Polite and silent; almost solemn. Some would call him a loner. Others would say he was cold. Those who knew him the best would just say he was misunderstood. A tragic soul at war with itself. The age-old battle for good or evil. Nothing uncommon, really. Not in this day and age where terrorists live among us, mixed with civilians and teenagers commit suicide on a daily basis.

Silver hair graced his shoulder magnificently, casting shadows upon his emotionless face as raindrops sought to gain ground on his form as they streaked constantly down around him. Black is his apparel. An overcoat covering his t-shirt which shows his taste for the latest noise coming from the iPod he always had plugged into his ears. Hell, after all, what is life without music?

Black jeans that have too many pockets to count at first glance, all of them holding something of value to him. And black lace-up military boots. His reputation proceeds him wherever he goes and the shadows whisper his name: Christian. No last name; no one even knows for sure if that is his real name.

Not very threatening to those who see him: slight of build, hands shoved in his pockets. Many just assume he's just another Goth kid coming through town, but the underworld fears him.

New York: possibly the biggest city, and the one he finds himself most currently taking residence in. Crimes are committed daily, a perfect place for him. His own past is shrouded, and he doesn't like to share, but the marks upon his skin, he has told, show every one of his sins. His way of making up for them, is to right the wrongs, quench the evildoer.

Lighting up a cigarette, he kneels down on the cement roof of the building he's on and pulls case out of the inside pocket of his overcoat and opens it up. Pulling out the sword within, he remembers with a trace of a smile, the conversation that brought him here tonight. He could almost see in his mind the way the mans hands had shook in fear as they had discussed the target and the payment.

No names had been given, none wanted. That was the way he liked to keep it. Just a picture of his next target and money in the bank that he would collect upon completion. His sword glittered in the rain and the moonlight as he held it up. An ancient samurai blade, passed down through the most ancient of Japanese lines, down to the last living samurai whom he had sought out and killed in hand to hand combat, just for the sword. Simple, yet wrought out of the mightiest metal on earth. The blade keen and sharpened after every time it had been put to use.

Much better in his hand than the man who had previously owned it, he thought, taking another puff of his cigarette. putting the sword back in its case and the case back into his coat, he took out the picture of the man he was to kill, glanced at it again, and then made his way down to the street below. The man was a drug addict and kingpin of the crime network in New York. Christian laughed a bit as he walked down the back alleyways, avoiding puddles as they came. He knew that when he killed this man, it would not end the wave of crime that had been hitting New York City so mercilessly. The man who had given him the assignment was a naive man of about 30 or so years, just recently initiated into a government position at the FBI and one looking to gain favor with his superiors.

Crime networks always had someone to take over for them. The man had thought that by taking out this kingpin that the network would get sloppy and show a sign with which the government could finally bring it down. Christian knew that they were too organized of a group to let this happen. He had been in it at one time, knew how it worked. They drilled endlessly for a thing like this. Christian had lived a long life so far, yet he hadn't aged a day. Nobody knew how old he really was, not even himself. He didn't even know what he was, and didn't like to question it too much.

Because of his involvement with the network in the past, he knew how to slip past the surveillance. The codes were different on the doors than the last time he was there, he knew that for sure, but the entrances hadn't changed a bit. Stepping out of the alleyways and into the street, he flicked his cigarette butt into one of the puddles and heard the sizzle of the cherry extinguishing itself as he kept walking.

The night was young yet, and there would be blood spilled before the morning. He knew it would not be his own.

Eccentric is the word of this age. Rich people, intellectuals and people who hold power: it is expected of them to be eccentric in some way or another. Sadly, the people that don't fit into any of these three labels are just considered crazy and put into insane asylums or worse. But not all.

There are those who fight against the system and stay free. They gain followers and thus empower themselves. Many groups have sprung up to fight for what this world used to stand for. They want to bring back to light the values of the old days and put technology and power back into the hands of the common people. These groups are starting to join together, but they soon realize that they need a strong leader to take the reigns and point the way.