rozieart

==> Peccant Scofflaw: Survey Your City.

 
It is Sunday night, near Monday morning, around three, and you are Peccant Scofflaw. This is your office, overlooking your city, and it glows with the gleaming purple light of a cycle of life and death you keep perfectly in balance through sheer force of will (and a bit of genius and muscle never hurt, but that’s why there are three of you). This is your favorite view, the one that reminds you how in control of absolutely everything you are. You are not some sewer-running second rate criminal who must flee from cops on foot or get away in a van. You do not rob banks. You orchestrate. You smile and wink at the police and let them scream and tear their hair out at how you leave no evidence to make you guilty. Of anything.


And yet it is Sunday night and you are livid.

Only a few short days ago, Deadeye Detective injured you horribly, after a long dance around the issue of your best friend. And you are livid, practically sparking with anger that not only did your desires go completely unheeded, but you lost a fight and got the snot beat out of you. That rather puts you off.

And you want revenge. You want revenge so very, very badly. There is nothing that would please you more than to ring his neck, stick the dick with knives and riddle him with bullets. But your partner, your brother, wouldn’t be very happy with that, now would he? 

 Decidedly not.

There is a solution. You are smart. Clever, even. In some things. This being one of them. It’s not your style, not at all. But it will suit your purposes just fine.

—-

It is Monday morning when the best laid plans of man fall into place, a lovely set of dominoes you’ve stacked and tipped and now all you need to do is wait. And watch.

Television, specifically. Where a middle-aged brunette is crying, standing in front of microphones, mascara running and face red as she sobs. Her daughter is missing. Kidnapped. No ransom, not a note or a word. No fingerprints in the house, just an empty bedroom without a picture frame knocked over or a door left ajar. Gone. The police are, of course, baffled, and have no one to blame or nowhere to look. She’s a single mother with a boring job, makes no money, no scandal to be heard of.

The smile on your face grows just a few centimeters wider, leaning back in the massive chair of your office. 

Stumped police?  Missing child? Perfect bait. He’ll come running in a heartbeat, because this doesn’t have a whiff of you on it, but he’ll know, and that just makes you all the happier. 

Let the game begin. 


((Plot I am running. PM me if you have questions.))