The Highway, approaching Detroit
The cityscape stood out like a sword embedded in a body, towering as a monument to its intrepid accomplishment. Accomplishmentâs built on the backs of spineless worms, putrid insects that currently fed off the corpse of the land. The very idea that the people he once warred with roamed the streets made Dean sick. The empire that they now held was powerful, but soon it would all fall. He just needed the right tools for the jobâŚ
The TAG Ruins
The abandoned halls of the empty base were chilling. It was a testament to just how far everything had fallen. The very idea that a superior military organization could be decimated by a group of thugs was the worst part of it all. Nothing remained, no soldiers, no guns, nothing. The building barely stood to begin with, its walls crumbling from constant abuse of battles long past. Dean had known it was bad; the death of the founder must have taken a large chunk out of the force, but completely gone? No, there must be something, somebodyâŚ
Deanâs Apartment
Opening the door revealed similar visions to his last location. The small dwelling was dark and dusty from almost a year of neglect. Despite his complicated line of work, Deanâs apartment was fairly average; a living area with a television, a small kitchen, bedroom and bath. There wasnât much he needed from this place; this visit was turning into an emotional pilgrimage more than anything. What Dead did need though, he packed. Some clothing, money, and the spare pistol he kept in this location.
Nightclub Paradox
Dean brushed off his tee shirt and jeans, getting used to the comfort of normal clothes again. The bright neon of Nightclub Paradox glowed at such a ferocity that proved to blind anyone who entered for at least the first few moments. If that wasnât enough, blaring techno tracks burst from the speakers that lined the walls; enjoyable to most, annoying to some. Dean was in the minority here, he had never taken to spending his free time mingling in places like this, and he didnât intend to start now. He was looking for someone, a man, a former contact.
Ellis Barkly was predictable, he always came to Paradox to hound on young women, and almost always got shot down. Tonight was one of those days, as he currently sat slumped at the bar with a beer in hand. While he was terrible with women, the guy was amazing at getting information. If he didnât know something in Detroit, then nobody did. âNice night, eh Ellis?â Taking the seat next to his old acquaintance, Dean waved away the bartender for privacy. The very sight of the newly freed convict was enough to send Ellis white. The half-drunk man paused, unsure of how to approach this situation. âDean⌠Itâs so good to see you brother!â While Ellis grinned, it was a very unnatural and nervous one; his friendliness wasnât genuine, but Dean felt no comradery for this man anyway.
âCut the shit Ellis. You know why I am here. TAG, where are they? What has happened?â Ellis gulped. His original tactic wasnât going to work here, something he hadnât planned on. Taking a swig of his beer for some artificial courage, a newfound air of confidence overtook him. âHey, I donât gotta tell you shit man. I work for the Angels now! They run this city, and there ainât shit you or your soldiers can do about it! Go and die like that useless shit Hitam di-â Before he could say another word the cold steel of Deanâs pistol was pressing into his side. Conveying no emotion, Dean looked into his terrified eyes; he knew what he had to do if he wanted to live today.
A Warehouse by The Docks
Dean pulled into the location provided by Ellis, a small warehouse on the rim of the city. From the outside, it looked fairly ordinary. This was good, they neednât draw unwanted attention. Exiting his car, Dean continued on to the large garage door, knocking. A moment passed, and then another, but then the door swept open, with it a squad of fully armored men taking aim at their guest. âWait, is that⌠Stand down!â The order from the back of the group willed the soldiers to drop their weapons back to their sides. Spreading apart, a woman walked forward, a smirk on her face. âDean Nakamura⌠I knew they couldnât keep you cooped up in that hellhole forever!â The two came in for a hug, and for once in his life Dean had a reason to be joyful.
Bailey Harrows was a Lieutenant back when rank meant something in this broken order. The woman had looked just as he remembered; tall and fit with a mane or red hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her blue eyes shimmered like sapphire, a contrast to the two scars that lined her right cheek. She wasnât one to be put down by that though, they were considered badges of war more than anything. âIâm glad that prison didnât break you. We were coming for you, I hope you know that. Weâve just been⌠preoccupied.â Looking around, one could see that they were a fragment of what they used to be. Only around half a dozen armored cars littered the space, along with various crates. It was underwhelming, and Bailey knew that.
âHow many of us are there?â A grimace came over the girl. âLast headcount was 32.â Dean nods, walking deeper into the facility and taking a seat on a crate. âThat is a problem. It is good that we are very good at fixing problems. Load everything into the trucks, we are leaving Detroit.â
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