Element
I've made 25 posts
33 years.
Casket
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SIX
Jan 26, 2019 1:00:22 GMT -6
Post by Plymouth Weir on Jan 26, 2019 1:00:22 GMT -6
January, 2021. Jersey City, New Jersey.
Bathed in the glow of a large wall mounted flat screen, Plymouth sprawled out on the couch, the leather flexing beneath his weight as the rhythmic drum of ice pellets beat against the window behind him. Twisting his head he stared out into the gloam, vivid violet eyes surveying the silhouettes of bare branches as they swayed and swerved in the high winds of the winter storm raging across New York. He sipped his coffee, attention returning to the six o’clock news once again focused on yet another blatant criminal act of President Luthor, one of many since he had taken over the office. One thing after the other, a virtual shit-storm of constitutional infringements and abuse of power, slowly transforming the country into an autocratic corporation. Social media wasn’t much better, one idiot after the other thinking they still had a government that gave a shit. Nazis lighting up swastikas on the White House lawn in “peaceful” protest of the disrespectful bleeding heart liberals not duped by their despot cult-leader. The whole country was coming apart at the seams and each time he watched that smug asshole spin his lies he and millions of others all thought the same thing, “Where the hell was Superman?”
They’d all pinned their salvation on ‘The Man of Steel’ for so long people had forgotten how to fight for themselves, to know a goddamn conman when they saw one. Now, sightings of the red and blue had become as infrequent as celestial events and most of the big hitters kept their heads down for fear of ending up in Luthor’s crosshairs.
“Fuck’n asshole.” Plymouth grumbled.
Stoker, the big black cat curled up on the other end of the couch lazily opened his eyes in response to the complaint; yawning, stretching and returning to sleep. He had the right idea. Plymouth didn’t know why even bothered watching this shit anymore if he wasn’t going to do anything about it. He’d once driven across four states to crucify some shits who were torturing dogs. His justice wasn’t just reserved for the two legged hypocrites that had fucked up the world, but Luthor, he was untouchable. For him. If the Justice League wasn’t making a move against his rule then they had damn good reason, at least that’s what, Plymouth told himself so he could sleep at night. That and the fucking idiots that worshipped Luthor like a god. The two-faced evangelicals and fundamentalist fanatics the controlled the country had outlawed most of the super-heroes that hadn’t fallen in line. Captain America had become the symbol of the “Resistance” that fought against Luthor’s police-state propaganda, risking public appearances despite Tony Stark’s Federal Regulation Bureau breathing down his neck.
Damn, Plymouth wanted to hit someone. It’d been a week since he’d been out on the streets. Fighting crime wasn’t what it used to be. People were just as likely to turn you in as they were for thanking you for saving them. They were scared, worried about being labeled an accessory to aiding and abetting a vigilante. Stark’s idea, made law soon after Luthor sat down in the Oval Office.
Before you headed out you had to be damn sure what you were getting into, a crime-fighter just couldn’t walk the beat anymore. Lately, Casket had been targeting Nazis. Ever since they crawled out from beneath their rocks, emboldened by Luthor’s ‘Third-Reich’ visions for America, he’d taken cause to driving them back into their holes. Of course there were only so many gangs you could tear apart before one realized that the roaches multiplied faster than they could be exterminated. That’s when he knew he needed to target the heads instead of the assholes. Time to return to his role as a detective and find the source. That’s what he’d been doing, or rather his algorithms had been plugging away at the data, connecting the dots by hacking law enforcement databases little by little by lot. Avoiding discovery required extensive precautions which in turn took time, but time he had, Plymouth just wasn’t very good at filing up the space with a life.
The glow of Plymouth’s phone illuminated the shadowy corner aside the couch followed by the theme music from ‘The Exorcist’ playing softly. He picked it up and checked the message. It was Sylvia reminding him about his ‘two o’clock’. She always gave him a head’s up about these kinda things which he was prone to forget. Arcane Security Systems would totally live up to it’s acronym without her. Most of the time, Plymouth didn’t even know what day of the week it was. His priorities shifted precariously between civilian life and that of his alter ego. She kept it all going.
Honestly, he’d completely forgotten about the meeting. Biggest contract they’d ever hooked. Too big as far as he was concerned but Sylvia had worked her ass off to get it and so he felt he owed it to her to see it through. Still, the whole idea behind Arcane Security had been to pay the bills, not live the high life. His father’s inheritance was enough to go on, and Casket always knew where to get the money when he needed it. Criminals were the best bank. He should have known better than to take on a partner but running the business would have been impossible with the sporadic hours his extracurricular activities allowed. A necessary facade, but for Syliva it was real life, her life. He had to respect that.
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Element
I've made 25 posts
33 years.
Casket
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SIX
Feb 3, 2019 0:19:45 GMT -6
Post by Plymouth Weir on Feb 3, 2019 0:19:45 GMT -6
He didn’t often bother with lights, there was no need. Where most would require a guiding hand on the wall his eyes aglow with an inhuman violet shine saw everything, the details of the pictures and the religious symbols hung aside them. An uncommon contrast of both Christian and Jewish items, defining the union of his parents and his upbringing.
The original layout of the building had never been remodelled, with the exception of the kitchen that still screamed “staff room”. The communal bathroom remained, as did the old fire pole which the owner’s of the Fire Station Garage must have left for nostalgic reasons. Everything was original, only the office space had been converted to bedrooms and storage space. Plymouth had always been a believer of function over form, just like his father who had used the place before him, but he did believe in quality which was why his choice of furnishings were stylish and high grade; bought to last.
Plymouth paused as he felt the pressure against his leg. Another one of his furry roommates greeted him by wrapping himself around his leg. “Hey Poe.” he greeted. The stubby tabby purred loudly as he picked him up. At the end of the corridor, sitting at the top of the descending stairwell was his partner in crime, Lovecraft, a frisky smoky grey cat that was consistently a bad influence on the other two. He was staring at the automated food dispenser Plymouth had constructed for them, willing the glimmering stainless steel contraption that resembled a large espresso machine to fill his bowl.
“You already had yer supper, ‘Craft.” He playfully chided, stepping over the cat, his shoed feet quietly descending down to the main level.
The tall reinforced bay doors rattled against the high winds as Plymouth strolled past, the curious grey cat in tow. Bays that had been converted into repair shop stalls now housed an old pickup truck, his yellow 1972 Chevelle and a caged machine shop, with a parts storage area above it. Past it, he ascended a few cement steps to a raised dais at the back of the bay area. There were three doors, one marked with a universal unisex bathroom sign, another with shower symbol. He passed through the one marked with “Employees Only”. The heavy reinforced steel door with a facial recognition scanner swung open into a room illuminated by the soft glow of several screens with code running across them and varying animated screen savers. A series of servers blinked in the far corner of the room, the distinct droning hum of temperature regulating fans echoing throughout.
As the door sealed behind him, Plymouth placed Poe on a table laden with computer parts where he was joined by Lovecraft. If Casket had to give in to the cliche of a ‘command centre’, this would be it. Data-mining programs surreptitiously siphoned information from various police departments and he was tapped into the city planner’s database, able to access video footage from thousands of locations. All coordinated by algorithms of his design.
“What we got here?” Plymouth announced to his furry audience as he focused on one of the large flat screens.
Currently he’d been gathering information on a Neo-Nazi sex-trafficking ring he’d had few run-in’s with. Seemed all his research had come to fruition as the scope of the investigation had been narrowed down to a common denominator, a one Heinrich Schonburg. Didn’t get much more German than that. Clean as the proverbial preacher’s sheets despite the fact that he surrounded himself Nazis. Not surprising, he had been a political backer of Luthor’s farce of a campaign.
Time he and Casket had a heart to heart.
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Element
I've made 25 posts
33 years.
Casket
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SIX
Mar 16, 2019 0:01:55 GMT -6
Post by Plymouth Weir on Mar 16, 2019 0:01:55 GMT -6
The glossy black sedan slipped into the underground parking garage of the private club. As the heavy duty reinforced steel door closed behind it, two security guards, dressed to ward the chill of the winter’s night scanned the private drive before returning to the warmth of their station. Placing his hand on a scanner, the door unlocked and the two guards made their way down a narrow staircase, the last one failing to detect the thin blade silently inserted into the door, preventing the door to lock.
One of the guards sitting before a wall of security monitors noticed a flickering screen and the momentary flashing red of an insecure door before the video cleared and the door locked properly. “That was weird.” he commented.
“South door again?” Questioned his partner. “It’s too fucking cold, door’s sticking again.”
“Maybe. Gonna give Hank a call. Better safe than sorry.” The guard picked his walkie-talkie, “Hank, ya there? Wanna go and check out the south door?”
The burly security guard, half way out of his coat groaned at the thought of climbing back up the stairs. “We were just there. Is it reading red?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Guess, nothing.”
Shaking his head, Hank continued removing his coat, oblivious of the masked figure sneaking down the hall behind him.
Silently closing the door to the security area, Casket’s bright violet coloured eyes focused on the black sedan pulling up to the guarded doors at the far side of the lot. He watched as one of the doormen opened the backdoor of the car, while another held open one of the glass doors for the grey haired passenger who was met by another dark suit. “Good evening, Mr. Schonburg.” the man greeted. “They’re awaiting you.”
Responding with a nod the elderly man proceeded with an entourage of black suited henchmen to the end the hallway where he took the elevator to the ninth and top floor of the building. There he entered into a lavish lobby with polished marble floors, the walls adorned with large illuminated portraits, their names engraved into the brass plaques beneath them, his own painting among them.
It was now or never. As the car pulled away, Casket sprinted for the glass door only to stop dead in his tracks as he caught sight of a familiar form on the other side. Making her way through the lobby, he recognized the tall form of Detective Lane right away, her smaller partner, Jessica Winter at her side. They were being escorted by a few guards toward the same elevator that Schonburg had taken.
‘Dammit!’
All Casket could do was roll behind a parked car. There weren’t many. The parking garage was virtually empty, with only a few vehicles parked near the entryway. From just about every other angle in the lot he was about as obvious as a coal pile in the middle of a living room.
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Element
I've made 25 posts
33 years.
Casket
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SIX
Mar 24, 2019 19:17:23 GMT -6
Post by Plymouth Weir on Mar 24, 2019 19:17:23 GMT -6
Call it instinct, but for Pricilla is was so much more, especially when it came to Casket. As one of the guard’s puzzled over a glimpse of movement in the parking garage, she knew it was him.
“You guys always this jumpy?” She commented, drawing a scornful glance. Enough to divert the guard’s attention away from the blur caught out the corner of his eye.
Detective Winter cast a furtive look to her partner. She nor Priss never had a problem with attentive security guards and she’d describe them as thorough and professional. Priss was masking something, and already on high alert Jess became all the more aware of her surroundings. They were, after all, in the Black Clover Club. One of New York’s most prominent White Supremacist societies, the black four leaf clover logo an obvious disguise for their true symbol. Police that had threatened their members before had mysteriously ended up quitting the force or taking early retirement, they couldn’t believe their lawyers had actually granted them permission to search and question one of their members whose name had come up in their homicide investigation.
Why in the hell, America allowed the existence of such places completely and utterly baffled, the two detectives. Their values were in complete contradiction to everything the country was supposed to stand for and yet here they were, protected by the law, as if they were a bunch of boy scouts. Hitler-jurgen, more like.
Crouched behind a black sedan, Casket spied his escape. A steel maintenance hatch only a few feet away lead down into a drainage tunnel housing power and fibre-optic lines. A barred gate designed to prevent illegal entry wouldn’t hinder his exit as he summoned the strength to bend them apart and then back together behind him. Schonburg would have to wait until he touched base with Lane and got the low-down on their investigation.
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Element
I've made 25 posts
33 years.
Casket
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SIX
Apr 6, 2019 10:28:45 GMT -6
Post by Plymouth Weir on Apr 6, 2019 10:28:45 GMT -6
“Where are you?”
By the time Casket had made it back to the nondescript sedan he’d parked a good five kilometres away, ten minutes had elapsed since Priss had sent the text.
“Yeah. That was me.” he sent back, followed up with a, “We need to talk.”
“Tomorrow morning. The Keg.” she responded.
Plymouth tucked the phone into the inside pocket of the black jacket he’d changed into, his trademark costume shed and laying in the backseat. The night was a bust, but tomorrow was another day.
Morning light filtered through the Bronx, gleaming across the store front windows, and the sign that read the “Powder Keg”, the words laying atop the silhouette of a muscular figure lifting a bar between two lit kegs of gunpowder. One of the lesser known gyms on the island, the kind frequented by serious weight-lifters, and serious assholes, who sometimes happened to be both. A favoured haunt of strippers, the ‘Keg’ attracted it’s fair share of peacocking losers that Pricilla found utterly hilarious to watch.
“Okay, okay. Check out this guy.” Priss whispered, leaning on the bar of the squat rack as she subtly watched the reflection of a sinewy guy with tacky manicured facial hair perform the most awkward shoulder flies in attempt to get close to a curvaceous woman punching out her lunges. Plymouth, who was standing near by preacher-curling a modest amount of weight, laughed, shaking his head.
“Oh, here comes ‘Porn-Stash’ again.” he pointed out, drawing attention to another guy who was spending most his time strutting around the gym and socializing.
“Honestly. This is what y’ guys do ‘ere?” Jessie commented in her distance English timbre. “You, y’should talk. Y’even need to lift weights?” She posed to Plymouth who had barely broken a sweat. “What’ya think people say ‘bout y’ two?”
Plymouth scowled as he gave her the ‘keep your bloody voice down’ look, while Jessie, who had at first been charmed by Casket’s chiseled features, threw back an eye-roll at his immature behaviour. She couldn’t help it. Working out with an Amazon and a guy who definitely put the ‘super’ in hero made a person feel bad enough about themselves, she didn’t need to listen to them running down other people as well.
Plymouth performed a few more ‘fake’ arm curls and set the bar down. He’d never been called out before, but then, Priss and now Atticus, were just about the only two people he’d had any lengthy interaction with in years.
“Holy shit!” Priss exclaimed as she spied a massive man entering the gym. He had to be at least six foot five, his bulging muscles not easily hidden by his oversized clothing were as ripped as Plymouth’s, only much larger. Even the other bodybuilder’s in the gym acknowledged the tall, blonde, Viking-esque man. There were few men his height that were able to maintain such a physique, they would have known if he were a regular.
Plymouth grinned. As long as he had known, Priss she’d always gravitated towards women, but this guy turned her head right round. They watched him for a while, strolling around the gym, he seemed lost or uncertain what to do, noticeably unnerved by all the looks he was receiving. At one point he paused, studying the amount of weight a similarly sized man was squatting, then he turned and walked straight toward them.
“Hey.” The greeting was focused on Plymouth.
Pricilla who had resumed her squats was having a tough time maintain her concentration and slammed down the bar prematurely.
Plymouth jabbed at her with a wry grin, before turning his attention to the larger man, “This is Atticus. Atticus, this is Priss, and her partner, Jessica.”
Atticus gave a quick half-smile, offering a little wave to each, “Detective Lane, detective Winter. Nice to meet you.”
“Figured this was as good a place as any for all of us to meet.” Plymouth shrugged. |
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Element
I've made 24 posts
79 years.
Boreal
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SIX
Nov 22, 2019 10:25:05 GMT -6
Post by Atticus Gale on Nov 22, 2019 10:25:05 GMT -6
Plymouth had filled him in on the detectives, but had failed to describe, Lane, or ‘Priss’ as he called her. She was a pretty amazing woman. Powerful like an Amazon, and needless to say, distracting. His brow furrowed slightly when she gripped his hand in greeting, intentionally tight, easily exerting far more pressure than the average man could muster. It caught him off guard, wincing slightly from the pain as she took advantage of the loose embrace he had extended to Jessica.
The slight twinge of a grin tugged at the corner of Plymouth’s mouth to which Atticus reciprocated with a sideways glance. This wouldn’t do. They were attracting too much attention, he could feel the eyes on them, so he made a motion to take their meeting to a more private location to which detective Winter was thankful. She was no stranger to physical training, it was obvious by her build hidden beneath her modest, baggy gym-ware but she was no gym-girl.
Walker’s Fish and Chips on the Hudson was a far more appropriate location for a clandestine gathering. Vinegar soaked fries and deep fried fish, sitting round a weathered metal table over-looking the river offered the privacy and all around neutral setting they all needed.
Atticus munched down a few chips and washed them down with a sip of his drink. “So, you wanna take on the Black Clovers?” His voice was low, eyes tentatively scanning their surroundings. One just didn’t wake up one morning and take down the most prominent Nazi-organization on the eastern seaboard, as he suspected, Plymouth had been planning the bust for some time. He didn’t believe just catching a few fish, it was the whole damn lot or nothing, including all the goddamn corrupt cops on their pay roll.
“You’re sure about this?” The question might have been redundant but he had to ask.
Jess and Priss were quiet. They knew their role, they’d been sticking their necks out. They’d be exposed. But, Atticus knew Casket, the guy could be reckless but he never put anyone else in danger other than himself.
“You guys up for this?” He posed to the detectives.
Priss was quick to agree with a nod, Jessica was a little more hesitant. “Need t’ know the plan before I stick m’ neck out, but I’ll always back up m’partner’s play.”
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Element
I've made 25 posts
33 years.
Casket
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SIX
Nov 23, 2019 0:34:20 GMT -6
Post by Plymouth Weir on Nov 23, 2019 0:34:20 GMT -6
Plymouth laid out the abridged version of the plan. It was enough to start head’s nodding. They ended up walking a remote path down by the river before wrapping things up and deciding on the best time to coordinate the first stage of the operation. That’s when Jess picked a fight with the biggest guy in the yard.
“So, what’s your deal then?” Jessica inquired, catching Atticus’ eyes in hers. “I mean, I’ve read this bloke’s resume,” she thumbed over to the Plymouth, “but how d’we know you ain't just another bug on the windshield? Bor-ay-al? Have somethin’ ta do with the wind then, or are you phenomenal at stylin’ hair?”
Priss grinned a little wider than Plymouth who didn’t like where this was going. Atticus let out an audible sigh and proceeded to answer, but she cut him off, not missing a beat.
“What was that air chick’s name?” She asked her partner.
Priss thought a moment. “Girl-wind.”
“Oh, right… ‘Gurl-Wind’.” Jess’ gangster pronunciation of the name was accompanied by a contrived rap gesture, to which Atticus found somewhat amusing in a cute sort-of-way. “Refresh me memory, Priss. What happened to ‘er?”
“She fell.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Fell off ‘er cloud.”
“Well, technically, it was some kind of thermal draft…” Priss corrected.
“Yeah, well, she fell off it.” Her hand plummeting down into the other, ending in a loud smack. “Ten stories, straight down. We had to scrape her off the pavement with a shovel. Ya might’a seen it? One of her mate’s videoed it. Got over a million views.”
Atticus acknowledged the famous fail with a reluctant nod. Regardless of the comicality of the young women’s tragic death, she was still a person, however one that had no business trying to be a super-hero which was entirely Jessica’s point.
“Yeah, well. If I hit the ground, I’ll make sure not to make too much of a mess.” Atticus sneered, noticeably perturbed by her example and insinuation, but Jessica wasn’t backing down. She wasn’t about to take on one of the most prominent criminal organizations in the country, next to Lex Luthor’s administration, with an unqualified, well-meaning super-powered civilian.
“Na, I’m serious. What the hell can you do?”
The snap draw of her side-arm was a blur. Even, Plymouth was impressed with the speed and deftness of her movements. In the span of her final word the barrel of the gun was levelled at Atticus’ face, but that somber expression was no longer staring back at her. Before her finger brushed the trigger a blast of wind tossed her chestnut hair about her face and he was standing behind her. She leapt forward and away, the pistol smoothly slipping under her arm, but the large man moved with unnatural speed. He slipped behind her like a shadow, snatching the gun, twisting it from her hand with inhuman strength. She was disarmed, but far from defeated, to Atticus’ dismay. His intention wasn’t to humiliate her, only to prove himself.
Jessica spun around, legs extended in a perfect split as she threw a kick at his head, followed by a flurry of attacks. Priss looked on with admiration. Few people her size demonstrated such prowess against larger opponents. She fought with the savage grace of a wounded tiger, throwing everything she had at the ‘mask’. Hands clawed the air, kicks struck nothing, until he allowed it, and her might have just well stuck a stone a pillar for all the affect it had. Still, she wouldn’t let up.
“Com’on!” She growled.
Atticus raised his hands in submission, one holding her sidearm by barrel. He could have used it any time, but the detective had chosen to ignore this fact, and would continue to do so as she lunged forward assuming, to Atticus, an all too familiar stance of a Chinese system of fighting — Crane. Her strikes and kicks were infused with various other forms to increase fluidity and adaptability but the base style was distinct.
He would have content to call their contest a draw and leave her with some dignity but they were beyond that now. When a cub became to aggressive the lion had no choice but to administer a harsh lesson else it would never realize it’s limitations. Jessica attacked with a beautifully executed barrage of downward striking palm and arching crescent kick, a distraction for a vicious countering knee strike that was intended to cripple. And THAT was the last straw. Atticus had absolutely no tolerance for those who fought without honour, who would do anything win, even when their opponent was not their enemy.
Her opponent blocked high, and Jessica went low, using her amazing flexibility to contort her body and offer a vicious blow to the inside of Atticus’ knee. He allowed it. It did not have the affect she expected, nor any at all. His bones were far denser, tendons stronger, it was like hitting an aluminium pole. But there was still even weaker area. Throwing her body backward into an arch she the full weight and power of her kick drove up into Atticus’ groin and hit absolutely nothing. Her foot passed through what felt like a powerful stirring of wind, then he was upon her.
Priss instinctively moved in to lend her partner assistance, but yielded to Plymouth’s calm gesture not to interfere.
Atticus spun in the air, floating upon it, the loose earth around them whipping round. They revealed an unnatural pattern of air currents so concentrated and compressed they pushed against Jessica’s body with significant force. A palm strike stopped several inches from her chest but a soft blast of air pushed her hard into the ground. She rolled away, launching her body into a tornado of defensive kicks, but was swept away by a gale force gust flowing behind a powerful rotating kick.
Jessica tumbled across the packed earth of the trail like a leaf. Clawing the ground she landed like a cat, dark hair tossed before her raging gaze. She wasn’t done. Imperceptibly, she plucked the blade from the ankle sheath and lunged forward.
“Jess!” Priss screamed, but the warning was too late.
She let loose the knife, the glistening missile cutting through the air toward Atticus’ chest.
“ENOUGH!” Roared Atticus.
His eyes suddenly burst into blue flame as a stream of air whipped before him, so powerful it dug into the earth and drove the knife into a nearby tree with such force it sunk up to the hilt.
Jessica froze, her widened eyes processing the power necessary for a burst of air to push a knife with such force. The very same compressed flow of air could tear flesh and throw a body.
“Well, sure took you long enough.” She commented, rising to her feet and dusting herself off.
“This wasn’t necessary.” Atticus huffed, eyes dimming to normal, the circulating winds about him calming.
“I beg t’ differ ol’ boy.”
Atticus’ brow furrowed at her use of ‘old’.
“Yeah, did a little bit of checking up on you. You’ve an interesting life story, but it doesn’t exactly all fit together now does it? Ya look pretty good for geezer. No hard feelings.” Jessica brushed the hair out her eyes and pointed to the knife embedded in the tree, “Would ya mind?”
Plymouth walked up and pulled out the blade, the loud screech of friction denoting the compression of wood on metal. He did it easily, much more so than Atticus imagined it would have taken him.
“Gun, please.” Jessica requested fluttering her fingers.
Atticus had a mind to toss the damn thing in the woods with a ‘Fuck you’ but if his longevity had taught him anything it was to not let one’s emotions get the better of them, and look at a situation from all the angles. She was, after all, a Human holding her own in a super-powered world. People, especially the empowered, always forgot this, blinded by their perceived disadvantages in society. That, and she was doing her best to get under his skin. Why? He was exactly sure but he be damned if he was going to give her the satisfaction.
Plymouth wasn’t so tolerant nor tactful. “Fucking dick move, Jess.”
“Yeah, well, I needed to see if this mountain could actually move.” She retorted with a toss of her hair, offering a forced smile as Atticus handed her the sidearm. He couldn’t help but wonder how she was able to break through all the security he had set up to protect his identity. Plymouth himself had double checked the measures and installed some of his own encryptions to ensure that none would ever be the wiser as to whom Atticus Gale actually was.
“Shall we?” Jessica prompted, leading the way down the trail, a slight skip to her step.
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