The sun was shining brightly that morning at 10:00AM, a Tuesday. The new assignment now was to work in the 'Predator Company,' a police task force formed from bounty hunters, mostly local ones that served in the 'Street Wars.' An age of violence that had come upon Noyerville not too long ago...

-

Back in the day, crime had been insane, drug dealers, loan sharks, pimps, all practically had their little corner of the developing city where they could perform all kinds of illegal activities right under the nose of the law, yet having such obvious places of business, having literally owned their own physical establishments like they were legitimate entrepreneurs, selling their drugs, their courtesans, their shifty deals of protection and money, whether or not the 'customers,' really 'victims' even wanted, or needed money.

That was just the beginning. Things eventually when to hell. Drugs became the number one criminal business. Eventually there would be a mix of events: Different gangs beginning armed conflicts right on the streets. Different, meaning there were dozens of these delinquents and gangsters, practically creating the image that there were entire armies in the world of underground crime. Then there was a foolish 'War on Drugs,' in which the police had believed would end the situation immediately. It only made things worse, escalating the violence to the aforementioned 'Street Wars.' Cops scrambling to try and uphold the law in a state that was bordering on apocalyptic urban dystopia.

It was only by pure luck however, that the politicians of Noyerville had begun to make things progressively worse by immense budget cuts to soothe their aching greed, and oversized wallets with bloated dollars. Money that eventually bounced back into finding a solution for the problem, as they put some impressive rewards on the heads of every hoodlum on the streets. No one locally wanted to put up a fight, everything seemingly hopeless. Not for an outsider however, as those who brought law outside the restrictions of the law, answered the call. They were the bounty hunters. The ones we know now as members of the Predator Company.

What they don't realize now is that their problems are far beyond that of any punk with a gun, or a major crime family. It's an evil all-new, one never before seen, yet experienced, most who have either dead, or driven to insanity, silenced by the masses and regarded insane.

-

Ryan Hylen was the name of the Detective who had been transferred. He ran a hand through his dark brown hair, as he rode through with his 1967 Ford Mustang, colored black and white. Hung on his rear view mirror was an eight-ball billiard, a real one at that, drilled into, and given a chain. The man himself was without his signature trench-coat, having folded it up and put it behind his neck as a pillow of sorts. To his right was the passenger seat that was occupied by a box, which held items that adjourned his previous desk in his previous office, at his previous place of work at another Noyerville Police Precinct. How free it must have felt to abandon the blue uniform he dreaded wearing so, and now to wear a somewhat more useful, yet surprisingly more bothersome dress shirt buttoned up all the way, a tight belt, and some brown leather wing-tips he picked up on the way, a shoebox behind him with a pair of sneakers he used to wear back in the day.

Rumbling in the trunk were a couple of things he kept with him at all times, including his standard issue shotgun, an officer's best friend when you needed at least more than one gun to handle a situation. Even then, the man was armed with a handgun that used some of the most powerful bullets in the world: This weapon was the .44 AutoMag pistol. The weapon of choice when he was given the new assignment with the Predator Company. Before this, he was given a Smith and Wesson revolver that he mastered using as time went on, though he was used to using a semi-automatic handgun from his days as a rookie, earning little respect from the kids on the street who didn't care for the badge. And back then, he wasn't the type to pull a gun and go Dirty Harry on the city.

Farther before that, he'd experienced enough death and fiery destruction. Watching blood spill in tropical jungles, and attack a villa, or a manor, or whatever they be called to try and take out some foreign despot that was trying to pull some tyrannical nonsense. He figured he'd much rather go home, and shoot less people with 'more of a purpose.' to work for the sake of life, liberty, truth and justice, all that jazz. Being a marine, just a special kind of soldier in another army, eventually became a job where he was instructed to point a gun and shoot whoever his superiors wanted him to knock off.

He pulled in at the building. It was a building on the water front, a couple landing pads for helicopters, some boats, cars rolling by in varied directions, and even some parked APC's, even two Tanks! One of them was new and fresh off the assembly, maybe there for a week, the other a victorious tank known as the 'Hercules,' short for 'Hercules On Steroids.' It was a tank with the basic features, firing the missiles, machine guns, the works. It had just been through so much punishment, so many possibilities for who the main driver was. Some say it was a ghost tank as a rumor. Others made up a more interesting rumor, that the 'Real Life Rambo,' William Conrad Jackson piloted it himself before clearing out a whole building with a garrote wire and his knife. It was…impressive, to say the least, if not a bit terrifying to know that First Blood could happen at any time with a war hero, or more accurately, a war machine, was walking among others…

Ryan found his way into the building, meeting with a rather normal receptionist. When he stopped a moment to go to the bathroom and return to pick up his box, he noticed an arsenal of weapons hidden under the table, as well as a hidden passage whose doorway was half open, and some snacks among other things. Needless to say, he was already impressed. If he hadn't went to the men's room already, he'd have 'shit himself.' He was about to head into the elevator when it turned out it was full, and he had to climb several flights of stairs. His office was on one of the highest floors of the building.

"Could consider this a test of conviction…" He huffed to himself as he trudged upwards slowly. "If I give up before I get there, I'm gonna become a couch potato…"

Of course, this claim was worthless. He knew he'd get up there, something like this being a major cake-walk as opposed to the fields of mines that he'd walked through, losing good friends in the process. But some corrupt conquerers of third world countries tended to be a bit paranoid of their air fields, and wherever he stayed, be it a village somewhere, or a public hotel. You'd think someone would come upon land mines hidden off in the building. Then again, most everyone there were his forces, every room occupied by his own men.

When it was all over, he arrived into a clean new office, where he put his box down: He had an amazing view of the waterfront, as well as the city from a point like this.

Now all he could think about as he set up his things, which were unable to cover the entire room due to the meager size of his previous office, were the people outside the room: More Bounty Hunters than cops with the honors of a war hero like himself…

"Ryan Hylen, being social will get you killed…" He sighed to himself, as he went out the door to the lounge on this level. He could use a chocolate doughnut, or something along those lines.

Looking around the tenth floor of the Predator Company’s Task Force Headquarters, you would think you were in any other building. Offices, both empty and occupied by lazy workers dozing off at their desks, vending machines, a reception desk, the ringing of phones from somewhere, and a lounge room complete with a coffee maker, fax machine/printer, and almost comfortable looking chairs set up around coffee tables and lining the walls. It was a relatively clean place, save for the few magazines and newspapers lying about. Then again, the Task Force was a relatively new group.

The people loitering about in the halls were sparse. A couple of people had been brave enough to actually strike up conversations with others, but most were sleeping or milling about aimlessly, trying to make themselves look busy. For the most part though, nothing seemed out of place. Everything was average, as you would expect to find in a governmental building.

But then you see it: the girl sitting in the red chair, tucked away at the corner of the lounge room. She’s easy to miss as she seems to blend in to the furnishing, her crimson top matching the fabric like a chameleon and her blonde hair pooling into a pile and running into the scratchy carpet. But once you notice her, it’s impossible to not. She becomes the elephant in the room, the thing that you try to ignore but can’t help but let your eyes wander to because she’s not, well, normal. Instead of sitting in the chair like normal, she sits upside down, letting her bare feet and pale legs drape over the arm of the chair and dangling her head over the seat with her arms tucked neatly away at her chest and eyes closed in either sleep or thought. A stack of unread newspapers and thoroughly used gun catalogs crowds the end table next to her. Several coffee rings have formed on the end table is well, showing that she has been there quite often.

Her name: Emma Crawford. Age: 24. Position: Task Force bounty hunter, assigned to Predator Company ever since it’s creation. It wasn’t her choice, mind you, but the police department thought it’d be cute to throw her on it, knowing that she couldn’t protest because of the, ahem, intel they had on her. Damn cops and their blackmail, she thought to herself, sighing as she ran over that fateful days events in her head. It was a pain in the butt, but she could hardly complain since she got to keep her lovely arsenal and put money in the bank at the same time.

But she was bored. Nothing really interesting had happened yet, and most of her time was consumed in the very spot she was sitting in now, laying apathetically in the same position and blocking out everything around her. Every so often, she would snap out her lovely revolver and take a shot at the makeshift target drawn on the wall across from her which filled the floor with the melodious sound of a gunshot. The first time she had done that was hilarious, and she chuckled into her hand as she remembered it. It was only the second day here, and she was in the mood for target practice. So instead of going down to the basement and using the booths set up for just that, which would be the logical option, she looked towards a coworker and asked, “What’s on the other side of that wall?” He looked at her, a little confused before simply saying, “Uhmm, I dunno. I can check?” But before he had time to even take his next breath, she had snapped out her gun and taken a shot at it. It almost sent the poor little guy into cardiac arrest, the shock of it all. And it was cause for concern to other people in the building who jumped to the conclusion that they were under attack, but Emma just smiled and proceeded to draw a big target on the wall with a Sharpie. It turned out the other side of the wall contained a storage room with only empty file cabinets and mops, so after some lecturing and acceptance of this trigger-ecstatic girl, Emma proceeded to make her home in the corner across the room and shoot off her gun whenever she felt the need.

She was getting a little antsy now and she opened one blue eye to examine her surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for a dark-headed somebody who looked new walking into an office a little down the hall. After a little while, he made his way back out and seemed to be coming in her direction. It was just then, of course, that Emma decided this was an opportune time to try out her Smith and Wesson which had just arrived from her specialty repair shop. Still camouflaged in her corner, she lifted one arm and pulled the gun out of its holster at her side, pointed it at bullseye, and said, “Bang,” as she pulled the trigger and filled the floor with another fulfilling gunshot. Now to the poor sap who found his way just inches from the path of the flying bullet, and not understanding that this was considered a normal occurrence around here, the sudden near death experience in a supposedly safe place could come as quite a shock.

Emma blew on the opening of the revolver and spun it dramatically like a cowboy out of some old western before cramming it back in the holster. Then she proceeded to slip lazily out of the chair onto her head and flipped over before using her momentum to pull herself up. The calculated movement showed that this was a normal way of standing up for her. Without a word, she trudged her way over to the target and examined the newly formed bullet hole: dead center. To be honest though, it only widened the hole that was already there showing her accuracy.

It seemed as if she was talking to herself when she finally spoke, instead of explaining her actions to the probably still shocked newby that stood nearby. “It seems the alignment problem is finally fixed,” she said nonchalantly.

But when she added her next statement, she cocked her head a little to her right and let her eyes barely fall on her latest victim. “It was shooting a little to the left.” Being that the gun was upside down when fired, left translated as right, which actually meant that she was using a live guinea pig as a test to make sure her gun was fixed.

What a way to make friends.

William Conrad Jackson drove his blue Chevy Caprice down the highway, heading for small city called Noyerville. Just a week prior, he had talked to the head of the Predator Company, a bounty hunter service that had come across his file in the military archives and wanted to offer him a job. Though sixty-two years old and retired from his job, Will could not resist the chance to put his skills to the test again. His wife Christy was a little annoyed with him, being ready to deliver their child three months from now, but she understood his need to do this. Will was not going to turn down a job like this, when the pay was high and the work so enjoyable. In the entire of the U.S. military, there was perhaps no soldier who loved and craved combat like him.

William was born in 1983 in the small town of Duluth, Minnesota. His real parents left him at the hospital, and he was soon given to a couple who could not have children of their own. They were loving and kind to him, but being abandoned from birth can leave a mark on you. When Will was in high school, the World Trade Center bombings inspired him to make a difference. He joined the Army after he graduated high school, and was shipped off to Texas for Basic Training. Will showed incredible potential, graduating three months ahead of the other recruits to become a Private.

Will's only problem was with firearms. Ever since he was a child, he hated guns, considering them the weapons of cowards. Many men considered fists or a gun the most manly way of dealing with an enemy, but Will saw it differently. There is nothing manly about killing from a distance, as even a child can do that. A real man closes the distance and attacks up-close, beating or stabbing his enemy to death. Will's love of knives translated over into his military career, and he actually made his signature black combat knife, perfect for either killing or shaving your face.

Will received two demerits from the U.S Army, one for destroying his standard-issue M16 assault rifle, and the other for disobeying a direct order to receive a new one from the Armory. The Brass informed him that if he received one more demerit, he would be dishonorably discharged from the Army. When he was allowed to only train with knives, his career took off. He quickly rose up the ranks, leading Platoon C-20, a squad of Green Berets, and a squad of Black Berets, the top secret Special Forces Unit of the U.S. military, made from the best of the best of the rest of the military. When Will became a General, he decided to leave the Army and go freelance as a mercenary to sate his blood lust. His request was granted, and he flew to Japan seeking work.

After proving himself the real deal, the Japanese gave him a Chinese nickname, Fang-Wu, to cover any connection to them. They then sent him to Venezuela to topple the regime there. Will did so with the help of the Motilone Bari, a tribe of Indians trying to hold on to their cultural heritage. After toppling the regime by killing the Venezuelan dictator Enrique Veracruz, Will left the mercenary life and returned to the United States. He took a job as a FedEx deliveryman, looking forward to a quiet new life. On a delivery to Blue Steel, Inc, a group of Middle Eastern terrorists stormed the building and took the people hostage.

Will managed to escape being captured, and with a box cutter as his only weapon, he systematically separated and picked off the terrorists. In the lobby, he squared off with their leader, Ibrahim Fa-Sul, a master of the Israeli martial art, Krav Maga. Will defeated him in unarmed combat, and was about to slit his throat when the SWAT team burst in. He was hailed as a hero in Los Angeles, and received the Key to the City. An investigative reporter named Christy Sutherland hounded him for his side of the story. When he gave it to her, she encouraged him to do more to help the city of Los Angeles.

With her words in mind, Will applied for entrance to the LAPD Police Academy. They let him in without a second thought, and he did well. After moving up the ranks to Detective, he began chasing down a serial killer called The Playwright, who left Shakespearean soliloquies on the walls in his victim's own blood. Will found out that he was former Marine Adam Moss, who was warped by his experiences in the Middle East. Moss was a master of Kung Fu, and Will managed to defeat him. For closing that case, he was promoted to Chief of Detectives.

Will married Christy Sutherland shortly after his promotion. He climbed the ranks to Commissioner, and retired after a few years on the job. The couple was about to have their first child, and Will wanted to head to Florida to live a retiree's lad-back life. But a week before the move, Will got a call from the head of the Predator Company, offering him a job with very lucrative starting pay and great benefits. Will took the job, and got an apartment in Noyerville while his wife went to Florida, he promised to be there in three months to start their new life together.

Will parked his Chevy Caprice in a spot and stepped out. For a man of his skills, he looked fairly average. He had neck-length brown hair and wore conservative clothes appropriate for a man of his age. But look into his eyes and you'll see the soldier's thousand yard stare, and the thick muscle of his body was not from a civilian's life. The man of sixty-two had the body and reflexes of someone who was twenty-two, and only the wrinkles on his muscular neck showed that he was a gentleman of advanced years. He pulled his suitcases out of the backseat and entered the building.

The lobby was exactly like that of any other corporate building in America. The walls were neutral, the secretary plain-looking, and the workers looked bored and listless. As he walked in, however, they seemed to perk up. Whispers of "That's him!" and "I heard he did..." permeated the room like white noise. Will ignored them and proceeded up the stairs to his office, which was just one floor below the Predator Company's President's Floor. When he reached his office without being out of breath in the slightest, he began to unpack.

His clothing was simple, only a few conservative outfits and his military outfit. The military outfit consisted of heavy black combat boots, jungle camouflage jeans, a black bulletproof jacket, a green zip-up vest packed to the gills with throwing knives, and a red headband that he wrapped around his forehead. The headband was a reminder of his lost love Gracie Smart, who was a Black Beret that wore it around her arm. She was killed by shrapnel from a grenade, and Will wore that everyday he was a soldier and a mercenary. In full military garb, he was every bit the "Real life Rambo" that people had taken to calling him. He hung the outfits in the office closet and began to put pictures in the office.

He placed a picture of himself and his wife on their honeymoon in Hawaii on his desk. He placed pictures of him with his Platoon, Green Beret squad, and Black Beret squad on the walls. He hung the Key to the City award on the wall behind his desk, and the framed certificates of black belt status in the martial arts in a circle around it. He then removed from his bag his black combat knife, his trusted ally that never let him down. He placed it in an upright sheath on his desk, ready to place it in its chest sheath on his military garb when the time came for him to suit up. After placing his executive nameplate on his desk, he sat down and waited for his first orders to come in.

Markus sat in the furthest booth of the small dinner amid the towering high risers in downtown Noyerville. Despite his appearance, he was not use to such a place. The sands of the middle east, the dirt of Somalia, or the jungles of South America, these where the only world he had known for the past decade. It was a major change for him, but a good one. Rather than Somali Death Squads and Palestinian Gorillas, it was idiots from the suburbs rebelling against how good they had it. At least, that's what he thought it would be when he first arrived. This city had brought some heavy hitters in, ones who even Markus could immediately recognize just by their name. Whether or not all of this was truly needed or just overkill was something only time would reveal to him. With the money he was being paid, he would have his business up and running within two years. Rarely does one get the chance to reawaken the old childhood dream, but Markus was getting his shot. 'Private Investigator Markus Ambrose,' he liked the sound of that far more than bounty hunter any day of the week.

Markus took a sip of his coffee, the breakfast he had been served over thirty minutes ago still sat barely touched in front of him. He continued to read the local news stories found in the newspaper, figuring it would provide some clue to what type of situations he would be involved in. As far as he could tell it was like a city out of a noire film. Drugs, prostitution, arson, murder, it was like everything New York City used to me only with an injection of adrenaline. "Perhaps it might take longer than a year?" He laughed to himself and put the paper down, looking out the window as he continued sipping on his coffee. A quick look at his watch showed him it was nearing 10 a.m. and that it was about time to start making his way toward the waterfront. The waitress walked over, pouring more coffee into his cup. "Was there something wrong with the food?" Markus didn't turn from the window, seemingly admiring the size and scope of the city. "The eggs were over-cooked and the bacon tasted like leather." The waitress grabbed the plate from the table, inspecting the food herself. "Why didn't you say something earlier? I would have had them fix it." Markus took one last sip of coffee and pulled a ten collar bill out of his jacket pocket, leaving it on the table before exiting the booth. "What? So he could spit in it?" He walked toward the door, opening it with his right hand and turning back to the waitress. "Oh, and you can't fix food." He left on that, emerging from the dinner into the city streets.

It was in the late morning on a week day, so the streets weren't exceptionally busy. He put his right hand into his pants pocket, hailing a cab with the other. "The waterfront, please." The driver nodded, noticing that Markus wasn't really in the mood for chitchat. Due to the low traffic, it didn't take long to reach the waterfront, which Markus thought was a shame. He was enjoying watching the city pass him by, the people rushing to work while others sat on a corner with nothing to do because they were out of work. It was incredible to see such a city with such a bad reputation seem normal for even just a short while. He wondered if he would see the same people later tonight, in much the same spot doing a much different activity. He opened the door to the taxi after throwing thirty dollars at the driver for the ride. the building was quit a sight to behold. Large and intimidating, definitely giving off a new world order aura. At least it was clear the city was serious about cracking down on the crime, even if no individual person was. He entered the building, giving a quick introduction to the receptionist before making his way to the elevator. Squeezing his way into the back, the sight of another trying to get into the elevator caught his eye. The man looked like a cop straight out of an old movie. Once the door closed, Markus laughed under his breath with the thought of, sucks to be him coming to mind.

Markus exited the elevator on his floor, the sight of several rather tough looking individuals laid out before him. Many were wearing the latest equipment, had the latest guns, basically, they had the tough guy image down. Markus looked more like a businessman than a fighter in this crowd. He was wearing a nice black suit, black tie, grey shirt, and wing-tipped leather shoes to match. Whoever thought he would finally be in a crowd where he was the one under-dressed. The sight of the man from earlier caught his eye as he watched him go from the stairwell and into an office. He smirked to himself and made his way to his own designated work office. He opened in the door, revealing a rather spacious room. Not spacious due to size, but because it only had a desk, chair, and no windows to speak of. Markus smiled and clapped his hands together. "Ah, just the way I asked it to be." He walked over to the desk and sat down, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes while sitting. "Okay." He stood up and exited the room, leaving the light off and locking the door behind him.

He began to meander around the office, knowing if he was needed they would find him. "Hey, I just saw the RLR walk by." Markus stopped dead, listening to the conversation intently. "Oh, you mean Ram... not Rambo! Mr. Jackson! Stop calling him Rambo its really weird, man." The two kept walking own the hall, eventually exiting Markus' earshot. Markus smirked and continued walking with one destination in mind. He arrived at the office of William Conrad Jackson, knocking on the open door, if only for the sake of being polite. "Mr. Jackson. So, I finally get to met you." Markus sat down across from William, crossing his legs and curving his posture. "Good to see the years have been kind to you. You don't look a day older since I saw you in Venezuela." Markus was clear and precise. Even under his respectful tone was a hint of cockiness and arrogance, something he could hide from most but not someone like the man before him. "The company I worked for at the time was interested in starting a coup in that region and sent me out to gather intel. By the time I got had gotten there, you were already storming the capital and cutting off the head of the beast. I watched from a few clicks away as you and the tribe finally killed him. So, in one day I got a show and an easy thirty grand." He smiled and tilted further back in the chair. "Just wanted to say thanks."

William was looking over some papers when there was a knock on his door. He looked up to see a well-dressed young man strolling into his office. The man knew his name, which was not uncommon, as he had become sort of a household name since the Los Angeles incident. However, when he mentioned that he knew about his time in Venezuela, that caught his attention. He went on to explain that he had been a mercenary working during that time, and had witnessed him and the Motilone Bari taking down the Venezuelan dictator. William smiled a bit and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm glad that I don't look that much older, though I know I have gained several new wrinkles since then."
He chuckled. While this young man was being polite, he could tell that there was a bit of arrogance there. This did not bother William, as he remembered being like that when he was his age. The young man told him he had made thirty grand for Will unintentionally doing his job for him.
"It seems we both made out like bandits, then."

William reached across the table and shook hands with the young man.
"If you would be so kind, would you please introduce yourself? Also, if you know anything about why we were brought in, I would appreciate you sharing that information with me. The boss did not give me details, just made it very clear that he wanted me in on this as quickly as I could get here."
Will's eyes then seemed to glaze a bit as the memories of his mercenary life came flooding in.
"There's nothing quite like jungle warfare, is there?"

Markus shook the mans hand, still a solid firm grip despite his years. Markus' smile dropped neutral, looking at William intently after hearing the words, jungle warfare, from someone else who had seen his share as well. "No, not quite." He looked down at the ground, the scar are his back tingly at the thought of his most vivid memory. He looked back up, his smirk returning to his face. "My name is Markus Ambrose, its a pleasure to meet you." He shifted in his seat, looking over his shoulder toward the open doorway. "As far as our situation goes, I don't really know anything either."

Markus stood up and walked over to the door, peering out into the hallway before closing. "Of course, I doubt you'd believe me if I told you that." He walked back over to the seat and sat down in an identical manner to before, like he never actually left the spot in the first place. "Mr. Jackson, you are a decorated veteran with a record that will likely never be seen again in either of our life times. Myself? Well, I don't like to boast, but there's a reason I can just drop in a place like war-torn Venezuela sight unseen. My initial reaction was, people like you and me, we're a little too... expensive for a city barely able to meet debts. Even if you're doing this for the greater good, most people outside that door aren't so nice. Why bring in someone like yourself, or me, to fight petty gang members, when there is a small army right outside that door?" He leaned forward in his chair, anyone could see from his eyes his mind was racing from point to point, trying to connect the dots.

He smiled and slumped back into his chair, scratching the back of his head and shaking it as he did so. "So, I tend to do that sometimes. Can't stop it from trying to figure everything out." He let out a deep breath, crossing his arms and then his legs. "It just seems strange that, since I've been here, three new people have seemingly been brought in on the same day. You, me, and a local detective, who I've had an eye on since he walked in the door. You know battle. I know the mind. He knows Noyerville, and who knows, maybe there are others being brought in." He looked at his watch, amazed at how quickly time was passing. He had a habit of doing this. Rambling on without giving mind to whether or not something was being hidden from him to begin with. "I guess we'll know in time, right? Anyway, whose the special lady?" Markus pointed to the picture on William's desk, having caught a brief glimpse of it when he leaned froward to shake William's hand.

William smiled and nodded.
"Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Markus Ambrose."
His smile thinned just a bit when he said that he would not believe him.
"Actually, I noticed that your carotid artery did not vibrate when you said that. Therefore, you are most likely telling me the truth."
When Markus sat back down, his next words made Will chuckle a bit.

"Your words are kind, my friend."
He then went on to say that he had a type of Special Forces background that could allow him to drop into war-torn areas undetected. Will had done some of that himself with his time in the Army and as a mercenary. Markus' questions got the wheels in his own mind turning, and there was a subtle change in his eyes. They seemed to burn like they did in the old days, giving a hint to the kind of determined and passionate individual he was in his youth. Markus then explained that this was a habit of his.

"It's a habit of all men like us, a sharpness of the mind that keeps you alert and alive. But there would be no need to bring in ex-military types like us if we were just dealing with petty criminals, especially with the kind of muscle and firepower the Predator Company holds. No, there must be something bigger going on."
Markus then mentioned a detective.
"That's strange to bring in a detective. Gang members are usually brazen in their crimes, and a company with the resources of Predator would not need someone like him just to run in a few punks."

When Markus asked about Will's wedding picture, his eyes returned to the warmth they had had before, and he reached over to pick it up.
"This is myself and my wife Christy on our wedding day three years ago. It was my first time wearing a tuxedo, and I remember feeling a bit uncomfortable. When I first met her, she was a tenacious reporter dogging my heels for a story. But, over time, the love between us grew."
He handed the picture to Markus.

"She's in Florida right now, and our child is due to be born in three months. She wasn't very happy when the Predator Company offered me a job after I just retired from the LAPD, but there's something in my blood that can't resist a call to action."
He stood up and faced the bookshelf with his military photos.
"The President of the Predator Company will likely reveal the reason for calling us when all the players are together. It makes my blood rush to think about what could be so big as to bring together a talented group of people like ourselves. You feel that rush, too, don't you, Markus?"

Gunshots. On the first day he was here, too! How did those fools back at the NPD believe that this was going to work out? Were so few people against the concept of sending violent madmen off to this new police task force that practically did the job of the regular police for them? It was just impossible to imagine the town cheering on psychopaths. Hopefully among them there had to be someone of some stable mental condition he could work with, and even come to respect at some point.

He poked his head out of his door carefully, a hand ready to snatch his magnum in a moment's notice as he checked to see a woman with a smoking gun. Brilliant scene, if his opinion at all counted for anything, like maybe keeping bullets out of his own body so he could go another day without blood and injury, even though he'd get plenty of that much later on when he'd see action, or attempt to strike up conversation, whichever came first. Either way, he'd written his will before joining the street wars, so…

He ventured off out into the hallway, peering around every corner and taking quick glances through open doors to make sure nothing would harm him. After searching nearly every corner he could, he decided he was safe, and moved on out to the lounge where some guys were watching the news. Something about murders and such, mysterious origins, perhaps a cult, or a serial killer of some sort? whatever it be, it'd have to be put on hold while the detective got used to his new station as yet another one of the 'madmen with guns.' Then again, in a way, he was one of these assholes, so who was he to label them? He'd have to ask the opinion of some random guy from outside the predator company.

"…Eh…" He attempted to say, looking at the woman who was clearly armed and likely very much so dangerous. The words struggled to come to him as he scratched his head a bit, and attempted to find the right words to say to her, fearing that a false move or word 'against' her would surely result in his own death, and for the Noyer Reader News group to publish a story that would be something along the lines of 'flatfoot detective becomes swiss cheese by psychotic sexy bitch.'

Wait a second. Where the hell did the word 'sexy' come from? He shook his head a little, and took a deep breath as he attempted to make some conversation with her.

"Detective Ryan Hylen." He introduced himself. "You have…fine aim. And taste in guns, I have to say…" He sort of complimented. "Do you happen to give anything else besides heart attacks? Maybe your name, and some friendly banter? Or is that too much to ask for?…speaking of which, are you by chance, proficient with sniper rifles? You seem to have an eye for accuracy, second to that being your speed when pulling the trigger…"

The blonde looked lazily at the man who now spoke to her and contemplated how trivial his question was. If he could tell she had an eye for accuracy--which of course, was obvious--she would of course be proficient with sniper rifles. She looked him over, noting his classic style of dress and the awkward way he was forcing conversation with her. It was amusing though. He at least had a sense of humor. And some taste. And he had to brave, because nobody else had the balls to strike a conversation with the 'gun girl,' certainly not one that could lead to longer that two minutes of direct contact. She could stand to talk to him for a while.

"Emma Crawford. Ex-bounty hunter. Scorpio, age 24, and six feet four inches tall. I like Italian food, long walks on the beach, and yes, I am single." She gave a sly grin, letting her sarcasm settle slowly. She could have some fun. She leaned against the wall next to her and spoke again. "To answer your other question, let's say you don't want to be on the other end of my scope. You seem to have a pretty good eye yourself, for noting talent when you see it." She thought about whether they should shake hands or not. It was the typical greeting of most, especially these official types, but she tried to avoid it herself. Eventualy she decided against it and steered towards a new topic.

"So, what landed you here, Detective? Is this you're 'big break' or did you screw up and get 'transferred?'" she asked casually.

"Wait What- Nevermind. Right, uh…I suppose the precinct figured I'd be better here, what with my work during those god-awful street wars a while back when I was but a simple beat cop, trying to protect his neighborhood from some hoodlums…"

He looked off to the side out the windows, trying to relax. He didn't want to accidentally shoot her any looks she'd find funny, yet at the same time, leaving himself open for her to shoot him if she felt her trigger finger getting itchy at any moment. But he momentarily believed that she might have perceived this as bravery, and if he was lucky, maybe, just maybe she would give him some amount of respect for his 'feat,' despite the young man having 'intruded' on her, and bringing up a conversation to try and calm her down or something like that. He relaxed his mind, and looked back around at the area, trying to ignore the gunshot that had went off previously, shocking a few in the immediate area and giving off a near-permanent warning not to 'fuck with the gun girl,' word spreading quickly among the Predator Company.

"I mean, it's nothing compared to the things I'll probably be seeing here, anyways: Fine young women who shoot at their co-workers, Real Life Rambo dudes, and of course, a recent string of homicide cases with little to no leads, almost creeping the damned hell out of the regular police themselves. I can see how we'd be great for another street war, or being the SWAT teams on 'roids, but do you guys have any investigative qualities? Just saying it'd help if you had someone on hand with that kind of training. Somebody you could count on and keep alive, while he dusts for prints… The guy who would totally pay you back if you kept the shooting in the office to a minimum. Because that would be amazing…"

He looked back at her, and cautiously, extended a hand slowly to shake.

"Ryan Hylen. Everybody's gonna need all the help they can get to face off with whatever nutcase is out there. Hell, what if this ends up being like Sylvester Stallone's Cobra? Maybe an entire army of serial killing weirdos who get off on decapitation and that kind of thing?…It'd sure be crazy, am I right?… right, right. Yeah, sorry I'm so wordy here, just trying to get more words out, less potential death..."

Emma listened to him babble on about the Street Wars, a potential partnership (subtly, mind you, but still hinting at it), and of course the murders that they were allegedly supposed to solve. She couldn’t help but let out a chuckle though at his last statement: “Trying to get out more words, less potential death,” he said. So he was ballsy. He knew what could happen to him if she even remotely felt threatened or annoyed. She tried to cover up the chuckle with a cough, and extended her hand forward to meet his.

“Myself, I’m not the ‘investigating’ type. More of the protector. I can be sneaky, don’t get me wrong, but I think the best way to find evidence is to tie up a suspect and point a gun or two in his face, maybe play a little Russian Roulette. It never fails. You wanna try it?” She grinned, but then internally frowned a little. This poor guy was probably already going off the deep end to talk to her. She didn’t want to scare away a potential friend already. “Just kidding,” she added with a light laugh.

“I don’t know much about these other guys, haven’t really talked to many people. They tend to avoid me…” she trailed off before continuing in her soft, almost monotone voice, “but I’ve heard a real smart kid joined. Amber? Markabre? Something like that. I heard his name a bit before, around the mercenary circle. And then of course there’s Rambo. I don’t know too much about the murders, either. Except that they’re brutal, almost seeming to be committed by nobody, and they sure freak out my sister.”

She stopped talking, realizing that she was rambling a bit too. “So the street wars, huh? I stayed out of them, myself. But then that makes you a real hero, doesn’t it, Mr. Hylen?”