(HS) Who Needs Ethical Boundaries?


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9/8/2011 22:36:48

Goldstein
Member

Discuss here
September 8th, 10:30 a.m.

The soup kitchen, located off of Leningrad Street, would have been positively despondent if it had not been for the cheerful volunteers who worked around the clock to make sure every homeless, unemployed, and unfortunate person there smiled just a little bit. The walls with holes and the ceiling with holes and the floor with holes didn't affect the couple's mood as they sang and doled out bowls of chicken noodle and plops of mashed potatoes.

"Who's next?" sang the man with sandy hair trimmed short as he handed a man with one arm and an olive-green jacket with an American flag on the sleeve a plate of hot food.

"France got the bomb, but don't you grieve," answered the girl with curly brown hair that reached her shoulders as she stirred a bit vat of chili.

"Cause they're on our side, I believe,"

"China got the bomb, but have no fears,"

"They can't wipe us out for at least five years!"

"Who's next?"

The veteran smiled and balanced the tray with his one hand. "Bless you two, for filling these halls with the beauty of music and happiness."

"Sure thing, Goetthe!" Tate T. Sherman of the Operations Unit said.

Jules Sutherland sighed happily and rested her head on his shoulder. The golden light of the afternoon made her hair radiant and her skin a beautiful olive, an olive that the Greeks must have imagined their fair Athena to have. She caught him staring and flashed him a dazzling smile. "You big oaf, do you even know the meaning of subtle?"

"So says the girl leaning in a rather provocative position."

She frowned and straightened up. "Provocative? Provocative how?"

Tate just grinned and shrugged and went back to dealing out food to the needy.

Jules harrumphed good-naturally, dipped a finger into the pot and tasted the soup. "Ack, it needs salt. I'll be right back, you can handle this yourself, right Hare?"

"Sure thing, Margaret."

"What ever happened to Jules?"

Tate spun around and saw a confused Hispanic woman in a casual business skirt and blouse. His face broke out into a smile.

"Marie! How are you?" he cried, setting down a ladle.

She nervously fiddled with a locket of black hair. "Who's Margaret?"

Tate's brow furrowed for a moment, then comprehension dawned. "Oh, that was Jules. We've got nicknames for each other now. Hare and Margaret. See, Burke and Hare were these two guy who killed people and sold their bodies to a Dr. Knox, who used the bodies for classroom dissections."

Horror crossed her face, so Tate quickly explained, "No, see, it's ironic, since we're nothing like them, and, well, we both like history, so...I mean, at one point, we called ourselves Franklin and Eleanor."

She drummed her fingers on the buffet's spotless surface. Tate could tell that she was distressed. When Marie had first stumbled into the soup kitchen two years ago, she was without a home, a credit history, or a job. But she had never seemed so worried and lost in her thoughts. Things must have been pretty bad.

"How's your husband?"

As if the mention of the man caused her pain, she winced and crossed herself. Tate's hand automatically went to the knife at his side. "Is he being abusive?"

Marie looked up and saw his intense face, and she laughed. "Heavens no. That man is the best thing that has ever happened to me. But he is the reason that I'm here. We need help."

"Go on..."

Despite the soup kitchen being filled with the sounds of silverware against bowls and talking, Marie felt it necessary to lower her voice. "My husband was mugged on the subway station yesterday morning. The mugger didn't take his watch or his wallet or anything, just his briefcase. The briefcase, from what he's told me, contained sensitive company secrets. The police aren't going to waste man power finding a mugger, though, not with all of the heroes and villains and such. We've nowhere else to turn. He could lose his job. Is there any way you can help us?"

Tate rubbed his clean-shaven chin, thoughtful. "I could use the Independent Investigation Clause."

"What about Santa Clause?" Jules asked as she came back, a salt shaker in each hand. She noticed Marie and presented her one of her famous smiles. "Hello Marie! What brings you here?"

"I need to do Marie a favor here," Tate said gravely.

Jules' smile melted away. "An OU-type favor?"

"Yeah."

Her forehead crinkled with wrinkles. "Well, is it serious?"

Marie nodded urgently, and she rubbed her chin just like Tate. When two people spend so much time together, they start to share mannerisms. "Okay, well, when do you have to leave?"

The look on Marie's face was one of such desperation that Tate replied, "Right now."

Almost on cue, the soup kitchen seemed to darken a little. With a not-so-happy sigh, she leaned her head against his shoulder. "Alright, you big oaf, even though this is a weekend."

Marie squealed and frantically hugged the two of them across the serving table. "Oh, thank you thank you thank you!"

Like a snake Tate slipped out of her grasp. He pulled out a notepad and pen and opened it to a fresh page. "Where was he mugged, exactly?"

"On the Morningstar Street Stop at 11 in the morning."

"And what was taken?"

"A black briefcase with the initials JL monogrammed in the corner."

"...in the corner. Got it." He flipped the pad shut and pecked Jules on the cheek. "I'll go to the stop, review the security tapes. I'll be home before dinner."

The sadness seemed to retreat a little from her face. "We're still making fasolada together, right?"

"Of course!" Tate called out as he headed out the door. "I'll get some more dry white beans on my way home!"

She giggled and wave bye. She whispered something to Marie and she nodded and she joined Jules behind the counter.

"Who's next?" sang Jules.

< Message edited by Goldstein -- 9/12/2011 22:31:12 >

Post #: 1

9/12/2011 22:28:06

Goldstein
Member

September 8th, 12:21 p.m.

The MoonCash was full of people, as usual. There were three on Pelosi Street, but only the naive could believe that such a thing could alleviate congestion. Something about the one that had tall, unruly bushes in the front and a concrete wall to its back, however, seemed to attract an overabundance of unsavory types. The normal folk tended to avoid it, but the more petty money launderers, illegal substance dealers and con men used it as a base of operations, since they couldn't afford anything of their own.

Officer McCallister, the chubby man in charge of Tate's paperwork, had raised cane when he told him that he was going to the MoonCash. "You think the DoV has the funds to just let you run off on some stupid Independent Investigation?"

"Probably not," Tate said as he killed the line.

Besides, this MoonCash was special. It was the place Coffee Beansy had been going for lattes for seven years, and Coffee Beansy was a serious man of habit.

Tate found him, as usual, sitting in the corner, with a young guy in a hoody across from him. Beansy spotted the him easily enough; Tate was the only one that wasn't at least partially dirty. Beansy hurriedly tossed his product into the guy's lap. The thug slapped some money on the table and ran as fast as he could out of the place with his new prize.

"Ew, butt-heat," Tate said as he claimed the young man's chair. "Something about it repulses me."

Blurry eyes rolled up from the stack of cash. "Pardon?"

"Butt-heat," Tate repeated, as if he was explaining it to a child. "The heat someone leaves on a chair when they sit on it for too long."

Beansy scoffed and folded up the cash and stuck it in his breast pocket. "What exactly has motivated you to come calling me today, you slimy stinkin copper?" he said.

"Just a simple question." The copies were gritty black-and-white, but the face of the mugger was still distinguishable. He had a haughty look as he stared right at the security camera, tightly clutching the briefcase. "Who is that?"

"What makes you think I will divulge the information you hope to acquire without some sort of exquisite incentive, you poop-eating idiot?" Beansy asked as he finished his latte and daintily replaced it to its saucer.

With two slaps to the table, an exhausted-looking waitress hurried over with another round of caffeine. Tate pulled a fifty from his wallet and said, "I'll cover his bill."

"But he's only ordered two drinks. Fifty is too-"

"Then keep the rest for yourself," Tate said.

She stared at the bill like it was a brick of gold. Afraid that he might change his mind, she stuffed it into her apron and raced off.

"It absolutely baffles me how incredibly generous you are, you fart-smeller," Beansy said as he reluctantly snatched the photos. He scanned them, making little noises. It reminded Tate of a strict teacher reviewing a poorly-written essay.

Finally, he said, "Where'd you come across these, butt monkey?"

"The Morningstar Station security tapes. The guard who's suppose to watch them said that he'd never seen the guy ride the subway before."

"But of course not! That's Jones Pitter, a two-bit pick-pocket who tries to glamorize himself as a modern Robin Hood."

"He gives to the poor?" Tate asked quizzically.

"No dog-face, he just really likes wearing tight pants. I would fancy that you wish to know where he likes to pass his leisure? At the abandoned Von Braun building, down by the docks."

"You seem eager for me to go and talk to this guy. Do you find him annoying or something?"

Beansy snickered and handed Tate the pictures back. "Why, no. I simply like to see competition eliminated, that's all, you yellow-bellied traitor."

The waitress was coming back around, and Tate knew that Beansy wasn't done drinking yet; he could still complete sentences. MoonCash could be expensive, so before he was forced to pay for an additional round of over-priced coffee, Tate stood up and shook hands with Beansy.

"Nice talking with you, as always, Beansy."

"The same to you, fat-face."

"And next time? Don't gouge your customers so much. $500 dollars for a .22? Please." Before Beansy could offer up some lame lie, Tate made his exit. He tried his best to ignore the unfriendly stares everyone shot him as he left, except for the waitress, who reverently watched him go, and Beansy, who was too busy stirring in sugar to his coffee.

Once the rockets go up, who cares where they fall down? That's not my department, said Wehrner von Braun...

The Von Braun building was just one of many warehouses that had been promptly left behind after the crime surge along the shore that left many of the warehouses riddled with bullets. It was an unsafe place to do business. Unless, of course, your business was already unsafe, in which case the rows of dark buildings were the perfect working environment. Government-issue sedans stood out in places like that, and were subject to stereo-jacking, so Tate didn't have much time to work with.

He opened the door. It was unlocked. A bunch of chains lied on the ground in front of it, obviously cut. "Well, we're off to a good start," he said as he entered and realized that the lights were on.

"Crap, now we're off to a really good start. A good start that might end up with me being shot. Or something. I don't know, I kind of lost where that was going." Just to be safe, Tate drew the shotgun from the shin harness and held it with one hand. There was security in feeling the heaviness of the wooden stock.

Despite the fact that the von Braun building had at one point been a place to store and test new ordnance, and should have had some sort of security, it had been cleaned out. Tate could just make out spots where rockets and missiles had been at one point, due to their clean silhouettes on the dusty gray walls.

In the very center of the warehouse was a big hole that opened up right above the water.

Like a ghost Tate slid behind a pillar and watched a man carry a body. It had concrete blocks attached to its limp feet.

"You never did like water, did ya Pitter?" the guy said to himself as he tossed the corpse into the water, "but you know what? You're dead now, so it don't really matter."

It barely made a splash as it slid out of sight.

Tate jumped out from behind the pillar, the shotgun aimed right at the guy's ugly face.

"Government agent! Hands in the air!" Tate yelled.

The criminal's eyes were huge. A few seconds of silence, then he whispered, "Oh God, please don't shoot."

"Hands in the air, now!"

He slowly reached down to his coat pocket. "I'm a cop. I'm undercover, here, let me show you my badge. Please, just don't shoot."

Tate couldn't believe how stupid the guy was. "Of course you are, buddy! I believe you. But I'd rather you just keep your hands in the air."

An epileptic wouldn't have shaken as much as he did as he grasped something, hidden in his pocket. "It's my badge, just put the gun down man, let me show you."

"Just put your hands in the air," Tate said, begging him, pleading him, not to do what he thought he was going to do. "Don't make me-"

The guy whipped out a nine millimeter pistol and shot Tate twice in the chest. Tate responded with a blast from his shotgun. The poor fellow, he was a ragdoll, a puppet, just a leaf in the wind. He staggered back, the stinging of the plastic pellets, confusing him. Thanks to an awkwardly placed pipe, the guy tripped backwards and hit the ground with a groan. Tate looked down and nudged him with the toe of his boot. The murderer winced and rolled over.

"Sorry I had to do that," Tate mumbled as he holstered his shotgun. "But it's better than real bullets, right? I'd never fire a real shotgun, jeez. Guns kill people, you know."

The guy responded with a low whimper.

Piercing the stillness, Tate's cell phone rang. He dug it out and answered it. It was McCallister.

"I just got a signal that you fired your weapon. What the heck happened?"

"Nothing. Listen, I'm at the von Braun building, and there's a dead guy-"

"Wait, what?"

"Look, he was dead before I got here. I'm not the killer. This guy here is the one you want. You better send a squad or something to pick him up."

There was the sound of a computer mouse clicking on McCallister's end of the line. Tate peered into the murky water as he waited for a response. "...Robert and his team aren't doing anything, and they're pretty close, can you wait around for five minutes?"

Tate used his shoulder to hold the phone against his ear. He pulled a book from his backpack and flipped it open to the page he had last read. "Of course, I've got something to do and Jack here doesn't have any urgent

"Fine. Over and out."

He rolled his eyes and hung up. "Over and out? What are we, spec ops? And even if we were, do those guys even still say that? Do you know?"

The question was directed to Jack, who had progressed from sobbing to a very creepy snicker. That's never a good sign. Ever.

As if on cue, a bullet blew through the book and whizzed over his shoulder. Tate peeked through the hole and gulped. "Why, hello gentlemen."

The leader of the gentlemen with the assault rifles glowered. "Tate T. Sherman?"

"Yes?"

"Open fire!"

< Message edited by Goldstein -- 9/18/2011 22:25:26 >

Post #: 2

9/15/2011 22:29:24

Goldstein
Member

September 8th, 1:03 p.m.

The Von Braun building had been constructed by the American government a few years after the inception of Liberty City. It's purpose was to be a totally secure place to store new ordnance before it was tested. The reason they built it in Liberty City was because the presence of multiple superheroes might deter enemy countries from infiltrating the building. A more shady side was the fact that, occasionally, scientists would hand prototypes over to villains in order to test them. Once that side of the business was exposed, the public outcry led to the Von Braun building being condemned. There were some remnants of gunpowder lying about, the product of lazy workmen. Their laziness might cause Tate to die in a fiery explosion, and that didn't sit to well with him. But before he could deal that issue, he had to put down the spec ops team in front of him.

"Wait, stop! Good Lord, wait just a second!" Slowly, carefully, with not a wasted move, Tate stood up. A pack of wild dogs stood before him, their teeth bared. He didn't want to do anything to provoke them.

"Wait for what?" said the leader, brandishing his AKA-47.

"...why the hate?"

The gunmen glanced at one another, confused. What was this moron playing at?

"Seriously, why kill me? I haven't wronged you guys in anyway. You have absolutely no reason to remove me from my mortal coil. Right?"

One of the gunmen shrugged and nodded, but his partner slapped him on the back of the head and he reluctantly held his rifle back up.

The leader spat a brownish mixture on the ground and said, "This is a hired job. Nothing personal."

"Are you willing to defy the values you hold for mere money? What would your parents think? Your family, your friends? Money is the root of all evil, and you're all servants to it, mindless goons, willing to kill for some pieces of paper. Please, if anything, do this for yourselves, so you may sleep well at night, not tormented by the death groans of an innocent man with a wife and child. Put down your guns and go off in peace. Embrace tomorrow, that glorious ideal, and have a clear bosom so that all the good of the world may warmly receive you."

As Tate gave his inspiring speech, he approached the leader, who was staring at him in awe.

"Never met a target that tried to convince me of not killing them. Least, not without begging."

Tate placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I make a lot of sense, don't I..." Tate looked down and saw that his nametag read , "Philip. Come on, think logically."

"Yeah, you do." He looked down at his gun, then back up to Tate. "You do." He spun around, and threw down the gun, like a little kid who just tasted nasty ice cream.

"You have heard his pleas!" he yelled. "Please friends, let us oblige him! Throw down these evil tools of destruction, and let us go forth, new men!"

"Yeah!" one guy yelled as he hurled his gun across the room. "I can finally open that pizza parlor I always dreamed about!"

"And I achieve my lifelong dream of being a florist!"

"I like being a mercenary, but peer pressure is making me do this!"

"I WANT TO BE AN AMUSEMENT PARK ATTENDANT! YAY!"

Tate nervously fiddled with his backpack's straps. "Actually, I'm going to have to arrest you all. Sorry, truly."

Philip stiffened and slowly turned back around. He looked rather angry. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry!" Tate said, holding up his hands helplessly. "But I have to!"

Before Tate could blink, the mercenaries had reclaimed their guns and were practically shoving the barrels into his face.

"Once again, nothing personal."

Why did everything have to be so difficult? Why couldn't people just say, "Oh, okay, I'll go to jail." But noooo, they had to get all whiny and go and point guns at his face.

"The sentiment is mutual, my good man."

The knife made a scraping sound as it was yanked from its sheath. It was silent, however, as Tate plunged it into the man's shoulder. It sank all the way to the hilt. He screamed and fell to the ground.

Fortunately, the AKA-47 is so inaccurate (or they were just really new to this) that Tate had enough time to pull out his shotgun and fire the other barrel. Two of the gunmen clutched their stomachs and fell to their knees. The remaining guys had enough time to correct their aim and fill Tate with lead.

Okay, they didn't fill him with lead. They did shoot him in the shins. Tate cried and hit the ground, his chin first, which is extremely painful. The sudden absence of a target disorientated the gunmen, allowing Tate enough time to get his revolver out of his backpack.

"Should have listened to me, you common dandies!"

Bam bam bam...bam BAM!

He got up and wiped the blood from his chin. They weren't getting up anytime soon, not with each of them having a .375 bullet in their shoulder.

Philip cursed savagely and threw his rifle at him and broke out into a run. Tate struggled to his feet and gave pursuit.

He didn't make it easy on Tate. He slammed doors shut, knocked over piles of boxes, and would take sharp turns that made Tate nearly tumble over sideways when he tried to keep up. His breath was becoming labored, and Tate could hear it.

The chase now became one of endurance, as Tate followed the mercenary down narrow alleyways between buildings. Philip knocked over some gang members as he passed by them. They yelled out and shook their fists at him, waving their guns intimidatingly.

"Sorry!" Tate said to them as he whizzed past.

It was painlessly obvious what was going to happen. Tate was gaining ground, his pace even and his stride long. Philip's was sloppy, his arms had stopped pumping at his sides to flailing, and his path became a crooked, uncertain one.

Then he cheated. There was a van, idling, its driver door open, sitting at the entrance of a parking lot. Philip dove in and cranked the engine. He shot Tate a very nasty gesture with one certain finger, and he drove off.

Tate gritted his teeth, put his head down, and picked up the pace. The van accelerated faster and faster, flying past parked cars and cement barriers.

The van careened around a corner and smashed through a tollbooth and sprayed gravel and wooden fragments into the air. Tate coughed and wiped the dust from his eyes and ran faster. This fellow, as clever as he thought he was, was not going to get away.

Tate was catching up again. Philip didn't seem to notice, the van didn't have side mirrors. He reached out, his fingers splayed, and then, success! He had a firm grip on a latch, but now, the van was pulling Tate along. With a mighty effort, Tate jumped onto the back of the van.

He took a knife and slashed the lock of the doors.

"Are you kidding me?" Philip yelled. He turned sharply, and they burst out of the Shipping District and onto the deserted Nixon Headway that was currently being rebuilt after a nasty explosion.

The doors swung open, which allowed Tate to jump inside.

With complete disregard for driving safety, Philip let go of the wheel, turned in his seat, and opened fire with a pistol. Tate ducked beneath the shots. Philip pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.

"You intrusive arse! Just leave me alone!" yelled Philip.

"I'd love to," Tate said, leveling his shotgun, "but I have a duty to...good God, stop the van! STOP THE VAN?"

Philip titled his head, then turned around. Through his windshield, he saw the beginning of a bridge that terminated rather abruptly at a mangled ramp caused by the before-mentioned explosion. It was rapidly getting bigger and bigger.

He slammed on the brakes, but that wasn't enough. The van was accelerating at 100 mph.

Tate swore and leaped out of the back of the van. He hit the ground, hard, and he could feel the asphalt scrape up his face. But it was better than poor Philip. His van sailed off the ramp and crashed into the water forty feet below.

Tate peered over the edge. There was a mass of frothy bubbles, but the van was gone.

"Poor Philip, I knew him...well, I knew him poorly, but no one deserves to die," he muttered. Then, to his great relief, Philip emerged, gasping for breath.

Whistling a catchy tune, Tate returned to the warehouse, a choking, dripping Philip over his shoulder.

Robert and his crew were standing, disbelieving, their pistols harmlessly at their sides, nudging the groaning mercenaries with their feet, like they were scared.

"What happened HERE?" Robert asked, horrified.

Tate chuckled and patted him on the shoulder, then handed Philip to him. "Hope you brought a big enough van." He headed out to his car (that was spray-painted with lewd pictures) and headed home.

"Honey, I'm home!" Tate called merrily as he scooted into their apartment with an armful of beans. "Don't mind my bloody pants, I dug all the bullets out. And the pain's started to go away, so yeah!"

He turned around and his jaw dropped. The room was destroyed. Paintings were on the floor, cracked and torn. The sofa, the kitchen table, the chairs were tipped over. The TV was smashed.

A bag of beans hit the ground and burst open and added to the mess.

Like a zombie, Tate walked through the surreal disaster. There was sticky-note on the fridge, that had apparently been bashed in several times with a baseball bat.

"Come to the Corvet Building. Tell no one."

< Message edited by Goldstein -- 10/24/2011 19:53:22 >

Post #: 3

10/15/2011 0:36:54

Goldstein
Member

September 8th, 8:12 p.m.

The Corvet Building was this large building that could be rented out for a variety of reasons. People likes to have weddings, bar mitzvahs, birthdays, reunions, gaming conventions...the smooth architecture and clean marble floors and big, bright windows made it a nice place to be. It almost looked like a place a man from fifty years ago would envision the future to look like; squeaky white walls with electronic posters showing the newest movies out, their brightness dim for the night, fake plants at every corner. Two staircases led up into an upper level hidden by darkness and beneath it, a large parlor. At night, it looked barren, and dusty, like a mortuary.

It was quiet. Tate's heavy footsteps echoed off the walls and glass dome that served as a ceiling. He and Jules had thought about getting married at the Corvet Building, but Jules confessed she wanted a wedding at a lakeside church right after they had paid the money to reserve the place. Tate had laughed at Jules' concern that he'd be mad.

"What's more important? $200 or making sure that the memories of our wedding are the best they can possibly be?"

Jules had kissed him all the way up to their bedroom.

Tate's head was swimming, his heart pounding. Was Jules here? She had to be. It was obvious that she had been kidnapped. But why? Why, why, why? Could it have had some connection to his work? No, all of the people he had ever arrested were still behind bars, with no contact with the outside world. He wasn't a rich man, either. Could it have been random? But how did that make any sense? What could he possibly have that they wanted?

"Hello?" called out Tate. His voice was repeated back at him. "I'm here. Where are you? Please, I'll give you whatever you want, just let Jules go with me."

No response.

Tate cursed under his breath. He was trying to break himself of the habit of swearing, Jules didn't like it. He was in the middle of the room, and he noticed something. A piece of paper was sitting in a pool of moonlight. Tate reached down, and with a pair of tweezers, picked it up.

"Come to The Fourteenth Annual Real Superheroes, Real Admirers Convention! Free food, drinks, and games, with a costume contest and a grand prize of $5,000!" Tate read aloud. He flipped it over, and his heart sank.

Written in a pen that was running out of ink were four words: "All over a briefcase."

A red light suddenly blinded Tate. There were red lights everywhere, burning his eyes, like they were lasers. Oh God, he thought, those are lasers.

All of the hidden turrets, hiding behind plastic plants and cardboard cutouts and behind banisters and under tables opened fire. Every nerve in his body exploded with pain as bullets struck Tate from every angle possible. His bullet-proof vest didn't last long and didn't do much. When the firing had stopped, Tate was lying in a pool of his own blood, and the vest was in tatters.

September 9th, 11:11 a.m.
Tate regained consciousness to the tune of voices. One was McCallister's, the other belong to a fellow from accounting.

"...can't deny it, McCallister. A man of your means can't afford Armani ties. I know you've been receiving checks from OmniRoe in the mail. Just confess, there's nothing wrong with that."

"How about instead of 'confessing,' as you call it, I tell you that looking into my financial records is illegal, I don't appreciate you calling me poor, and how about you beat it before I kick your...Tate! Welcome back to the land of the living!"

Tate rubbed his eyes and breathed in deeply. The hospital air smelled like antiseptics, not an entirely unpleasant smell. He saw McCallister standing over him, smiling. The accountant was nowhere to be seen. Tate wasn't even sure if he had ever been there to begin with.

"How are you feeling, old friend?" he said, placing a hand on Tate's shoulder. It was uneven from where the bullets had bitten the flesh.

"Like crap," he groaned, knuckling his forehead. He noticed that a tube was taped to his arm and disappeared beneath his skin. "How's the damage?"

"You're face isn't too bad, just a few scratches, and a gash at the hairline. The rest of you, well, the doctors said that...uhm...it would take a while for the skin to grow back."

Tate nodded, slowly sitting up in his bed. He could tell from the stretching of his skin that there were chunks missing. "What happened? What happened exactly?"

McCallister rubbed his jaw, thinking of how best to describe to Tate without upsetting him. "It was...an ambush. The turrets had been set up about an hour before you got there. The security cameras didn't catch any of the faces."

A doctor in a white coat ushered McCallister out. "I need a few minutes to speak with Mr. Sherman," he said in response to their protests.

He shut the door behind him, then turned to Tate, a huge, blinding smile on his face. "How do you feel, Mr. Sherman?"

"Fine, Doc. Can I talk to McCallister some more?'

"No, no. I need to speak with you...ask you a few questions. How do you feel whenever you are given your nanobot dosage?"

"Fine, no different, why?"

"How long do you go between doses?"

"...never more than a few minutes. Look, I have a few questions for McCallister, please, just..."

The doctor thoughtfully twirled his curly mustache. "Not now, not now. While you were...asleep, I noted several medical oddities. You shook, you would break out in cold sweats, and you kept scratching at your wrist, which I observed was where you primarily received your nanobot injections."

Tate narrowed his eyes. "What are you getting at?"

"You are addicted to the nanobots. For three days, you went without, and your blood pressure skyrocketed. They're not dangerous, exactly, but should you ever go without them, it could be a problem."

"That's a load of crap!" Tate yelled out.

The doctor held up his hands, palms out. "Calm down, this is mere speculation. I would need to do more tests. We're not all Goldensteins, Mr. Sherman. For now, just try to keep your blood pressure low, especially when you go without them. I'll send your friend back in, okay?"

The doctor stepped out, and a few moments later McCallister bounded in, smiling. It ebbed away when he saw the stern look on Tate's face.

"Where's Jules?" he asked impatiently.

McCallister nervously wrung his hands. "...she wasn't there. We can't find any trace of her. And there's something else. The brass shut down your Independent Investigation. Said there was a conflict of interest. Marie's case was handed off to someone else." He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled a puff and blew it out. "Your nanobot injections will be withheld until you're allowed back in the OU. In about three months."

Tate pressed his pillow to his face. "Can this day get any worse?" he yelled.

"Is everything okay?" It was Marie, in her lawyer's outfit, her hair pulled back in a bun. "Tate, are you okay?"

McCallister politely put out his cigarette and left, letting Tate explain to Marie why exactly he wasn't going to be able to help her. Perhaps it wasn't so polite for McCallister to leave after all.

< Message edited by Goldstein -- 10/24/2011 20:17:26 >

Post #: 4

10/22/2011 12:23:25

Goldstein
Member

September 9th, 11:30 a.m.

It was painful to look out his body, but Tate had to get dressed. It hurt a little where his skin stretched and would open a wound up a little bit more, but there wasn't any bleeding, most of them had scabbed over and bandaged heavily. His fleece tugged at the bandages and made his eyes water up. McCallister had the decency not to look.

"When am I getting my next nanobot injection?" he asked as he laced his boots.

"Actually, the brass has reassigned you. To desk-work, you know, so you can recover."

"And what about Jules?" Tate asked angrily, standing up. He hobbled over and looked McCallister right in the eye. He stood so close, their noses almost touched. "What is being done to find her? Tell me that."

McCallister rubbed the back of his neck, and averted his gaze. "We've handed the case over to the LCPD Missing Persons Department. They've got a team on it, trust me."

Tate choked back a sob. "You know they can't do a thing," he said quietly. "When's the last time they found a missing person...alive?"

There was a very long pause. Marie anxiously fiddled with her purse in the corner, her eyes shifting from the lean figure of Tate to the portly figure of McCallister.

"...it's been a while, I'm not going to lie."

Marie cried out and rushed over and threw her arms around Tate, who stoically stared straight ahead.

"I'm sorry, Tate. I really am," McCallister said, trying to squeeze in as much sympathy as he could muster.

"...did you trace where the bullets came from?" Tate whispered.

"Yeah, they're part of this new prototype turret, they use special bullets, no other gun uses them, and only one guy in the entire city sells them. Technically, I shouldn't tell you his name, but I suppose..."

Tate allowed a smile to creep onto his face. "McCallister, are you breaking rank to help me?"

He licked his dry lips, glancing around, to make sure no one was listening. "Hey, I like you and Jules together. You make a cute couple. The guy's name is Johan Yackosmidt. He's a German weapons dealer that usually acts as an informant for the Operations Unit, but he's gone dark. I do know he works out of the Yellow Light District at 4067 Baldur Road. Now, don't do anything stupid. Don't make me regret sharing this information with you."

"I won't trust me. And Marie? If I still can, I'll find your husband's briefcase. Initials JL, right?"

"Yes," Marie said as she dabbed at the corners of her eyes, "it's his name, Jerome Lunden. He's so happy that you're helping us. Even with all that's happening."

Tate placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I really should be off, I wouldn't want to keep Yackosmidt waiting. You'll sign me out, right Micky old buddy?"

McCallister nodded, but he looked grim. He watched, shaking his head a little, as Tate stumbled out of the hospital room. Then a moment of realization. "Ah, crap, I forgot his badge and gun. Crap, crap crap..."

Marie touched her arm and smiled sadly. "How could he do his job without those?" she asked.

He cursed and shook his head.

The Yellow District was the place where most of your white-collared crimes went down. Embezzlement meetings, Mafia pickups of stolen goods, bribery and blackmail, things like that. It wasn't as bad as the Red-Light District, that place was a down-right morally bankrupt zone, but Mr. Yackosmidt's presence did not make things much better in the Yellow-Light District.

He was a morbidly obese man with a greasy bald head that had a taste for cheap suits and cheaper cigars. Currently, he was settling a business deal with a few French crime lords inside a dingy apartment.

"These things," he said, resting a hand on the gleaming white turret, "are fully automatic, motion activated, easily reloaded, any moron can use them. You can even program DNA into these things so that it won't shoot the person with that DNA."

Monsieur Claudier rapped his knuckles against the turret's metal case. "Zhe turrets, how much for one?" he drawled.

"Fifteen thousand dollars each. Or, wait, sixteen thousand Euros. That sounds good, right?"

Monsieur Claudier glanced at his associate, who rolled his eyes in exasperation. "We'll pay five hundred and five thouzand dollarz. Per unit."

"Deal, deal, that's a deal!" Yackosmidt squealed gleefully.

The two Frenchmen had pulled out their checkbooks when Tate pressed his shotgun and revolver against the backs of their heads. "If I may make a suggestion, I suggest you two leave. Now."

The Frenchmen slowly and warily put away their checks and slowly backed away, their hands in the air.

"Zhe Americans, zhey are inzane," Claudier grumbled as they walked out of the apartment, closing the flimsy plaster door behind them.

Yackosmidt turned very red and purple in the face. "What's the big idea? I'm trying to make a living here, and you scare away my customers! There'll be hell to pay, trust me! I have ties to the OU, and I-"

Tate shoved his shotgun in his face and said, very cheerfully, "Sit down."

Yackosmidt was happy to oblige. He fell back into a weak, collapsible chair that whined under the pressure of his weight. "W-who are you?" he asked, terrified.

"You know the Corvet Building? How it's full of bullets? Because of those turrets behind you?"

All of the blood drained out of Yackosmidt's face, and he started making strange fish noises. "You, you're the guy!"

Tate grinned and pressed the shotgun to his forehead and the revolver to his chest. "Yeah, I'm alive! I'm a little stiff, I'm a little sore, but I'm very much alive. Say, can I ask you a question?"

There was a very long lapse in conversation.

"I'll take that as a yes. Who sold you those turrets? Come now, I needs names. That's all."

"God, please don't kill me, please, please, I have so much life ahead of me," he whimpered.

A cruel laugh escaped Tate's lips. "Yes, I'm sure the fifty cheeseburgers waiting for you back home will positively break down in tears if you don't eat them. Now, I have a very bad migraine right now, and my finger just might slip. So, for your sake, answer. Quickly."

"Wha, wait! It was a bunch of CEO's! A bunch of guys in suits bought them!"

"What. Company." It was more of a demand than a question.

"Uh, Roberts&Easton, Berkeley Incorporated, and PluriPotent Enterprises. Please, please don's shoot me."

Tate narrowed his eyes. He could envision it easily. The report from the gun, the spray, the choked off scream, the ringing of the gunshot, the dripping. It was all so easy to see in his mind's eye, like it was a scene taken from a bad action movie. Just pull the trigger, come on now, take your revenge! Punish him! He sold the turrets to the people that took the most important person in your life away from you! The people you tried to kill you! Just shoot him, SHOOT HIM!

...no... thought Tate sadly.

When he got Jules back, and he would, the idea of him not getting her back was an impossible scenario, he would grip her and hold her and never let her go, and he could not, he would not hug her with hands stained with this man's blood.

He lowered his weapons and shuffled off, dejected, aching, heartbroken, but proud of himself. The door slammed shut, and Tate could hear Yackosmidt's crying no longer.

< Message edited by Goldstein -- 10/27/2011 21:11:50 >

Post #: 5

10/27/2011 21:46:05

Goldstein
Member

September 10th, 2:30 p.m.

The Robert&Easton headquarters was the second tallest tower in Liberty City. It was perpetually overshadowed by OmniRoe's building. It was still the second-largest supplier and developer of weapons in Liberty City. It made the second-highest profits, employed the second-most amount of employees, and was ranked second highest on a list of places you'd like to work at. The CEO, Jonathan Lockheart, was not a man that liked to be second, however. He hired a man to spy on OmniRoe's CEO, one Mr. Mavet, and report on what he wore. Mr. Lockheart made sure his suits were 50% more expensive and exquisite.

"Mr. Lockheart is not in today, sir," the plucky blonde secretary said.

Tate knuckled his forehead, frustrated. "Okay, well, can I see his schedule, then?"

"Uh, no. That's personal, silly!"

"Well, tell that to this badge," Tate said, whipping it out. It sparkled in the bright lights.

"Oh, in that case, Special Unit Operator Sherman, he is hosting a poker game in his office on the top floor! Like he does every Saturday!"

Tate smiled graciously and bowed. The secretary blushed and shooed him away. With a roll of his eyes Tate entered the mirror-paneled elevator and pressed the button with the highest button.

"...what is love? Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more...what is love..." played the elevator as it shot upwards at a break-neck speed.

"Jeez, Jules always loved that song," Tate said heavily as he leaned against one of the walls, his arms crossed his chest.

There was a ding, and the doors slid open to reveal a very wide-open room that was completely bare except for a few marble pillars, collapsible chairs tables. Oh, and about thirty mercenaries. They were there too, cleaning their guns, playing cards, listening to their MP12's, things like that.

It was a horrifying-enough sight to make Tate defecate. But his bowels had to be strong. "Prepare to be incapacitated, you pathetic, whimpering masses of purchased slime!" He fired both of barrels at the same time, utterly destroying a nearby game of Spades and knocking out three hired guns. Twenty-seven more to go.

He ducked behind a pillar before any of them could react. Before a single hostile shot could be fired, Tate had reloaded his shotgun and fired once again, causing another group of men to tumble to the ground, smarting with pellets embedded in their facial skin.

"Shoot the noob!" someone yelled, and a countless amount of gunshots filled the air, drowning out everything else. Tate waited and waited, hoping the marble was resistant enough. A little longer, a little longer, then...

Silence, every single gun fell totally silent, followed by a desperate, "Reload, reload! Now!"

Tate jumped out from behind the pillar, that was very close to crumbling to nothing, and fired his shotgun, then threw it to the ground. He drew his knife and charged, bellowing a war cry.

He slashed one of the mercenaries on the chest, and shanked the one next to him in the shoulder. They fell to the ground, howling, despite not even being mortally wounded. Tate seized one of the assault rifles and blasted away, making sure to only hit the ground surrounding their feet. The bullets tore through their boots and caused them to collapse, screaming.

There was a click, and without even looking, Tate spun around and threw his knife with all of his might. It flew through the air and knocked the pistol out of the shocked mercenary's hands. Tate smiled and punched him so hard he hit the ground almost immediately.

All of the mercenaries were rolling on the ground, moaning, and Tate had not a single scratch on him. He felt great. "Who needs nanobots! Addicted, I think not! Ha ha!"

His celebration was cut short by a huge hand that reached out and gripped him by the top of the head. The hand spun him around, and Tate found himself face-to-face to with a seven-foot giant whose head was covered by a helmet with a skull pattern.

"Indeed," the giant rumbled, "who needs nanobots?"

"Where were you hiding?" Tate asked, astonished.

As if Tate was a crumpled piece of paper, the giant flicked him across the room. He hit a marble pillar, his head first. It made a sickening crack. Tate felt blood drip down his neck.

"Come at me, little man," the giant roared, flexing his muscles as they rippled under his metal body armor. "Come try your luck with The Bombardier!"

Post #: 6

11/5/2011 15:42:59

Goldstein
Member

September 10th

The Bombardier charged, his head out first, like a battering ram. He was like a gigantic torpedo, an unstoppable force, and unfortunately Tate was no an unmovable object. Tate dove to the side and rolled. He staggered to his feet, panting. His whole body hurt, it wasn't use to this amount of physical exertion without the help of the nanobots.

With a echoing whoop The Bombardier changed course and charged again. Tate dodged again, and before he could stop or turn, the Bombardier smashed right through the stone pillar. It exploded in a shower of dust and fragmented marble. The Bombardier shook his head, like a wet dog, and wiped the dust from the front of his helmet.

"Feel like giving up yet?" Tate called out. "I can go, go all-" He was interrupted by a hacking cough that doubled him over.

The giant watched on, a bemused look on his face. "I was about to ask you the same question, little man. What kind of assassin are you, anyhow? Why would you charge through the front like this? Are you just a dumb assassin?"

Tate leaned back against the wall, his fists raised in a feeble excuse for a fighting stance. "I'm no assassin, now put up your fists, villain!"

"I am no villain!" The Bombardier said, confused. He walked up to Tate and swatted away his fists. "Why do you think I am villain?"

Tate's head was pounding, and his knees began to tremble. He was in no mood to argue morals with a circus freak, but it beat getting pulverized. "I'm just trying to talk to the men in the room beyond this one. You're the one working with mercenaries."

"We are protection from assassin," The Bombardier said defensively.

"No, you're hired guns."

"But I don't use guns," The Bombardier said, even more confused. "You just want to talk to men?"

"Yes, yes I do."

The Bombardier stroked his helmet where his chin would have been. "Give me all your weapons, and I will allow it," he said authoritatively.

Tate gladly handed him his shotgun and revolver. "My knife is over there," he said dully, pointing to the object still lodged in the prostrate's figures shoulder.

"Very well, but if I hear one gunshot, I will snap your neck as if it was a KitKat Bar."

Tate swallowed dryly and nodded. "Duly noted." With some difficulties he trudged over the the door, but before he opened it, he glanced over his shoulder. The Bombardier was standing in the middle of a room torn apart by bullets and fists, and for some reason, Tate could tell that he was smiling under the helmet.

"Have a nice discussion," he said.

"I will," Tate said as he opened the door.

The scene before him would have been hard to comprehend even if he didn't have head trauma.

Under a heavy oak table Tate could see three men in suits quivering with fear. On the table was Jules, gagged and tied up in a sitting position. And behind her was, was...

"Shut the door, Tate," said Agent McCallister as he pressed the pistol to the back of Jules' head.

Tate very carefully obliged, then, without having to be told, put his hands in the air. "If you're going to shoot me, move Jules out of the way first," he said.

McCallister sneered. "Oh, I'd love to. Really, I would, but no one in this room is leaving alive. The only thing that's stopping any of you from going to the police is a bullet to the brain."

Tate's stomach was doing somersaults, and his vision was going a little blurry. "What...is this a joke? No, this isn't funny. McCallister, what's going on? What have you done?"

"Aw, you're so dazed. So hurt. Nothing without your nanobots, eh? No one is. Now you're just like the rest of us. How does it feel?" McCallister chuckled. His face had taken on a totally new aura. Instead of being jolly and understanding, envy, rage, and deceit shone. "I do hate to kill a man when he's confused, so let me clarify some points."

"I began working as an informant for the corporation OmniRoe about six months ago. You might be happy with your paycheck, Tate, but I wanted more. And they gave it to me. An extra $5,000 in the banking account every month, and I made sure I gave them a heads-up whenever the Operations Unit was about to hit one of their places.

"Everything was going swimmingly until that mugger stole a briefcase full of sensitive corporate information. The OU wasn't going to waste time on such a small case, because we weren't about to say what was actually in the briefcase, so we had Marie pretend to be the guy's wife and talk to you."

"Wait, Marie," Tate furrowed his brow. "She's, she's in on this?"

"She did play her part beautifully, didn't she?" McCallister said. He was gloating now. Every lie he revealed was another victory scored. "We'd get the suitcase back, and you'd be an unwitting pawn. As it turned out, the mugger and the mercenaries that stopped you at the Von Braun Building had been hired by our competitors, Roberts&Easton. They set you up, Tate, they're the ones that shot you all to hell and kidnapped Jules. So, we're not the only bad guys here. I figured they'd want to talk to each other, so when I found these three here, I also found Jules and the suitcase. It's a shame, but since she knows who I really am, I have to kill her. I'm really, really sorry, Tate, but I gave my word. Contract and everything."

All of this information was buzzing in an out of Tate's head. "At least tell me the name of the man who hired you, so I can curse both of you with my dying breath," he said groggily. He was vision was beginning to go fuzzy, and the blood dripping down his neck had not stopped.

"Oh, not a problem. He was a real high-level OmniRoe employee, a guy named Mr-"

Before he could finish his sentence, before he could utter the name, a sniper bullet cut through the window behind him and buried itself in his heart. It was necessary, of course. The moment an agent starts doling out information like that is the moment he becomes a loose end. McCallister's pale, pudgy face was one of shock as he slowly stumbled backwards and through the glass. He disappeared without a trace, as if he had never even been there."

The three men hiding under the table popped out. "Uncut the girl," the oldest one, a man with white hair and deep wrinkles, said. The other two obliged while he rushed over to Tate, who was rocking back and forth, about to fall down.

"You must listen to me, my boy," the CEO said swiftly. "Listen. We hired that man to steal that briefcase because we knew it was full of evidence. Evidence of the human experimentation OmniRoe has been committing, evidence of their connections to Skull Deep. We were told that you were in the same league as that bastard McCallister. We thought you were corrupt. I'm sorry we tried to kill you. I'm going to give you an anesthetic, and when you wake up, I swear on my life, you will find all your girlfriend unharmed and the briefcase full of evidence. Okay? Okay?"

Tate nodded, a dreamy smile on his face. He had heard everything the CEO of Robert&Easton had said, but he wouldn't understand until he woke up in six hours. When he did wake up, he would find everything just as the old man had promised. But right then, Tate was staring at Jules, looking into her eyes. She was returning the stare, and wordlessly, they communicated to each other their unbridled joy to find the other unharmed.

FIN

Post #: 7

Page: [1]

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