A/N: This is just a tentative fic. I have more written, but I need to find it. That and I don't know if the good people at Fictionpress would accept this story as it involves crossing different tv shows and books in a fairly original storyline. Here's hoping it works. shoots mime

Sighing to myself, I push back a lock of hair and patiently await for Leone and Alexander to show up with my money in exchange for over ten thousand dollars worth in pure cocaine. Reaching into my jacket, I pull out an old pocket watch. The Confederate flag still visable on the cover, 'They're late.'

Taking a moment to admire how it's stood the test of time, I hear the factory door slide open as the duo make it to the drop off. Alexander and Leone take a moment to shake off the rain and confidently approach the small table I set up. Leone takes his suitcase and places it up onto the table next to my own. With a simple nod we both open our respective cases and turn them to reveal the contents.

Without even looking, I know Alexander is impressed by the low whistle he lets out. "You sure dis is good stuff, right?"

With a slight smile towards the Italian, I nod. "Of course, have I ever denied the Corleone family before? Or even given reason to doubt my trust?"

Leone simply smiles, "Nah, you're good people." The slightest hint of an Irish/Italian mixed heritage making its way through his accent.

Picking up my gift, I turn to walk out the back exit. "Give my regards to Jackie Dee. I hear he's representing himself in the trial," I call out with a slight wave.

Not even ten steps away, I hear the cocking of a pair of guns. With a slight groan, I knew that they decided to taste it first and that my cover of baking power mixed with sugar wasn't what they expected. "What the fuck is this shit? You think we're stupid or sumthin'?

Turning back around, I don't even bother to raise my arms up as I look at a pissed off Leone. "Sorry boys, but I don't give refunds. Not even to the Corleonr Family. Now why don't you put those toys away. I'll give you your money back and we can all three walk out of hear before the cops show."

I watch with a small hint of satisfaction as the color drains from Alexanders face, "Cops? You mean this is a set up?" With a paniced look about him, he starts scanning the darker areas of the building. "I can't go to jail, you guys know what they'll do to me."

Taking the handle of his uzi, Leone whacks Alexander in the back of the head. "Neither one of us is gonna go ta jail if all they find is just this dead fuck." Turning his gun back towards me, Alexander does the same with his own uzi and they both open fire.

I don't even bother running away as the bullets strike my body and sink into my skin. Each hit hurts like hell, though, as I stagger back a bit with each hit.

This isn't the movies where a single bullet would send me flying backwards a few feet, no, all they can do is make me flinch and take a step back, no more no less.

A few minutes pass and I make a big show out of falling to my knees and bleeding and all that as my blood starts to fill in the groove I carved earlier in the evening before the storm hit.

Reaching into his coat, Leone pulls out a sawed off shotgun and points it at my head with a sneer on his face, "You're gonna pay for screwing over the Corleone family."

Dropping my act, I stare right through Leone's eyes and shake my head slowly, "No, I won't." Dropping down, I slam my palms onto the edge of the Grand Arcanum I drew earlier with my blood completing the circle within. The entire symbol glows a deep red as the various ingredients I spread about take effect with the chemical makeup of the human body, stripping their atoms to the barest form of the physical plain and rearranging them to suit my needs.

Fuel is only added to the fire as a small S.W.A.T team bursts through the door only to get caught in my trap. The minutes pass and the glow fades away as I break the connection leaving several pools of a dark red liquid starting to solidify into moldable stones not unlike clay.

Taking a deep breath, the countless bullets I was hit with start to be pushed out as my internal organs move back into place. With a small pile of spent lead at my feet, 'Such a waste of space' In all fairness I was more than capable of covering my torso in carbon shielding, but I've found that the 'Ultimate Shield' makes viable ingrediants run rather than stay. Sighing at the inevitable loss, I bring my hands together and place my index, traffic, and thumb infront of the bullets. A bright blue light emmits from my hand and ungulfs the lead, transforming them into a small blade with the 'Flammel Symbol' emblazoned on the sides.

In the hands of a human, the cross symbol with a snake winding itself around the base and arms while a winged crown rests atop the spire, does nothing so I leave it as a calling card of sorts. 'Let them figure out what happened, I'm sure they'll call in the resident 'superhero' team of youths for assistance. Right now I need to collect what's mine.'

Pulling a pair of green tinted glasses from my pocket, I gently rest them on the bridge of my nose. Pushing them up to cover my eyes, I go around the room to collect the now solidified Red Stones and start to pop them like so many pills. '17 souls in this batch, not that bad considering the circumstances.'

It's true. In my better years, I manage to collect as much as 100 souls and convert them to quality Red stones and poor Philosopher stones. I would rather consume the latter of the two, but my skills as an alchemist were never sophisticated enough to produce a true Philosopher Stone. While the Red Stones work almost as good, there's never a guarentee that I will keep my strength or ability to successfully transmute.

Pocketing a few stones instead of eating them I make a note to track down the families of the police force. Not to take their souls, but to send some sort of apology. The decades have given me somewhat of a heart afterall.

Picking up my money, I leave the fake drugs and take my leave as sirens start to whine in the distance. 'How can you give assistance to those that don't exist?' Satisfied with my work I head towards a nearby diner and order a cup of coffee and drink from it just to look like I belong. Satisfied with the taste, I take out my notpad and continue to write down my history. I'm tired of accusations and witch hunts. If I ever die, I want a record of my past so people can learn from my mistakes.

What few friends I have see me as a hero, the police see me as a no-named vigilante trying to make a name off of others success, the Titans?...I'd bet my coffee that they didn't even realize I existed. I would prefer to remain anomynous, but no matter what my secret gets out somehow. Pretty soon an award will be offered for information about me and one of my 'friends' will talk. After all, what good is a being without a soul? Can you really trust a Homunculous?