...Into Our Own Hands [CVU Closed Thread] (IC)

@nightwarden17: @jason_ford: @ali_sani_bashir: @roddi_bonaparte: @dragonfang_: @rey_everdeen: @kingeditor: @the_dark_spider: @contingency:

Jack sat in the car, sipping his cold refreshment in thought. This ICEE, as it was called, was a delightful treat indeed. At first taste, the gentleman jack-o-lantern declared it the greatest of all drinks right on the spot. However, his mood soured a bit at the news of Ms. Bishop's actions. Answering Roddi's question, he commented,

"I could never understand these actions, you humans are capable of such wonderful things. you achieve the impossible everyday, it is why I admire you. So, why do you resort to killing as a solution to matters like these?"

Jack shook his head, his normal smile turned to a sad frown. He sighed into the comm, "Ready to help with whatever you need."

@roddi_bonaparte: @dr_halloween: @nightwarden17: @jason_ford: @dragonfang_: @icefire_outlaw: (everyone else the tags are too long lol)@the_dark_spider:

"Fight fight fight" Violent and vivid images of a portly, yet agile handed child raced through Salvatore's sub-conscious mind. His white shirt and slacks, held in place by tease-worthy suspenders, were prominently featured in his unconscious playback of the torturous years at an undisclosed private school. The trauma of which repeatedly plagued his dreams-turned nightmares. A specific incident held higher then any before, or since. "fight fight fight" the excitable chants continued to resonate. He could see the blood on his clinched fist. Abnormally large for a child his age. He could feel the bully turned victim's bones breaking with each strike. "fight fight fight!"

With a sudden gasp Salvatore instantly woke from the previous state of suspended animation. Hands and legs shackled in re-enforced irons, his body jerking and shaking from side to side as the police transport van continued to hit every pot-hole in sight. Slowly the self-proclaimed King of Kings rolled his neck to the right, allowing it to pop, then to the left, another pop. "That guuuy" his words deliberately drawn out with effective embellishment, "hits like a girl." Smiling across the way to the death dealing princess of substantial mob-notoriety. "You're quit the accomplished assassin, daddy's little girl." Revealing he had indeed clocked Fang's hereditary linage. "Ah yes, I know who you are. Who you father was." raising his arms as high as the restraints would allow, "birds of a feather." he deadpanned.

They had been captured, arrested, and were now in the legal protection of law-enforcement. The so-called heroes would have no reason to believe their 'plan(s)' had failed. No reason to suspect that the Warden's never ending river of countermeasures had faltered. No reason to believe they had dismantled in hours what had been created over decades. But Salvatore had emerged as the last man standing. His competition, gone. His rivals, gone. His freedom, gone.

So was it over? Was this the end?

I deleted my god mod,won't happen again, sorry, that was not my intent.

@nightwarden17: (its all good. I sent you a pm)

((Okay, finally here!))

An oversized red wagon and a conspicuous young man looked up from their evening stroll at the large building, whose sign read "Chase Public Library."

Any onlookers would be thoroughly and heartily distressed at the sight of almost every weapon, firearm, and occasional sex toy piled up high on the strained wagon. If wagons had nervous systems, joints, and skeletons, it would be in the middle of an excruciating hernia, and would have had several visits to the chiropractor for treatment of its crippling arthritis and back problems, all the while its wagon spawn would starve and shiver without any money left over for meals.

But this was something of a common occurrence in and around the Chase Public Library, according to the mysterious email the conspicuous young man had received last week, giving him a set of instructions for immediate, prepaid departure to Chicago for a long night of hot, vigilante action. That humorous comparison alone was practically dripping with sexuality compared to the actual amount of "hot action" the young man had received in his trek to the library. A combination of bad weather, holiday delays, traffic, and a thoroughly bizarre incident involving clashing groups of fundamentalist Christian, Scientologist, and Pastafarian street protesters, had resulted in Conrad arriving several hours late to the scheduled place of meeting.

Yet there was one difference between him and the rest: a small radio atop the pile of ridiculously contraband and non-contraband ridiculous items held in his red wagon, playing a rare uncensored version of "Die Muthafucka die," which was now on its umpteenth repeated lyric of the same words.

The man was Conrad Lobo.

(And this is his disembodied narrator! Coming along for the ride!)

Conrad halted in his tracks.

It was a voice that–if a dozen times less Yankee Northeastern and a dozen times more intimidating– could be said to be not unlike god.

"Oh yeah, you're here to." he said, recalling the narrator's abrupt departure from his friend's cranium to his own. "Are you uh... gonna do they whole... you know... 'Imagine him how you-' "

(Conrad is a young man in his early 20s. He is never seen without his heavy winter jacket, worn without regard to the season or temperature, and open only at the front, as well as his black and aquamarine leather gloves.

Imagine him you will.)

Letting out a satisfied "hmm," Conrad entered the library.

((I'll be sure to post the rest of Conrad's odyssey at the receptionist desk later!))

@kingeditor: (we're now all in a different thread, Dividing the Spoils. If you still want to post here you can, just...nobody else is in here lol)

((Ah, my mistake!))