The Trilogy™

[citation needed too lazy to citate lmaoooo ]

"Breach and clear!"

The doorknob was knocked off by the end of a shotgun, the door swiftly kicked open in succession. Inside was standard for a raid; drug operation, even in the middle of a deal with a few clientelle.

"You're going in. Hands up, on the ground."

The man at the door reluctantly obliged, dropping his tools, putting his hands behind his head and laid down on the ground, the buyers following suit shortly after. The SWATs stepped inside, cuffing each of them and shoving them back outside into the van to be transferred to a holding cell until their trial.

"Good job out there." One of the officers pat the back of the SWAT wielding the shotgun. "Don't get too good though, otherwise FBI'll come take you away from me." The man chuckled and stepped back towards the van.

"Hey, if it means I get a pay rise, I'll take it. FBI doesn't do too much else anyway, usually just a couple more crooks so you need a couple more guys to make 'em back down." The two got back into the van, stowing away their weapons and driving back to the station.

The next day a letter was on the desk of the shotgunner. He dug his finger through the upper portion of the envelope, flipping out the paper and reading it over.

'It is with great honor and delight that, given your recent work and efficiency in the LAPD SWAT force, you are eligible to be promoted to a position in the FBI task force. Mail this form back to sender with the box below marked, and you will be formally transferred within two (2) days. You must be at headquarters within seven (7) business days. Thank you for your service.'

The man looked up, delighted. He quickly grabbed his pen, filled out the paper and broke the news to his commissioner. The two exchanged handshakes and the gunner began home, stuffing the letter into his mailbox and waiting at his home, relaxing and packing his things for the move.

It had been a few weeks, the man quickly sunk in with the rest of the crowd. He was strong, intimidating, efficient, and charismatic to his fellow agents.

"Task Force Four, you're on duty! Situation concurrent, we need you to move, now!" It was his call. He quickly grabbed his gear, jumped in one of the few vans and pulled on his bulletproof vest, loaded his weapon and donned his helmet. He was first out of the van and slowly approached the door, careful to keep quiet. He counted to three on his fingers, then once again, knocked the doorknob off, kicked in the door and pointed his weapon around to.. nothing.

A small rug was hastily thrown near the back of the room, failing to cover a small wooden hatch. The team began towards it, slowly opened it and looked down the proceeding ladder. He was first in, yet again. He took his time in descent, glancing behind him at yet another door. He grabbed a screwdriver, jammed it through the rather soft wood and peered inside. In front of him was massive glasses, filled to the brim with some manner of disgusting liquid within. He turned around to his now-descending comrades. "Another druggie." He sneered, ready to kick the door down. It was weak and didn't need anything else to break it down. Once again, he counted to three on his fingers then busted the door down.

The man at the jars jumped and quickly turned around. "Hands in the air, on the ground, don't make a move!" He cocked his shotgun as the man shakily kneeled down in front. The gunner slowly stepped towards, cuffs out and weapon behind him. Inches away, the man quickly jumped to his feet, pulled out a pistol and shot the agent in his stomach, throwing the jars on top of him and jumping behind the desk to fire more blind shots into the crowd of visibly-expanding agents.

After a few minutes and another gunshot wound to an agent, the man was apprehended and brought back to the van. The two wounded were brought up and sent into ambulances, taken to the FBI's ICU wing.

The second wounded agent was out within a day, though on worker's compensation in order to fully heal. The shotgunner, however, seemed to be faring much worse. The substance within slowly began to fester along his wounds, both scarring and discoloring them, seemingly shifting colors between weeks, nights, even hours.

For three months this continued, the agent never ceasing his groaning of pain, until one day, his bed was empty. His bedsheets were stained a dark teal, a trail leading out of the building shifting between dark and murky colors of blacks, greens, purples and browns. He was never found.

The Godfather suddenly awoke from his bed, breathing heavily and propping himself up with his hands. He darted his eyes around, re-familiarizing himself with the room around him, his office. His breathing slowly leveled as he leaned back against his headboard, lightly holding his chest.

"Another one of those dreams.." He muttered to himself, quickly swearing under his breath after his acknowledgement of what woke him up. He looked over to the door, still shut and sighed in relief.

"Good. No one heard it. Don't want any of them thinking I'm 'weak' or anything, some of those guys.." He quietly chuckles. "Just might be a bit crazier than I am." He quietly breathed out, slipping back into sleep.

The man limped through alleys, it was just past midnight, and he was easily under the cover of darkness. One arm clutching his wound, the other dangling by his side as he crept along the streets. He was getting more hungry each passing day with this wound, but the doctors wouldn’t give him a morsel extra, despite his wishes and complaints. ‘Bad for his health’, they’d mutter to each other upon any request for additional sustenance to his constantly growing hunger.

After hours of next to nothing he even began to search through dumpsters, he peered through a window to check the time on a clock within another building, it was drawing near to 1:30AM. His efforts remained fruitless as the minutes dragged on, only finding rotted or rat-infested scraps left behind, nothing safe for him to eat.

His wound began to sting, feeling like it was burning a hole into his side even moreso than before, like someone had taken a blowtorch to it and was constantly cranking up the heat. After a few short minutes he collapsed from the pain and had to check on it, it blackened further, spreading to nearly his entire torso, though not yet to his arms or legs. He groaned and tried to stand, holding back screams of the pain it was bringing to him. His teeth were locked together, his tongue pulled far back in his mouth so he wouldn’t have a chance to bite it off on accident. However, his body could only manage so much pain before simply blacking out, rotting in the back alleys.

He awoke after a very long sleep, it seemed to be dusk of the next day as he stood back to his feet. He still hurt, everything hurt. The pain remained excruciating for him as he tried to move around, but it was far more manageable than the previous day. He looked down at his arms, slowly saturating away from his normal, peach tone to the same coal-blacks that had been his chest. He felt around to see what he had on him; a small handgun, some loose dollars, and the blood that seeped into his pocket that his pants were unable to soak in, due to how oversoaked they already had been. Fortunately for him, the gun and money was in the opposite pocket, unaffected. He was still hungry, his mind aching for anything to sustain his body for that much longer. He slipped behind a restaurant, waited for the cook to throw out yesterday’s scraps and moved inside, stowing away under a counter until he was preoccupied again. Afterwards, he raided for as much food as he could, small cuts of cooked meat that had gone cold, though not rotten, bits of cheese in the fridge and slices of various breads. He couldn’t make himself too known, otherwise the cook would know someone is or was in his kitchen.

He continued this behavior from building to building, slowly filling his stomach to as close to the brim as he could manage. He looked back down, his hands like an ashen gray, upper arms holding the same jet black as he imagined they would become. He wondered once again what had been in those jars.

Come nightfall, he was on the outskirts of the city, nearly invisible under the shroud of darkness along his newly night-colored skin. He took one last look back, realizing that he’d be classified as a freak of nature, something to be dissected by the government, not of this world. He’d be killed, tortured and maimed in his current state. It was best for him to leave, and he moved out into the empty woods nearby.

Hours of walking eventually met him with a wooden manor, miles out from civilization. It was his one chance for any form of shelter for the night. He knocked on the door, greeted by a spectre. The two were equally confused by the other, and he was led inside, as the two began to speak of their own experiences.

The Godfather jerked up again, it had been two days since the last time, and he was progressively getting more and more irritated and fed up with the rude awakenings. He swore under his breath again, once again checking his door to ensure no one had heard him. He grumbled to himself and shut his eyes once more, taking just over twenty minutes to drift back into his sleep.

The skies were dark and cloudy, the rain pouring down around him. He pulled his hat down over his head to try and shield him further from the rain, grumbling to himself.

"Helping run a castle was boring, anyway. I didn't wanna be there, it was just something to pass the time." His scowl deepened, continuing down the street. He was lying to himself, it was the only thing he had ever done, it was the one thing he knew how to do right.

He glanced over to his side and chuckled watching two people bet something on the street, a somewhat young girl cleaning out a man in his late thirties. "Sucker."

He stepped into a building and sat down at one of the tables, a man in an apron walking to the table. "Looking for something?"

"Uh.. got any meat?"

"Sir, this is a butchery."

"I'll take whatever's cheap, rare."

"Whatever you say."

The man in the apron left, the one at the table glancing over at another nearby table, watching a girl hack into her own slab of meat. "Careful there." He mumbled to himself. "Might cut a thing or two, if you're not careful."

"Already have, guy!"

He jumped, unaware she was listening, then began towards the bathroom. "I need a break from all this-" He cut himself off, looking inside at a somewhat young man puffing smoke outside the window.

The man turns around, "Got a problem?" He flips back around and puffs another round of smoke out the window.

"What are you even smoking, you're just inhaling from a damn pen."

"My own speciality, piss off if you're just gonna complain about it."

The two exchange glowers, the first man exiting the bathroom and seeing his meat on the table. He stuffs it in a bag and puts it in has jacket pocket, exiting the butchery.

He continued down the street, muttering and thinking to himself, entering other shops and continuing about his day, watching the rain further pour down around him.

After a few hours, his hat, jacket and almost everything else had been soaked like a sponge. He continued down the street, trying to save anything left of his dry clothes from getting drenched, finally approaching a large three-storied building. He looked inside the window, seeing a complete mess; cobwebs littered the inside, chairs knocked over and tables far out of reach. With a small flick out of a screwdriver he jammed it into the lock, opening it with ease, then immediately bringing his undershirt over his mouth and nose, coughing at the wave of dust and stale smells within.

"It'll do, I guess."

He began swiping away at the dilapidation of the first room inside, cleaning a small couch off just enough to sleep on. He laid down and shut his eyes for the night, ready to manage something with his new property in the morning.

It quickly became midday, the parlor of the building finally becoming presentable in some manner. It was spatious and clean, a full transformation compared to what had existed beforehand. Leaning back into the couch after a day of work felt fantastic to him, until he immediately realized there was another two stories to clean, as well as everything else on his floor.

"What am I gonna even use this damn place for, anyway? Not like I can-"

Gunshots began to break the moderate silence of the nearby roads. He jumped outside, watching a few people in ski masks trying to rob a bank down the street, only to be shut down as soon as they exited the large doors by awaiting SWAT officers.

He scoffed, "Amateurs. Anywhere but there would've been a good idea." He began on his way back inside, slowly growing a smile across his face as he looked around the large parlor of the building. "Maybe I can find some use for this place.." He scrambled around for any scraps of remaining paper and extra writing tools and began to scribble down.

He stood outside the doors of the building, checking the time and glancing up and down the street, waiting. He began to let the arrivals inside at 9:30, waiting until just past ten before everyone had stepped inside. He followed the last one in, locking the door behind him and stepping atop the large staircase near the side of the room, looking down at the others from atop a balcony.

"I'd talk more, but I'd rather to just cut to the chase." His voice became cool and charismatic, avoiding his previously bitter tone at all costs. "You all have some skills that may be of use to me, and I'd like to see if any of you would be up to the task."

A small handful began to open their mouth, just as he interrupted. "Of course, there will be compensation for doing such." All but one then shut their mouth, leaving a young, snow-haired girl in the back.

"And what do you want?"

The man atop the balcony smiled. "We're going to get rich, ladies and gentlemen. You see criminals, muggers and crooks get brought down by the police department or SWATs on the daily, I'm sure. This is different. You are all specially chosen for your talents in one way or another, whether for guns blazing or mind racing, I want each of you to help me in the greatest crime spree the world's ever seen."

The small crowd glanced across the table at one another, many hesitating on responding at all.

"I see you're skeptical. Let me make something a bit clearer - I know the vast majority of you are either homeless, just scraping by, or hate your meager existence as is. You want something more, you want to do something more. I am offering just that. Riches beyond your wildest dreams, fame and infamy beyond your most feverish imaginations. Perhaps that may change some of your minds."

He watched as they slowly grew into agreement, finally settling on remaining with him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome home. It needs a bit of cleaning, but it's better than nothing. Say hello to your new Godfather." He grinned, figuring they wouldn't question anything in their newfound home and lifestyle. They didn't. "Now, as much as I hate to damper the party.. This is the only clean room in the entire building. We need to start cleaning the place up."

The crowd groaned, but obliged. The new Godfather stepped backwards into a room atop the stairs, looking around inside. It was somewhat large, the walls were coated with an elegant wooden finish, and it seemed to be the only room in the building not infested or run-down. He looked to the corner, seeing a small cot to sleep on. Nothing much yet, but it'll do until some money comes flowing. He stooped down and laid upon it, shutting his eyes with a wide grin. "Maybe this place won't be so awful after all.."

The Godfather slowly arose in his bed, rubbing his hands on his face to wake himself up. He smiled, finally, a pleasant dream. It seemed vivid, yet it wasn't lucid. Maybe he just forgot something down in the past behind him, though, it's not like it mattered much anyway. The past is past, only the now and the future really matter. He got out of his bed and looked across his balcony at many of his 'patrons' playing cards, the one exception being a white-haired girl, her arms crossed bitterly in her chair. She was too good at cards for the rest of them.

He smiled and stepped back inside his office, sitting down on the edge of his bed and picking up and dropping bullion of gold within a sack, tapping his leg with the clacks of metal.