Waterfront - York and Queens Quay(#1114RJ)

Here is the most famous area on the waterfront, the York Quay. You can see the large green and gray building known as Queen's Quay Terminal. Small unique shops and restaurants fill the Queen's Quay Terminal building, providing a nice, if somewhat expensive place to enjoy the waterfront. There are many other smaller office buildings and shops locate at this intersection, all taking advantage of the numerous tourist and city attractions located in the York Quay. Special bus tours begin and end at this location, travelling up and down Queens Quay. To the north lies the city core, CN Tower and Skydome. To the east is the Island Ferry Terminal and the west holds Ontario Place and The Exhibition. Adding to the loveliness of the area are the freshly cleaned sidewalks, newly repaved roads and the sweet greenery in their holders lining the sidewalks.

Contents:
Ian
Obvious exits:
Old Bank Building York Quay West East

The snow falls heavily, and cars stay off the streets. The blanket of white and the swirling flurries keep most folk safely indoors. In the haze of flakes that is the lighted area of a streetlamp however, stands a solitary figure. Black full length coat drawn up with a large hood, gradually succumbing to the ice and snow and transmogrifying into snowmanform. Smoke whips about amidst the white, as the last of a cigarette is spat out from the shadows of the man's headcovering.


Ian emerges from the Eclipse Corp building, his polished shoes trudging through the freezing slush outside. Turning to check the door, he rattles the handle before glancing over his shoulder. Noticing the solitary figure highlighted by the lamp, he looks to either side. Perking a brow, the streets seem vacant other than the two, the weather and hour forcing most in. Slipping his hands in his pockets, he crosses the street to approach the stranger. "Good evening. Awfully cold out here, you need anything?" he inquires politely as he causally closes the distance.


The man turns sharply, as if only imagining a voice formed from the tide and whipping wind. The motion allows a vague notion of his features. Lines of the tattoos stark against the pale skin. A wry smile, "Indubidably. There are many things I need. That however, is not the issue." A pause, the white holes where his eyes should be staring vacant, giving up nothing to the moment. "What is it that you need?"



From broad shoulders to sturdy legs, Ian's powerful physique is obvious. Standing just below six feet, his bulky frame is composed entirely of thick, sinewy muscle. Despite his size, Ian doesn't exhibit the clumsiness most associate with larger individuals. Yet, his callused hands, coupled with a healthy tan and weathered cheeks, speak of a rigorous existence. Dark hair, kept short in a contemporary style, frames his rough features. A square chin completes the outline, lending his face a certain authority. Thin lips, usually drawn in a neutral line, rest below a slightly bent nose. Impassive, gray eyes complete his stoic image.

Clad in an urban-contemporary ensemble, Ian is wearing a black suit over a French blue dress shirt and dark tie. The black, all-wool suit features a four-button, non-vented jacket and double-pleated pant. Beneath his black jacket, the finely woven cotton fabric of his blue shirt provides a pleasing contrast, making the suit look slightly less formal. His silk tie, featuring an alternating pattern of navy blue, silver, and black, is tacked in place with a bone tiepin shaped into a small rapier. His wrists are likewise adorned with bone cuff links featuring a Celtic raven pattern. A pair of black leather, cap-toe shoes complete his cosmopolitan look.

His languid movements and impassive countenance create a suggestion of indifferent. Even his powerful frame is made less imposing by a relaxed stature. Despite his apparent blase, Ian's eyes manage to appear alert and attentive, though his gaze causally drifts about.



Halting a few feet away, Ian steps into the thick snow concealing the sidewalk. Tilting his head curiously, he adds with a smirk, "A warm meal and some dry shoes, but I'll settle for information." Glancing back at the building, he inquires, "Firstly, why in the Hell are you standing out here, in this frigid weather? Of course, it is a public sidewalk, in all, but I'm just curious." His posture remains non-threatening as he chats in a conversational tone.

Those eyes stare out blankly, given the redness around them from the cold and the sheen of sleet that clings to his face, they could in fact be cataracts for all anyone knows. Unsettling how he appears to be looking at you, but could not be at all. "Waiting." says the man, quietly enough for the word to be almost lost in the shriek of the wind. Said wind pushes in the side of his hood, smacking the wet fabric against his cheek. This only causes his smile to widen. "You're missing something."


Ian squints against the bitting wind, his short hair waving against the gust. Noticing the ice that clings to the man, he remarks in a dry tone, "It looks like you've been waiting for a while." Raising his voice against the howl, he stands firm as he air whips his jacket about, kicking up sheets of snow and ice. "I'm always missing something, sir. Do you know of anything in particular?" his tone is firm, the extra volume required to convey his message in the weather.


While terrifyingly cold, and shivering slightly the man seems mentally sharp. Wired. The smile fades, an overly blank look replacing it as he stares in your direction. The hood rustles, snow falling off it as he shakes his head somberly. Ice cracks as the man unplants his frozen shoes from the ground and begins to turn away.

"You are not ready. Time will come." and he turns away, tromping off into the snow.



Ian remains motionless as the man brushes by. Blinking at the cryptic missive, he turns to regard the strange man as he trudges against the snow. Glancing back to the ground, he regards the ice imprints on the ground with a dubious look.

The imprints of work duty soles slowly become obscured by the falling snow as the man tromps on with slow and deliberate steps. Not another word or backwards glance, as he slowly dissapears into the whirling haze.

Downtown - Spadina and Wellesley W(#269RJ)

The student ghetto dominates this entire area of town. Dilapidated condos and apartment complexes stretch up into the sky. Laundry can be seen hanging off balconies; the paint jobs here are faded and stained with acid rain marks, and the buildings themselves look as if they were built in the 70's. Scattered small commercial shops provide for the residents of this area, who are mainly students attending University of Toronto to the south. A steady stream of student traffic marches by here at all times. In the mornings and afternoons they head out to attend classes, while in the evenings they go out to hit the bars and enjoy the Toronto night life.

l wig

A ten foot wrought iron gate, with ornamental spikes formed on the tip of each pole. It is part of a fence line that surrounds the entire Firehouse Complex, keeping the world out with its stoic gaze.

The outer courtyard of this once noble building, is covered completely with cracked and worn pavement. It surrounds the entire building, which is then surrounded by the imposing ten-foot high wrought iron fence. Each pole is tipped with a fire-hardened spike that gleams gently in the halogen lights that shine brightly from the corners of the flat roof. The building itself was built in the late eighteen hundreds, and if you look closely the cornerstone has a bronze plaque reading eighteen ninety-two that is covered with dirt and forgotten grime. A squat two-story building, built of stone and mortar it has stood at this corner over a hundred years but has not withstood the ravages of time. Much of the once grandiose facade has begun to fall away, revealing in many places the actual stonework that supports the weight of the building. A huge rolling garage door, probably newer then the structure itself since its made of interlocking pieces of iron sits centered into the front wall, with a small human sized door built into it so it need not be opened and closed every time someone wants in or out. There are a series of windows around the building, two on each side on the second floor, while the first floor has one on each side excepting the front in which the large garage door is situated. All of the windows are dark, revealing not an ounce of light from within, possibly dark curtains, or maybe just painted black to keep unwelcome eyes out. Also they are all covered with thick security bars, screwed into the stones with heavy but well rusted bolts. Overall the building gives most viewers a sense of sadness and lost, for what was once a symbol of hope and protection, is now crumbling like so many other grand landmarks.

This Building is a Nightzone

James steps through the Wrought Iron Gate and out into the street.
James has arrived.

A bum stands outside one of the student buildings, holding a battered coffee mug shaking it and shivering from the cold in a grungy poncho and toque.

James comes out of the Wrought Iron Gate. It slides closed behind him. He looks around, smiling to himself as he spots Compton. Checking his pockets he begins moving towards the older man.

The drifters bloodshot eyes wake up a little as he spots a perspective mark heading his way, "S-spare c-c-change m-mister?" the big guy stammers. He twitches oddly, his eye lazy and wandering. Perhaps signs of Parkinson’s?

l James
A young gentleman who appears to be in his mid twenties. He stands a few inches over five feet tall. His long, straight silky hair is a blond so pale as to be almost white. It falls to the middle of his back, and is tied up with a dark green ribbon. His long narrow face and hands, denote a fine bone structure, although his nose is a little on the small side. By far and away his most striking feature is his vibrant emerald green eyes.
He wears a loose fitting green t-shirt, and a relatively new pair of stonewashed levi's. On his feet are a pair of well worn blue Nike's, and from time to time you can catch a glimpse of his socks, which are a dark green. On his right hand ring finger is a silver ring, engraved in a celtic knot pattern, and around his neck is a braided silver chain that disappears in to the collar of his shirt.

James grins at Compton, pulling his hand out of a pocket. Dropping about two dollars wotrth of loose change in to the cup. He speaks up after loosing the change, 'Ofcourse I've got spare change. How's tricks?"

The townie looks perplexed, "Y-you kn-kn-know me mister?" and glances in the cup and gives a half smile. The other side of his mouth seems to be numb, slack.

James nods, "We've met a couple of times before. You probably don't remember me. It's been over a month since the last time I believe.". He looks Compton over, "You probably aught to get something warm to drink. And I've got places to go. Take care of yourself." Woth that he looks around to see if he can spot a Taxi.

"W-wh-what's yer name b-buddy?" the old hobo stutters.

James replie, "James Anderson.", just before hailing a taxi.

Compton half grins again, waving a mitten’d hand in the air at Mr. Andersen as he leaves, "T-thanks..."

James replies, "Any time.", then steps in to the cab that has pulled up, closing the door behind him.
James has left.

Compton straightens himself out, and quits with the fake twitching. A wicked grin creeps up his face and he dumps the change from the mug in to a Zip Lock he’s pulled from his pants, “Gotcha motherfucker.” He says savagely to no one, well, maybe the derelict passed out in the stairwell behind him. He now pulls off the poncho and toque, depositing these on top of the sleeping bum with his tin cup, and recollecting his parka and bundling back up. “Thanks bud.” he says to the wastrel before moving on.

~FIN~

**Stupid little scene. But Hana has been causing shit and I wanted to cover the bases ICly. The sad part is that this scene had to happen because of her OOC mouth. Anyhoo, it’s over shortly.**

Downtown - Parliament and Front E
The downtown core can be seen in the horizon to the west. Here lie many of Toronto's old and abandoned warehouses. Fences set ten feet high with barbed wires interlacing the top portion guards this area closely. Despite the look of these dilapidated warehouses, this is a popular filming area for major motion pictures. The abandoned warehouses make a perfect location for many scenarios used in action movies and TV shows. Overhead, to the west lies the Gardiner Expressway where it joins with the major north-south highway, the Don Valley Parkway. To the west is the St. Lawrence Market and Union Station, while to the south is the docks to Lake Ontario.

This building is a moderate sized light industrial shop. The walls of this two-story building are well-made with cinder blocks and steel beams. There are no windows on the ground level, but a ring of soaped windows circle the building on the second level.

The building sits on an asphalt lot and is surrounded by a tall chainlink fence. Light poles on two, opposite, corners of the lot keep the area illuminated when it is dark outside.

You paged Alex with 'No doubt from your discussions with Hana, you are aware of someone matching Compton's description loitering outside your establishment from the electronic recordings. Well, he's back. Waving his arms over his head, obviously trying to get the camera's attention this time.'.

Compton knocks on the door marked .

Alex comes out of the light industrial shop by way of the service door.
Alex has arrived.

Compton stands outside the fence in his heavy parka. The hood up against the gusting snow. Despite this the guys shivers, his lips blue. What kind of fool does this on an afternoon like this?

The service door to the shop opens and out step Alex. He crosses the lot surrounding the shop, stopping at the fence. "Need something,"he asks raising an eyebrow. Two other figures are standing in the open service door watching.

Compton nods shivering , "N-need to ex-explain... Little girl, yesterday." Compton says incoherently. Judging by the rose on his cheeks and the blearyness of his eyes, this outing is being fueled by some strong liquor. "I-I had the wrong place, h-honest. Lil slut tr-trying to ex-extort me."

"Wrong place?..."Alex queries with a single nod, accepting what Compton says but maybe not actually believing it just yet,"So,... which place /were/ you looking for?..."

Drawing a large hand from the parka's pocket he points westwards, "Over t-ther by tha u-university." he shivers throught the words. "G-got directions wrong." Compton continues to explain, obviously relived that you at least understand him.

Compton unzips his parka a little and draws a 26'r from inside and takes a belt of the brown fluid before continuing. The liquor seeming to warm him a little, he points at several other building in the area, "I check all of those actually. Was just dumb luck I ran in to that whore here. I wouldn't even had known who or what was here if she hadn't tried to threaten me with... well, you guys." He really seems to be talking from the heart. Why else would someone walk out here in a bizzard and try to convince a stranger, tha there was nothing wrong, when nothing was wrong to begin with.

"Really?..."Alex says not really seeming to pay much attention to which direction Compton points in, though that is so hard to tell with those shades. He starts to turn to head back inside but then stops,"Oh... I understand that Hana has expressed interest in your group?..." he asks tilting his head slightly.

"Hana?" Compton asks. "That's the hookers name is it? Well, I guess so. Hana seems to think I owe her money. She's fucked up." and tucks the bottle back inside his coat and zips back up. "Sorry for any misunderstanding, man." he adds in a neighborly fashion. It doesn't come off very well, and he looks uncomfortable doing it, like he's not used to 'patching things up' as it were.

The quarter finally drops in to the slot, and Compton blinks, saying the words over again to himself, "Wait, what kind of interest?"

"Yeah. Hana,"Alex says with a single nod,"The young lady that was looking to talk to your friend Dr. Adler."

Compton nods, squinting as a particularly hard gale of wind blows snow in to his face, "Alright. Thanks."

Alex turns and head across the lot and back into the shop, through the service door.
Alex opens the heavy steel service door and step into the light industrial shop.

Derelict Home - Main Room

The inside of this empty home is still relatively intact compared to large patches of missing paint and exposed concrete of the exterior. It’s the interior of a two story, unfurnished house, in fair condition. A modestly composed structure, there's a kitchen, a den, two bathrooms, and two bedrooms upstairs. The small imperfections are covered with fresh paint, the smell still strong in the air. Apparently just waiting for new occupants. Hard wood floors and an off white do this residence nicely. Though judging by the outside, this house might've been waiting for a long time. There's no lights, though it's not hard to spot the lack of furniture. It's lone piece, a mattress perhaps left by squatters in the living room.

Compton stomps in from the cold, holding a six pack of Coors up in the air as offering to the A/V gods that are currently scrutinizing him. "Come bearing gifts." he grumbles to the darkness.

It's an intercom voice. You know from previous visits that the whole house is wired, all patched into the underground sanctum. "Tits. 'S open..."

Nearby, a male voice shouts, "As in, come on down..."

Compton nods and grins up at the corner where assumes that there is a camera and goes on his way, leaving wet foot prints behind.

You go down the stairs.
From Derelict Home - Main Room, Compton has left.
Derelict House - Kitchen

Beneath two stories, lies a basement with all the common amenities. However, it's been converted into a semi living space.

In one corner, a boiler and heater stand, though only function down here. The fuse box is also configured to power the subterranean portion of this structure. A washer drier are next, and a small makeshift sink. All four walls have been padded with heavy insulating material and wires run down from key holes in the ceiling. A few bundles are strapped together, feeding into a video network system. Four screens sit at a small square table, flashing camera feeds from strategic points outside and inside the house above. A reclining chair, made of brown leather, encircled with ashes and empty beer bottles on the hard cement floor. A TV sits atop another broken TV, its wires arranged to split off the block's main cable system.

To the far wall, a long table has been set up, stacked with a variety of chemical compounds and mixing material. Everything from begin base liquids, to corrosive acids stored in chem-hazard tanks. A myriad mix of beakers, vials, and test-tubes line the shelves above. Gloves, goggles, tongs, all things a junior mad scientist would need to conquer the world. Some larger steel drums of chemicals are stored under the table, and some electronic chem-analysis equipment blinks an occasional red flash.

And finally, set along the length of the large basement, seems to be a make-shift firing range. Shell casings litter the floor at one end, opposite from a large reinforced steel door dimpled with a thousand bullet dents. The remains of a tattered paper target hang on the door. Over it, a picture of Ronald McDonald.

Contents:
Chase

Compton enters. Wearing his old parka still, but gone is that lame Santa's cap. In it's place is a wide cut on his forehead and he moves stiffly like his back is bothering him. He doesn't look happy - well, not that he ever did but something seems to be bothering him above and beyond the surface crustiness he usually projects. "Thanks." he says simply.

Chase, Chase and more Chase. "Oi." In unison everyone. There's one in the leather chair watching Bewitched on the tube. And two at the lab table with protective eye wear working in tandem with soldering irons. The two at the table wear lab coat, and despite chiming in with the greetings, their work ethic is diligent. Some sort of electronic device seems to be the object of their attention, fashioned into a collar of sorts.

Lazy Chase is the one who continues speaking though. "Sup neegro?" Joint burning nearby.

Compton gawks. No really, his mouth fucking drops to the floor and his beady eyes bug out of their sockets. So, he tries what anyone would do and grinds his free hand in to his eyes trying to clear them of the multiple vision he's suddenly experience.

That fails.

But Compton is a part of the College with talking monkeys and whatnot. He quickly just accepts this amount of weirdness as okay, but shoots it a dirty look as if saying, 'Okay. I'll accept this. For now. Just don't push it.' and gingerly steps through, pulling Coors cans from the plastic rings, depositing them by the Chase's on his way through until he gets to Lazy Chase and hands over the last one.

"I, er... Sorry. Shoulda brought more." he dead pans.

"Oh! Silver Fuckin Bullet." Lazy Chase lurches from his slumped position to accept the offering. "Fuckin' A man. Gracias." The others smile, but continue working. Registering the slight shock to Comps, an affirmation. "Don' worry, I guzzle 'n they get twisted."

At that, one of the working Chases shows the room his middle finger, before connecting some wires to an injection system.

"Where the hell you keep findin' Coors up here, cabrone? Can't get this shite anywhere, really. All the liquor stores 'r full up with micro-brews 'n whatnot..."

Compton says in a matter of fact kinda way, "Ya know - that hand thing the College kids do? Well, everytime they do that shit ya gotta hand over a smoke. I don't smoke see? And at $9 a pack they can get stuffed if they think I'm buying the good stuff. I know some Wahoo's who smuggle stuff across the lake, like cheap ass cigarettes. They bring beer too. Yankie beer. No one else I know likes it though - so it ain't no big thing."

*SNAP* There goes the first foamy beer. Hola Hiro, you salty dog. Here's the situation. (Parents are gone on a three week vacation)

There's the chair. In the chair is one Chase, wearing a 7-11 shirt and opening a Coors from the heard that Comps just brought in. At the lab table, there are in fact, two more Chases. They seem to be working on some electronic device without pause.

Lazy Chase, the one in the chair watching Tabitha Stevens in Bewitched, is smiling a kid's grin to Comps. Tickled as fuck to have some Coors up in his shit. "Nice." he says between gulps. "Like my coyotes. But different product."

Compton shuffles his feet a little looking down, suddenly becoming more uncomfortable, "I can get you as much as ya like, but I... Um..." okay, now he just looks like an idiot. Breaking ice like this obviously is pain for the big guy. "I gotta ask you a fave." he says bluntly.

"Anyone who brings me Coors, gots one coming." Healthy swig. "'S on yer mind, cabrone?" Lazy Chase leans forwards a bit for the answer.

Compton idly touches the gash on his head and stalks away agitated, before turning back a few more steps. He sighs, and dumps his parka on top of a crate. "Okay. Is like this see?" he starts all high strung, "Ya hangout with this street kids, tough kids like Penny, right? And they kinda look up to ya..." ya okay, in Comptons mind anyways "And ya feel pretty tough yerself. Being able to blow shit up by tweaking the formulae of the machine and shit."

"But then some shit happens, and ya find yerself on yer ass in the street ready to load your drawers and there's nothing you can do about it until Penny shows up to save yer ass, again." he looks down at his beer gut ashamed. What a fucking pathetic sight. Someone shoot him already.

Perhaps lacking the sympathy gene, Chase doesn't get it yet. But he's just downing beer watching Comp's monologue instead of Bewitched. One of the worker bees behind the lazy one, prompts for more info.

"Whatcha talkin' 'bout?"

Compton sucks it up, that big fucking baby, "Got my ass kicked by at 16 yr old slant hooker." Yup. That's gotta sting anyones ego. "I want ya to train me." There, he said it finally.

"Can't go to one of the kids." Compton syas, "It'd destroy my image." Uh huh. There it is again, but whatever. We're all delusional in our own ways.

"Oh." Lazy Chase sets the beer down and takes one final drag of his dwindling joint. "Ok." See? That wasn't overly hard. "Ummmm, lemme see whatcha got first, eh?" At that, the thick man stands. One of the worker bees grabs something from the shelf and hands it to lazy. A pill of course, and they work together with one mind judging by the precision of movements. "Wanna kick my ass? Make ya feel better, mebbe. Good way ta judge yer skills to."

Chase pops the pill, and feels no pain.

Compton arches a brow at this one, and visibly swallows (GULP), "Well, okay..." he says with no assurance, and starts to unbutton his freaky shirt and strips down to a wife beater. The slabs of fleshy meat on his arms and chest fully exposed there. He's got the mass, just no tone. He balls up his fist and puts his guard up, spreading his feet, classic boxers pose. "You ready?" he asks with a little more conviction.

Steps into the dungeon proper, Chase makes sure he's not near anything dangerous for this. No stance, no hint of readiness. Just some beer wiped from his lips and a sniffle.

"Ya, ok. Let's have it then..." He doesn't have the posture of someone who's about to dodge a punch or get hit squarely.

Compton shuffles forward and throws a right aiming to beak Chase on the nose. Pretty good form.

Robotically, Chase head snaps back with the right cross. No blood. No flinching. No hint of discomfort. But a sniffle. He takes a step to his left, nose twitching. "Eh, ya the form's alright. Let's have another." Slack fucker.

Compton grins, loosening up. He shuffles his feet again, flinches to one side (okay, now he's getting silly) and throws another right at Chases midriff.

Fist meets flesh, Comps can feel a wall up muscle under the punk's shirt. This time Chase doesn't react as much, as the force is absorbed in his mass. "More." He's not even moving. 'S like a human punching bag with an out-dated haircut.

Compton is breathing a little heavier now, a light sheen of sweat showing up on his bald head, he nods simply and let’s fly with a left right combo.

"Ow! Fuck!" Compton hops back shaking and nursing his left wrist.

Well the first strike was completely off. Despite landing, it just glances off the side of Chase's face. Chalk it up to the sweat. The second at least, manages to draw a few drops of blood from his nose. The punk's head is thrown this way, then that way, in the succession of blows. A sniffle, no pain.

"You alright there?" Concern for Comp's wrist.

The slight cut Comps opened up on the bridge of Chase's nose, closes like a fleshy ziplock bag about a few seconds after impact. It leave the faintest of lines, though a few drops of blood still splatter his cheek and upper lip.

Compton grumbles, working the pain out of his hand, "Yeah... bad wrist. You alright?"

A shrug. No gash. No pain. "'Course." Chase says, as if that's a commonly known fact. "I'm uh... I got somethin' in me." Is all the explanation he offers for the self sealing skin he wears.

"Solid blows. Gotta work on yer conditioning 'n mebbe aim. But the form's there."

Compton nods, still huffing a little, he shambles over to a nearby Coors can and helps himself. Good for what ails ya. "Thanks." he says with some surprise, " Lil cunt was fast though. I never even got a chance to do anything."

"Yeah well, slants usually are. We'll get into some proper sparring next time if ya want." Lazy Chase walks over to reclaim his thrown of slack.

"That'd be cool." The old guy says, turning and retriving his shirt he starts to redress himself. "I'll give ya call."

~FIN~