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"It is the most perfect presentation of nineteenth-century individualistic industrialism I have ever seen. Chicago is one hoarse cry for discipline."


My name is something I rarely trouble to remember, but for most of my adult life, I have been called John Marcone.

I am a professional monster.

It sounds pretentious. After all, I’m not a flesh-devouring ghoul, hiding behind a human mask until it is time to gorge. I’m no vampire, to drain the blood or soul from my victim, no ogre, no demon, no cursed beast from the spirit world dwelling amid the unsuspecting sheep of humanity. I’m not even possessed of the mystic abilities of a mortal wizard.

But they will never be what I am. One and all, those beings were born to be what they are.

I made a choice.
-Even Hand

Who? Baron John Marcone. Freeholding Lord of Chicago. "Gentleman Johnny," head of the Chicago Mob. Businessman, Don, and self-styled prince of Chicago. Ridiculous human being.

What? Vanilla mortal human being, extremely fit man in his forties who wears Armani suits as kevlar and tactical gear as Givenchy. Dark hair going more salt than pepper, olive skin with a boater's tan, and much-described eyes the color of old money or dead grass. One of ear is torn in half, the only remnant of his torture anyone is let to see. Above average height, blandly handsome, with a measured, boring newscasters' voice.

When? Post-Cold Days.

Where? zodion

Why? Say you are a person who loved your city so much you changed everything about yourself in service of it. Say you pushed yourself into the far corners of your soul to make room for the highest duty, protecting the city. Say that gap inside of you was filled with neat cruelty and monstrous acts and everything that needed to be done. Say it filled you until there was nothing left.

And then say you were taken from your city with no hope to return. What's left?

Not a hell of a lot.

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