Blackbird: Poison

The approach to the warehouse was a dark one, hardly patrolled, and filled with cover. A quick survey reveals to supreme senses that there are few patrols in this approach, those that are are fraught with the fresh meat, the first timers, unarmed and barely alert. All typical Americans, one wearing clothing fresh from the laundry, another who spilled cheap liquor on his about four days ago, and this is only what the smell tells. They are easy to subvert. Climbing onto the roof and in through a loose roofing panel, Blackbird finds himself in the primary room of the warehouse, in the rafters above the large area. Bellow would be an assembly line of tables and workers, not so much a production plant as a packing one. It would seem that from here shipments of coke make their way to the dealers of the city, and eventually into the bodies of addicts and the disheveled masses of Chicago. Many non-combatants are bellow, those packaging the product and working the line. All unarmed, more than a few with fast beating hearts and sweaty skin, they're nervous even to just be here. Besides them, there are a handful of guards. These are more heavy security than those outside, eleven thugs, nine armed with handguns and three with sub machine guns. Being a warehouse intended for storage, there isn't much in the way of layout within the building. Besides the main room, there is a large observation room/office on the opposite side of the warehouse up a short flight of stairs. It's more difficult to detect the contents of this room past the noise and smells from the assembly line bellow, but focusing for a moment cuts through the static.

Within that room, several flies congregate around a two day old slice of rotting left out pizza, a cheap light bulb buzzes, nearing it's expiration, and a man argues with someone on the phone. He's a slightly older man, somewhere in his thirties, he wears a new pressed suit, black, judging by the smell of the clothing dye, he's armed with a pearl gripped Colt 1911 Government Model in 10mm, but most important, he's a Sicilian judging by his accent. Common lore on the street is that Made Man wiped out the Italian mob when he hit the scene in the 80's, but made a pact with some of the elite businessmen of that mob to join him or die. If anyone is the boss in this place, it's that guy. The phone argument is inconsequential, something about missed deadlines or some such, though the Sicilian is the one threatening whoever else is on the phone. Without any cover between Blackbird and this mobster, there is only one viable approach. A few cut wires and the single light illuminating the room goes out, everything is dark. The production line is halted and the blinded guards bellow go on alert, raising their weapons.

"Hey, hell happened to the lights?"

"I dunno' man, I didn't touch shit."

"Shit... Hey, none of you fuckers on the line move until we sort this. I see anyone out of their chair, you're fuckin' dead before you can even feel sorry about it."

The time to act is now, dead bolting the large front door of the warehouse leaves no avenue for reinforcements, or escape...

"The hell was that?"

"What?"

"I swear I heard something"

"Shut the fuck up, probably just the breakers going funny again."

There is no sound.

At least from the perspective of the thugs abound, the killers with red on their hands and their boots on the throat of this city, choking it with extortion and sedating it with drugs at the same time. The first submachinegunner goes down without ever really knowing what was happening. The second befalls much of the same fate only seconds later, the combined noises in succession rousing attention from the remaining men.

"Fuck's that?! Hey, who's out there!"

"I told you, if any of you stand up, I'm gonna put you on the fuckin' ground with six shots in the ass!"

"No man! This didn't sound like that!"

By the time the third man is dealt with, the leader above exits his office, throwing open the thin door with a clatter. His accent is even more obvious as he shouts across the warehouse.

Sicilian: "We don't have time for this shit! Find the problem, and fix it, before I decide you're the fuckin' problem, and fix you!"

"Yeah, on it."

A change in the air is felt, the room becomes only slightly warmer on such a minuscule level that nobody could notice, followed by a soft hum and the sound of electricity, a flashlight. With the light, one of the pistol thugs first sweeps the very frightened workers before shining his light to the edges of the warehouse. The light catches a glimmer of polished metal, which the thug focuses on.

"The hell?"

The light pans up from the disassembled MP5 to the unconscious body of a higher ranking thug, it's shortly followed by the sound and feeling of more flashlights turning on, about five of the remaining nine are equipped with lights which illuminate the majority of the warehouse, although leaves gaps.

"Fuck! We got a body here! It's Vic!"

Sicilian: "What, is e'dead?"

"Nah, he's out cold though... His gun's all, taken apart."

"I got another one over here! Donny is out cold! Fuck man, how'd this happen? His gun is all fucked too."

"Marcus too!"

Sicilian: "|Whoa whoa whoa, how many of their are you left? Nine? e'took out our fuckin' big guns... Sweep the fuckin' area, if you find fuckin' anbody standing who aint onna' us, you put lead through his fuckin' skull, got it? No pussy shit, no hesitation. That clear?"

The rest of the room responds a few at a time.

"Yeah, boss."

The remaining thugs go on alert patrol mode, searching about the ground level of the warehouse.

"Jesus, I hope this aint that bird freak".

"Alright, you five with me, the rest of you, stick around, watch the workers, don't let shit sneak up on you."

A group of five armed thugs break off from the pack and make their way down the warehouse in a loose formation, looking just about everywhere, except up. An audible pop then the fizzle of smoke and the men are engulfed in a gray, choking haze, flashlights shining through the cloud. The rest of the warehouse turns it's attention to the ball of smoke, weapons raised, but nobody shoots. Shouts of agony and struggle emit from the cloud, followed by two gunshots and a solid 'whump!' noise. When the smoke rests, five men lay on the ground, either unconscious or well on their way to being there, and a sixth standing above them. There is a short moment of silence as the thugs stare down the yellow eyed black mask before them in full view of two flashlights, too long to be comfortable for the Sicilian.

Sicilian: "What are ya' doin'?! Shoot the fuck!"

A hail of small arms fire erupts from the four remaining mobsters, but the man in the mask before them is far too fast for any average shooter. Light flashes through the warehouse as gunfire and flashlights rapidly follow him through his evasive maneuvers, but eventually loose him in the forest of boxes and rafters. Once again after the building is silent, and two flashlights scan the area, now looking above as well.

"I lost him!"

"Me too! How'd he fuckin' do that?!"

Sicilian: "You four, are fucked. Fucked in the FUCKIN' HEAD if you think any of you are gonna exit this building alive if this freak gets outa' here! Find him! I gotta' make a fuckin' call..."

The Sicilian angrily paces back into his office, slamming the door. It's flimsy locking mechanism can be heard, followed by the sound of blinds as he lowers them in vain over the windows of the office. He pulls out his phone, and begins to dial a number whilst flashlights search the building again, one just barely scraping over the top of the office on which Blackbird resides, only slightly missing him.

The rubber grenade explodes, sending mobsters and workers alike sailing back. Those workers who are not in the immediate danger zone break their orders and duck for cover, scurrying away. When the dust settles, the remaining mobsters are down, along with three of the workers. By now loud banging can be heard on the locked door, as the unarmed thugs from outside try to get in. Focusing through this noise, Blackbird hears what happens in the room bellow him. Metal sliding against leather, a mechanical click, the faint smell of sweat on steel, the Sicilian has drawn his pistol, moreover, he's nervous. He paces away from any of the windows in his room, holding his pistol in front of him, just as the call goes through. The man on the phone is Irish, Northern Irish, from somewhere around Ballymena, judging by his accent.

???: "What now, Tommy?"

Tommy: "He's here man, fuckin' Blackbird is here. Shit's real this time, he hit one of the processing spots."

???: "It /just/ him?"

Tommy: "Who the fuck else would be here?"

???: "...Good luck, Tommy."

Tommy: "The fuck do you mean?"

???: "I mean you're on you're own, Tom. Nobody can help you now but yourself."

The call is ended, and clearly Tommy is not pleased. He slings his phone onto the floor with vigor and shouts.

Tommy: "That mic fuck! Alright you freaky bastard, I know you can hear me! So why don't we settle this like men!"

Whoever built this warehouse didn't do a very good job. Cheap sheet metal, even cheaper construction. The man is hoisted up and through the roof whilst struggling, kicking and flailing his legs in the grip, dumping three shots into the ceiling before the monster taunts him and tosses him back through the roof onto the floor. He wasn't quite sure when, but somewhere along the way Tommy lost his gun. Through the pain in his back and his momentarily dazed vision, he spies Blackbird take it apart in seconds and toss it away, raising his hands to the man in a surrendering manner.

Tommy: "Agh! Alright, alright, I get the idea man... No need t'do anything, dramatic..."

The mobster adjusts himself a bit, hands still held out, though he props himself up a slight bit against the wall. Something rustles in his coat pocket, metal and plastic, tensed energy, a bit of compressed air, something spring loaded.

Tommy: "But uh, thing is... I dunno that. Heh, uh, nobody does."

Tommy backs up a step against the wall, clearly with nowhere to go. He's clearly not the type to be intimidated easily, but he's clearly not stupid either. He'd gingerly hold open half of his coat, and indeed what is in the inner pocket there is a switchblade. He'd gingerly take the blade out, holding it by only two fingers as a sign of submission. Rapidly things switch from 10 to 100 as the Sicilian firmly grips the knife and jabs it at Blackbirds gut as he nears. He's fast, very fast, fast enough that he would have probably stabbed most people in this situation. In a split second the blade of the weapon is extended from the handle and at full length, though Blackbird had plenty of warning before hand. The tensing of the man's muscles, a skip in his heart beat, the sound of the knife sliding across his palm as he gripped it properly.

Tommy Talked, in his own convoluted way, explaining events loosely through tales of hearsay and personal experience, everything he knew about the Made Man.

Before 1982 Chicago was run by the Italian mob since the days of Al Capone, and within a span of six months, Made Man had ended that dynasty spanning sixty years. This isn't news. Made Man is legend on the streets of Chicago, his triumph over the Italian mafia and the subjugation of the rest the meat of the story. Nobody knows exactly how he did it, and few from inside the Italian mob survived the war. And here, one of those very mobsters who had seen it first hand was talking. Bluetooth was right about this place, "a trove of poison and truth" he called it. For the six months that war raged in Chicago, nobody in the Italian mob even knew who they were fighting. The attacks were so fast and spread out, carried out almost daily that the mob could do nothing besides try to hold the line. Illegal money printing operations went up in smoke, drug stockpiles were consumed by fire, the slaves of human trafficking set free. By the end of October 1982, the mob's own headquarters was attacked, and the infamous Capone mansion burnt down. All the while, nobody in the city or the mob knew who, or what was doing this. A month later, an individual came forth whom called himself the Made Man, and took claim. Of course, no one ever saw the made man. The closest anyone had been was a phone call, but he had his methods. People under his authority rounded up the remains of the mob, about twenty six or so gangsters and gave them the option to toss out their thirst for vengeance, and to take on a new boss. Out of the twenty six, five said no and were shot on the spot. After, the remaining twenty one opted to join the new gang, taking up the positions of Lieutenants in the mob. Just as they had organized the Italian mob, they now did the same for the new mob. An inner circle was formed, those being the only ones whom were allowed to see or speak with Made Man, and those whom ensured his orders were carried out. The circle was made of twelve members, modeled after the Knights of the Round Table of old legend. Each was known by their knight name, and on rare occasion their own name, and were essential in the subjugation of the remaining mobs. Members of the round table came and went, but as the remaining mobs were taken in in a sort of crime empire, their own leaders always had a seat at the round table. Of made man, this was all Tommy knew. He had heard his voice once when he was offered to join the new mob or die, but beyond that, he only ever dealt with 'higher ups' in the hierarchy of the mob. Tommy's primary contact was one woman, Harmona Claudia, another remaining member of the Italian mob, also known as 'Sir Kay' as a member of the Round Table. Claudia was responsible for commanding and overseeing the entire drug operation of Chicago as one of the many business arms of the mob. The drug trade, being the most lucrative of the business ventures in the city, was operated entirely by Made Man's own mafia, rather than one of the others such as the Russians or Chinese. Even the full extent of the drug trade was unknown to Tommy, but what was is the fact that the product entered the city via the docks, specifically Pier 12, and was sometimes shipped in from Detroit across the great lakes. This was everything that had been squeezed out of Tommy, and what was left of the man too resembled a dried sponge. Beaten, bloodied, but alive at least.

January 16th, 2007
10:00 PM

Night again, back to work. During the day, Bluetooth tracked down the company which owns Pier 12, a small time shipping and distribution company called Manuel Freight and Light Transport. It's owner, Louis Manuel, had been listed dead since 1995 in everything besides official company records and shipping manifests. The Harbormasters own freight list showed Pier 12 to be taking in 'domestic goods' from ports across the Great Lakes, including Detroit. It was also listed as a private dock under security, more than suspicious for a warehouse company.

" Finch is a no show."

Bluetooth's voice is heard over the in-ear headset inside Blackbird's mask.

"He got stuck up handling some petty crime on the way. You know how he is."

Pier 12 is a larger facility housing multiple smaller docks, three to be exact. Surveillance from the outside reveals that the middle dock is currently housing a small cargo ship which is currently being unloaded by dock workers. Besides the fence and barbed wire, the place looks like a normal dock, workers in their blue and yellow vested uniforms scattered around the area, going about their work. Bypassing the fence isn't hard, and once past it Blackbird makes his way through the stacks of cargo containers ready to be shipped out in trucks. Sensing through their thick steel walls is at first difficult, but reveals nothing of interest. Outdated TV sets, construction materials, bulk loads of every day goods, typical moving freight for a dock like this.

"So, no idea on who Irish is. There's hundreds of Irishmen in the city, but from what I can tell, none of them are new. Whoever your guy is, he's an ace at keeping a low profile."

The Chicago Irish mob was the oldest organized mob in the city, and probably in the entire mid west and east coast. They had roots in American history dating back before the Civil War, and were a blood line all their own. The fact that they retained their accent after nearly two hundred years of cultural immersion was testimate enough to that. Their own slightly different version of the accent unique to their clan, undetectable by most. But the man on the phone, his was different, fresh. Fresh off the boat fresh.

"But, I did some digging on our line light girl. Sir Kay, better known as Harmona Claudia, or Momma Claudia. She's got a few screws loose... Y'know how Made Man's guys usually at least have their head on right? Not, y'know, actually insane? Yeah, not her. Born 1958, aged 49, married into the Italian Mob at age 23 in 1981 to one Anthony 'Buster' Talone. Well, Buster got clipped a year later when Made Man took a sledge hammer to the Italian mob. As legend goes, Momma Claudia was not having any of that shit. She single handedly took a flamethrower to the entire drug trade Made Man put together after he nestled into the seat of power. As in literally, a flamethrower, she burned people alive. Somewhere along the way she snapped, and eventually got caught. For some reason or another, instead of getting knocked off Made Man set her on rebuilding the business she torched. He must have some strings on her, one way or another. All that's certain is that she is off her rocker, the sort've person to stab you in the hand as soon as shake it. She's got such a rep that what's left of the Italian mob doesn't challenge her for her chair. Last guy that tried reportedly had his hands and feet chopped off, while being burnt alive, while hanging upside down, by some not so friendly locations."

The place seems oddly normal. Unarmed dock workers go about moving boxes full of every day goods, no guns or drugs to smell, aside from one particular worker who's carrying a baggie of pot in his shirt pocket, something liable to get him fired. Through the roof, Blackbird is able to detect a number of things. The office entrances are locked, both the front door and the roof access. The office is three stories, the top story seems to be reserved for a sort of lounge, the faint smell of cigarette smoke and cocaine from inside it, a lingering one rather than from a fresh source. On this level there is as well a corner office with two large windows. Inside here is a man, wearing a finely tailored suit, sitting in a chair. He seems to be listening to someone on the phone, another man with a local accent explaining to him the attack on one of their distribution warehouses, and that he needs to upgrade his security. There is at least one gun, an older revolver sitting on his desk, only detectable due to the smell of black powder on it. Detecting anything more from the room is difficult, as it is thick with flavored cigar smoke, altering the temperature, texture, and smell of the air in the room, making the picture muddy. The first and second floors are both typical freight offices, part of the operation's false front.

Entering the room is silent. Entering the room, the smoke becomes somewhat overwhelming for Blackbird's senses, even if he had vision, there is a haze of it in the air like a thin fog. Too much smoke for one cigar... Grabbing the man's gun, he offers no resistance. In fact, from this proximity, a few extra things can be sensed.

The man is tied to his chair, specifically in a position made to mimic a normal sitting position. Furthermore, his mouth is stapled shut, and he's barely consious, his mouth filled with some sort of cloth. The phone audio skips once, It's a loop. Some faint static is emitted from the phone, the loop cutting out, replaced by a low, gravely voice. "Goodnight." There is a moment of complete focus, and Blackbird hears the sound of a faint, sharp whistling. Thanks to super human reaction speeds Blackbird adjusts himself just enough to dodge the bullet with his name on it, one which scrapes past his mask after breaking through and shattering the window.

There are no more shots from the position, it seems like one was enough for the would be assassin. His hide is actually outside the compound, a building across the street, an abandoned one. Getting to it involves some extra dexterity, leaping from the rooftop across the street and onto the wall of the adjacent building, then climbing up it to it's roof. Shot came from the fourth floor, top floor of the building. Sensing through the inside, there's burning incense, another smoke cover for the senses, unless this shooter is a monk.

Using the rooftop railing as a hinge to swing downward Blackbird smashes through the window and into the room beyond. It's deathly silent and thin with incense smoke, not enough to really muddy the senses like the cigar smoke, but enough to make things a little fuzzy. On the ground lies a single titanium bullet casing, and aside from that the room seems empty. That is, aside from a very obvious block of soft plastic attached to the wall, fit with a detonator and blinking red light. It emits a soft beeping noise.

The plastic does not explode. The beeping ends, and nothing happens. Whatever it is, it's made to look like a bomb. A few moments after the beeping ends, Blackbird senses movement, A black armored figure bursts through a nearby door, a movement Blackbird senses long before it happens. The figure stands 6'2'' and is head to toe armored in rigid ceramic armor, their head covered by a helmet, the front of which is a large tinted black visor. He's carrying an entire arsenal of advanced weapons, two handguns of an unknown make, both remarkably complex, and a large 7.62mm suppressed sniper rifle on his back. He wields one of these pistols in his left hand, and in his right is a long thin machete, which vibrates constantly on a such a high frequency that a normal person would not be able to tell. Immediately he goes for a distraction swing of the machete, readying the sidearm to fire once it has a clear shot.