Outside the house a black mustang pulls up to the curb. It positions itself right in front of the SWAT vehicle, whose flashing red and blue lights cascade off the mustang's polished shiny black surface, reflecting outward and bathing the entire block in undulating light.
From inside the mustang comes the sound of muffled grunge music.
Moments after stopping, the driver's side door opens; and as a result, the music, now blaring, adds to the confusion of the street scene by adding to the cacophony of noise that some might find annoying, but to the residents of Freedom City mostly find comforting.
Booted feet, leading to jeaned legs hit the ground. Unwinding from the mustang comes the windbreakered, athletic frame of Ryan Carrick.
His brown hair hidden underneath a baseball cap, while the brim seems to hide his piercing blue eyes. The look on his face is passive as he surveys the scene. His eyes momentarily lock on a shadow accros the street, but his interest quickly reverts back to the issue at hand.
Slowly, but with determination he makes his way to the front door. He notices the exact spot the ram hit the door, can see the shatter points on the frame where the hinges lost their battle with kinetic energy.
As he hit the threshold he smiles; because, despite the loud noises coming from the street, his hearing picks up the conversation coming from inside the house.
"Ok Bree, SID is here, just shut yer mouth and let me do the talking."
Carrick moves in to the house proper, surbeying everything, taking in every detail with his hyper attuned sense. He misses nothing. It is probably what makes him so good at what he does. His sense are incredibly sharp. He can hear subtle changes in tone, see small cracks in plaster from the other side of a room, smell the difference between a street bum and an undercover cop, and feel the thread count in his sheets. He never really talks about how sharp his sense of taste is, but it might be the only thing about his senses that are not sharp, judging by the gas station food diet he mostly consumes.
As he steps in to the kitchen his smile broadens. He notices how the SWAT team surrounds their own, creating a barrier of meat, muscle and black lycra and kevlar.
"Relax Sargeant, I am not from the clean shoot team. This is one of my witnesses." His voice is flat and unemotional as he gestures to the mound of dead flesh on the floor.
"Oh it's you Carrick. Glad to see ya." This from one of the veterans of the team who had been at more than a few of Carrick's crime scenes.
Carrick begins to scan the scene for evidence of what happened. He can see the slightly ajar back door. A small scuff mark on the kitchen floor where Breana's Boot dragged. He notices thespot on the kitchen table where a small amount of gun powder had rested when it's parent firearm had been rested there.
He also can smell the blood from the other room.
Carrick looks up from his search to find the shooter. "tell me happened." His deepish voice seemed passive, but caring. It has just a hint of his Irish ancestery in it, and puts many at ease.
Breana looks to her sergeant for an answer as to what to do.
"It;s Ok officer, I want tell if you don't/ This time he gives off a playful bent.
Carrick's reputation as a straight shooter preceeds him, and Breana's sergeant nods at her.
"Well, looks like the hump here got it in his head his family was doing something wrong, so he butcheredd them." Her voice is still a bit shaky, a quality that is not lost on Carrick. "Then he went to the store for some beer. That's when we got the call."
"That I already know officer. What I really want to know right now is what you see here."
Breana is confused at first, but then realises this is just an exercise. He wants her to babble at him as he looks at the scene. He just wants an extra pair of eyes.
She begins to actually take stock of the mound of former man on the floor.
"Well, he smells pretty bad." She doesn't know what he wants to hear from her.
"Yeah, happens when they stop looking after their cyber. The parts around where the metal meats the flesh start to kind of rot and get infected."
She can see the dead man had a cybernetic left arm begining just below the sholder. "Looks like he has a metal arm. Looks cheap."
"Yep. It's military issue, you can tell from the servo motors." Ryan is squatting beside the dead man tilting his head from side to side. "That's not the only thing."
"huh?" What is this guy's problem? Having just killed someone, Breana was in no mood for chit chat.
"Look closer at the left eye. It's a fake. Notice how it is still expanding and contracting with the light." Carrick looks up at Breana to see how she processes this information.
"That isn't military, they never replace eyes." She was feeling a bit more comfortable now that she could add to the conversation form a place of knowledge.
"True. Plus," he waves an arm to indicate the entire house, "judging by this place, not something in his price range. Curious..."
Breana says nothing and just lets the Special Investigator trail off in to thought. It gives her a moment to herself so she can process her own feelings about what has happened.
It is the first time she has ever killed. She never wanted to kill anyone, even though she took a job with the SWAT team. She curses her own gifts. She is quiet, stealthy and ctlike, perfect bringer of death. She is also small and compact. Perfect bringer of death. She is young and resilient. Perfect bringer of death.
She was forced in to this life because of forces beyond her control, but she regrets nothing. This man is...was a killer. A family anhilator, one of the worst sort.
She did what she had to do. She did what her training allowed her to do with efficiency and with a cold heart.
She did... her internal justification is cut short by a commotion at the front of the house. A new party has joined the scene.
Looking up at the same time she sees what Carrick sees, or at least some of what he sees.
Two men in suits flashing badges. The men come even closer waving their credentials in everyone's face, stopping in front of Breana. Carrick stands to his full 6 foot two inches, and looks at the newcomers dispassionately.
"Reynolds, FBI." This matter of fact, and rather bold statement comes from the larger of the two new arrivals. He is staring past Breana at the carcass. "This our crime scene now, I want everyone out."
Carrick doesn't move.
"Did none of youse hear my partner, he said out." The smaller man has a thick Freedom City accent, born of irish blue collar ancestery. Not like Carrick's though. Less refined, and with more bravado. Like the sound of a trunpet that isn't wuite in tune, but blares away anyway hoping you won't notice.
Carrick shifts his weight from side to side several times as if unsure of how he wants to proceed. Finally he rocks back on his heels then plants his feet. "Actually, this is my scene, and I think I'm going to keep it. I have grown fond of it."
The larger one, Reynolds sneers. "You can have the scene, we're just here for the body."
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