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|Heroes Vs Villains > Drydocks > A Foot in the Door (Solo)|
|Posted by: Nuhaine Sep 3 2015, 10:30 AM|
| Thoughts swirled in Dr. Creed's mind as the morning dew settled along the rail above the large cement blocks that ingrained themselves into the ocean floor to provide a dry area for his fellow humans to traverse upon the water. The railing was cool to the touch as he held it, leaning over it and staring at the inky blackness of sky and sea. A lone lighthouse scintillated slowly, serving as a beacon to all who might be shipping goods to and from this port.
Creed's desires were growing more powerful now. He felt extremely motivated to find something, some sort of new font for his power. Twofold, he thought. Infiltrate, understand, control, dominate. It was no secret that drug smuggling happened here. It didn't help his goals that he knew so little about it, and that was something he aimed to change. He honestly believed that these docks would be his someday, and this thought brought a gleeful smirk to his face.
Relinquishing the rail, he strode alongside the warehouses dotting the southern end of the drydocks. He was looking for someone, to make a connection with. It was so early that there were only a handful of night watchmen left, and they were sluggish in their duties. He surmised by their slow gait and the way they checked their watches that their graveyard shift was up. This was the perfect time for him to act, if only he could find something to act upon.
Then came his break, the moment he turned a corner and saw the glow of the indoor lighting of a car - not just any car, a police car. A police car with a man inside. A man with experience, knowledge, know-how. A man that knew these docks pretty well. A man with connections, intel, strategy.
Sure, other men had seen things on these docks. But this one was different, for what he had locked up in that skull of his. It wasn't just a job, but a way of life. A way of life Creed hungered to learn about, exploit, control, and capitalize upon. With restrained glee, he approached the vehicle with a confident gait.
The window was closed, the occupant inside enjoying a meal. Like a moth to a flame, Creed grew closer and closer until he rapped the back of his knuckles on the window. Tap, tap, tap. The sounds startled the cop, who looked both directions in the vehicle with a skittish assessment of the situation. Swallowing, he strained out a muffled and frustrated "What?" as he spoke from within the car. The window was closed, but the officer pressed a button and began to lower it.
"This better have been good enough to interrupt my meal." The man said, looking out at the car at Creed, who leaned forward. However, Creed mustered a great deal of anxiety and worry. He plastered it all over his face, and his eyes began to water as he forced a pained yelp. It was all an act, but the officer's eyes widened with surprise as the facade.
"There's been a, a... been a..." Creed began to speak.
"Spit it out." The cop said, impatient.
"I, you should come see. Shooting, crate full of little kids. Bastards." Hook, line, and sinker. Creed found just the right words to entice this officer into a blind rage. There was a good chance he had a son or at least some attachment to a child. Creed backed away as the man threw his sandwich on the dashboard and swiveled out of his comfy seat.
Now standing in front of Creed, he could tell that the cop was somewhat new to the job. He had frizzy black hair and a youthful look to him. He'd grown tough fast, but he was naive. Creed assumed that the cop's naivety would be his downfall. He wouldn't think of a trap, but Creed's eyes traced the movement of the cop's hands as they went for the radio on his chest.
Creed wouldn't let that happen. A swirl of energy shot through his mind and ejected itself through his voice. "That isn't necessary." He commanded. He didn't want this man to have a recent history of possible demise or worse, call for backup. No, that would complicate things. He'd prevented it, swiftly enough.
The cop stared blankly, before snapping out of it. "Yeah, sure, you're right." He said. "Where's the crime scene?" He asked.
Creed continued to pander, reaching up and biting his nails. He wasn't under an illusion at the time, but he wondered how the man perceived him. He was disheveled, unkempt. Bags underneath his eyes, but he wasn't wearing the uniform of a security guard. Someone more perceptive might have asked a question about his role here on the docks, but he had already slipped the man enough reason to ignore what's in front of him.
"Follow me," Creed said, an overhand wave gesturing the impending movement he made towards the warehouses. There was an area of railing that was a blind spot to the security guards, and it was far enough away that he estimated there'd be at least thirty to forty-five seconds of time available for him to make his move. He didn't bat an eye as the officer drew his gun from its holster as they jogged.
Creed pressed his back to the cold, wet metal paneling of the warehouse as they approached the corner. "The man is somewhere up ahead, be careful." This cop, with no backup, walked ahead. Creed turned the corner as well, following behind the cop as they walked. Another step in Creed's plan played out as they walked, Creed making a facade of worried fear.
"You should stay back." The cop said, not looking at Creed who took a few long strides with a sense of giddiness. Cold, calculative hands reached out and enclosed either side of the cop's head. Energy surged from Creed's mind into the cop's noggen, investigating and prodding as the cop seized with shock. Mind throwing blanks, he was completely and utterly stunned. His hands locked up, squeezing the trigger of his pistol twice, but empty clicks followed. The safety was on.
Creed's mind delved into the memories of the cop, tugging at them and shipping them away. The strongest memories were family. His name was John Mars Bronson. He had an elderly mother, a brother, and a nephew. He was close to the nephew. Further back, Creed found himself learning of the police training academy. Police lingo permeated his mind, together with the intricacies of the gun and how to use it. The cop couldn't remember some of the codes, but most of them were at least fragmented to be remembered upon hearing them. Relationships with the force were brought to the forefront.
He had a crush on a female officer named Maggie, and he often went on patrol with another cop named Michael. Bits and pieces of his personality began to form an image in Creed's mine as to how this man behaved and acted. Hobbies, social life, interests, obligations. A near-death experience as a child had formed into a fear of swimming, and the ocean. He found B-movies such as those about sharks absolutely horrifying, irrationally so.
And then, there were the experiences on the docks. Police briefings, and his response to calls to the docks. There were several gangs on the docks involved in criminal activity, and he'd conducted much in the way of surveillance on them. There were the Valkyries, an all-female group. Then, the Shades of Purple. Perhaps the scariest of the groups was The Golem. Officer Bronson had paid the most attention to them. They were known for brainwashing orphans as foot soldiers, and recruiting many mentally unstable people to bolster their ranks.
Then he learned that Michael, a skinny and short officer that officer Bronson worked with, had gone undercover to try and infiltrate the organization. He had a supplier role and reported to officer Bronson each night with new information. Together, they had a lead on one of the recruiters, a man with a metal mask that facilitated the delivery of goods to suppliers, and then to a network of distributors. The chain was vast with this one, the cop and indeed the entire LCPD knowing nothing of the one in charge of this organization.
This intrigued Creed greatly, but his grip on the man's mind was faltering. Creed's energy had reached its limit. He let go, breaking the connection as the man stooped forward in delirium. then crumpling to the ground in a daze as his gun clattered to the ground. "The hell was that?" Asked officer Bronson as he stumbled to pick himself up off the ground.
Creed was coming down from his stimulation, staring down at the struggling cop. He mustered up a little bit more power, and he knew exactly how to answer that question. "You've fallen and hit your head, so you should give me your gun in case someone attacks us." Creed smiled to himself as the officer sat up, rubbing his temples.
"Alright, take it. It's for the best, you know how to use it right?" The cop was still recovering.
Creed nodded, "Yeah." He leaned over and picked up the gun, and then walked behind the cop. He clicked the safety off, extended his arm, and shot the officer in the back of the head. A flash of light left the barrel, and the bullet implanted itself in the center of Bronson's skull. Bronson fell over, dead.
Creed began to whistle a tune as he reached into his own mind for the location of important belongings. He dropped to his knees. Thirty seconds. He began to systematically pull the wallet, keys, and phone from the corpse. It had contacts, numbers within the police force. While he was at it, Creed became the man. In his mind, he pieced together Bronson's psyche so that he could better portray him. Outwardly, his energy radiated forth to those that would likely soon look upon him and give him the appearance of the cop he had slain.
A figure of authority, nobody would ask questions. With one last act, he unpinned the badge from the man's uniform after stuffing his own pockets with the man's personal belongings. Stowing that away, he hoisted up the man by the front of his jacket and let out a grunt as he muscled the dead weight towards, up, and then over the railing. With one more shove, the corpse sailed the open seas.
The flashlight of a security guard flashed by him. "Officer, I heard a bang. Is everything alright?"
"I fired a warning shot at some gangbangers, and they ran away." Said Creed, under the guise of Officer Bronson. "They shouldn't be back for awhile, but be warned that they are armed and highly dangerous."
That was enough for the security officer, who turned the other way without another word. He likely didn't want to get involved. Creed turned his attention to the skyline as the body drifted out into the ocean. The blue uniform and the black hair made it difficult to see the corpse bobbing on the tide, which was taking it out further and further. This identity wouldn't last forever, but he surmised it'd be long enough to meet up with this officer Michael and take his position too.
Walking over to Bronson's car, no, -his- car, Creed leaned back on the posh seat of the victoria. He tossed the half-eaten sandwich into the passenger seat and remembered that the officer kept a water bottle in the glove box. A little parched, he popped the glove box open and retrieved the bottle of crystalline room-temp water. Unscrewing the cap, he guzzled it back as his mind settled and he thought about what to do next.
Might as well go on patrol. He finished the entire bottle and tossed it into the passenger seat with the other trash. He knew how much money was in the wallet, and took a mental note of how many credits he now had and how many bullets were left in his pistol. Fishing out the key, he put it into the ignition and turned it. The engine roared to life, and he turned on the police radio. A stream of ongoing crime and emergencies buzzed into his ears as he put the vehicle into reverse and turned it around before heading out into the city with his stolen police vehicle.
|Posted by: Vandy Sep 10 2015, 04:04 PM|
That night, a phone rang in John Bronson's cheap apartment that was located blocks from the station. It continued to ring, three or four times, until a message was left over the answering machine:
"Johnny, it's Dan. I don't know why you're not picking up tonight... you promised me months ago that you would always call me when you got back from the shift. I need you, man. I've been getting the urges again. It feels... I can almost taste it again, man. Call me back as soon as you get home, Unc."
The new Crown Victorian- license plate RIX-72P- ran very smoothly. John Mars Bronson earned the new wheels through a promotion not three months ago. It wasn't a hefty promotion. He was still working the Docks, after all. But it was enough to afford him a new apartment, with a bed to sleep on rather than a sleeping bag as he slept before.
His- Creed's- phone has a number of contacts. The notables:
- Mikey Hildago (Officer Michael)
- Danny (nephew)
- Christy (childhood friend)
There were also a variety of names and numbers that Creed couldn't recollect. Some memories were vague or too distant, and Creed hadn't enough time to access those ones. Names like "Tony Bigony", and "Franklin", and four contacts listed "Bro 1", "Bro 2", "Bro 3", and "Bro 4".
There wasn't much money with John Bronson. He was only carrying 73 credits, which was his "go-to" money that he brought with him for patrol, in case he got the munchies. He started the night with 100 credits. The pistol he was carrying was a regulated G43 9mm, with 5 bullets left in the clip and one extra clip (6 bullets) in his belt. The police weren't allowed to carry more than two clips on them at a time, and were supposed to resupply at the armory if they ran low.
As Creed/John pulled away from the sector, a memory clicked back into his mind- a meeting with Maggie that was scheduled thirty minutes ago. He planned on finishing the Double Trouble burger with his large Lemon Blast and then leaving to meet her at the Gree-C Bar in Riverdale.