's sucker punch knocked him out instantly, so that when he flew backwards with the force of a cannonball into a metal bench hard enough to leave an indent, he didn't feel a thing, and he wouldn't for quite some time. With a sad little sigh at the loss of her favorite Gorillaz T-Shirt, Katrina casually walked over and started to bend the back of the metal bench around to restrain the unconscious arsonist. Granted he probably wouldn't be able to move for quite some time after a hit like that, but better safe than sorry. As she twisted the thick metal around Firebug's body, Adri had emerged from his hiding place to observe the unconscious form of Wolfy.

"Friend of yours?" Katrina asked the dog as she finished wrapping up Firebug and strolled over to assess the damage. Wolfy turned out to be an accurate name, now that Katrina got a better look at her mystery archer. A lithely built female dressed mostly in dark shades to assist with stealth, there was an unmistakable wolf motif to this figure's outfit, from the small pointed ears on the headdress to the claws tipping her gloves and moccasin-covered feet. Adri pawed at the unconscious hero's arm as Katrina tugged down the neckline of the archer's outfit to check for a pulse on bare skin. Still there, but for how long she didn't know. As Katrina moved to replace it she spotted an unusual but familiar marking on her neck. A plain circle outline surrounded by a triangle.

"Wow, didn't think I'd be meeting one of those Vigia guys tonight. Do you think she's local, Adri?"

"Arf!"

"Me neither," Katrina answered. "Come on, let's get our Wolfy Archer some medical attention. I think I know some people who could help..."

Abandoned warehouses. They are littering the aptly-named Warehouse District. Whether they were used for drug sales, exchanges, executions, or whatever, it didn't matter. One warehouse however was going to be incredibly important for The Enzyme.

His eternal, or at least since a certain event in Northern Hollywood nemesis, Zhao Chen was there. He was discussing the Enzyme. To be exact, his death.

And the ones that he was discussing it with, well, they were the very same that he just sold drugs to. They were the Three's Company. To add upon it all, they were Irish, and they were, well, how should we say, brothers.

Robert O'Kinnley was the main one. He was rather buff, and he looked like he's ready for business. In other words, destroying the target's insides with his lovely 6-chambered machine gun that could turn even the hardiest armour into tiny little shreds.

Michael O'Kinnley. He was the second brother. He had in his eyes what one could call a "flame". Quite often however he also had fire under his control as well, as he enjoys to torch things. Perhaps not the brightest of people; his brothers often say that "he melted his brains off, but he has the best barbecue ever".

Ian O'Kinnley, was the third, and final brother. Unlike his brothers, he was shorter. But appearances lie. On that fateful night in 23th July 1995, he was staring out in the skies; perhaps looking for the occasional British parachutist that seemed to come from time to time. Unfortunately, instead he saw the Comet. This was a life-changer...but he didn't realise it much until some ass shot him in the torso, but instead of the bullet penetrating the bones and making a bloody mess in his lungs, it hit a bone...and there was no damage to it. At all. In fact, the bullet turned into tiny little pieces, some of which are still in him. It was then when he realised his skeleton is much unlike most men's. This is probably why he's packing a modified shotgun with kickback that would rip off the arms of normal humans, but to him it was a no problem.

Those friendly gentlemen were going to be hired by Zhao Chen to take care of The Enzyme. Once and for all...and in his words, "with utmost prejudice."


----------------

And now, back to the Enzyme and his store in the Financial District. As of now, he was sleeping, deep in a dream.

A shadowy figure was coming out of a hospital..maybe the New Orleans General?

"Who are you!"
"Oh, Willy, honey, so quick to forget? Don't you remember we fled California from my father and settled here?"

Upon a closer look, the figure started taking up form...it was no one but the very daughter of Zhao Chen, Xing Ling. With a baby. Their baby. Of course..

..that's when he awoke. Not with a scream, but certainly distraught.

It was a dreary, usual Red Skies day. With clouds and rain. Few customers went in; it was an unusually gray even for the city day.

There was few commotion...But in life, there are some sounds that determine whether you live or die. The growl of the panther in the cave, the angry yell of hordes crossing through your lands...In this case however it was the sound of a shotgun shredding to tiny pieces the front door.

"Miranda! Run! Get in the car!"
"Okay!"