When a member of our criminal underworld goes rogue, the mafia as a collective has an almost immediate reaction. The jobbers scurry back to their home cities to barricade themselves behind their fortresses, the soldiers halt their dealings to hunt the rogue down, and depending on the potential threat of the rogue, leaders scramble to find a member willing to provide them with four hours of protection, despite the one-in-hundred chance that it could cost them their lives. That is if the rogue hasn't killed them first anyway.

Rogues disrupt business. They cause havoc. When there is nobody of significance for the rogue to shoot, they will kill indiscriminately. Much like what is talking place on this street corner, right now.

The rogue opens fire into the crowded street. Those that are not gunned down unmercifully run for their lives. Suddenly, RazorRamon's music hits! RazorRamon drops the rogue with a fierce clothesline. He follows the clothesline with a crushing elbow drop onto the rogue's ribs, breaking them. He hoists the rogue up in the air and delivers his finisher, The Razor's Edge, sending him crashing down hard onto the sidewalk, the brute force of which kills him instantly. The crowd cheers as RazorRamon stands over the corpse triumphantly. RazorRamon has ended the rogue's pitiful attempt.

The way of the world was brutal for the unlucky ones, and for the one's that are simply born of gutter mud - it was kill or be killed. That's why Annastasia was bored with the current mischief of some unfit pissed-off "rogue" of a gangster, though that boredom didn't dull her reactions in the least. It took a simple bound to get herself over an adequate shelter, which just so happened to be a conveniantly parked car. It was there that she snatched out the gun from an inconspicuous placement inside her pants, but by the time she looked around forced-adrenaline became shocked admiration. Most of the civilians had fled, and in their place was a person standing over the once-crazed shooter's body. Unmoving and, by the looks of it, all around smoked. "Shit..." the young woman mumbled, rising to look passed the shattered mirror. She was far too cautious (secretly scared shirtless,) from the sudden action that, despite her few years of experience, she herself couldn't take. The Blood Hound's hands were practically shaking, but the fear wasn't what was making her blue-nailed fingers tremble...it was the over-drive of adrenaline.

"...The hell am I supposed to do?!" 'Stasia muttered to herself, slowly sliding a foot to come out of hiding, not wanting to get too close but not wanting to show much fear either, despite it's coursing through her veins. A small smirk plastered itself on her face, but her voice shook a bit as she complimented the stranger. "Th-That's pretty impressive,"

Arising from his slumber unceremoniously, Swarley was met at the front door by two of his henchmen. The breaking news was that a rogue had been spotted. He was ready to reach for his gun in an effort to maintain the peace but just as quickly, another blow was dealt. The rogue had been mercifully put to rest, but not before the loss of a dear friend. In the chaos that began during his sleep, Mercenary was laid to rest at the hands of the rogue. 

Mercenary was always around to lend a helping hand with an organized crime. The plans may have changed, but the result was usually the same. They were successful in business together and Swarley would miss those times together. He was not sure when he would see dear Mercenary again, but looked forward to the day eagerly.

"The rogue acted in an extremely selfish way and took from me a dear friend. I am pleased that they have met their demise, though it is with heavy heart that I say that."