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Member No.: 6
Joined: 25-May 12
((Okay, here it is, the first new RP post in a while. Friendly reminder for all who are new to Freeform: Just because we're in the same thread, does NOT mean we all have to be interacting at the same time. You can write in flashback, your characters can all be in different sides of the City, anything. We'll just go with the flow and roll with the punches.
Sorry about the poor grammar, like changing verb tenses every other sentence. It's been a very long time since I've written, besides a few small things here and there. Gotta get back into the hang of things.))
The smell of death has become more prominent and more frightening. It was less a warning, as it had been, of impending doom. It no longer signified a chaotic night. The smell of death has become the scent of order, of the natural way of life. Every night a riot would result in a handful dead, or two gangs would fight over a final shipment of drugs or weapons. Families and homeless alike would rip others to shreds for food.
Pulling the cowl over his head, Gregory Thomas transformed into The Shadow, a terror of the night that patrolled the streets and alleys of the poverty-stricken sections of the City, alternating his routine every few days or weeks to remain anonymous and free.
The Shadow hunted for predators. Those who would pick on the weak, on the defenseless, on the innocent and free. The Shadow hunted for survival. He scared off any who would oppose him, he hurt and kill any dangers in the area. The Shadow hunted for dominance. If any gang would get too strong in the region, he would put them on the run by burning their base, picking off new recruits, anything of the sort; always being sure to leave a message that it was he who caused it.
His fear tactics and intimidation left him with a series of contacts, and fighters, and gangs who would help him. Though, of course, none were quite friends- simply a wave of people who didn't feel like angering The Shadow. Tonight, his mind was on winning over a local powerhouse who went under the pseudonym White Fox. He recently moved into the slums after the lock-down, and brought with him his collections of Cubs, a series of agents who did his bidding for protection and pay. The Shadow got word of a Cub who was frequenting a bar down the street. If he could weasel information out of him, he could track down White Fox.
The Shadow climbed out of the factory he'd been huddling in and jumped out into the alley beside his house. Closing his eyes, he entered the darkness and zoomed down the alleyway, hearing the voices of late-night drinkers through windows as he passed, and seeing the faces of those who slept outside. At the end of the alley, where it meets a road the cuts straight through the slums, he paused and took the form of a faint ghost, hovering up by the walls. He listened in, noticing flashing lights around the corner. It seems the police had begun cracking down in this neighborhood. The past week, they've been in the center of the City, arresting loud-mouthed politicians and rearranging the local government and instituting their wave of new laws. Now, it seems, they're removing the threat of any gangs in the region.
How unfortunate, thought Shadow. I guess I'll just have to move quicker.
He left the darkness, pulling his cloak tighter over his head and keeping slouched. His invisibility was compromised, but he saw what was happening: three squad cars had surrounded the bar, Frankie's Pub, the one with the Cub informant within. Four officers were taking cover behind their vehicles, guns drawn and sirens flashing. He noticed five had gone down the sides of the building, two on the left and three on the right, while another two were up by the door.
All Shadow needed was a little darkness.