Walter C. Graves looked down at his feet. He could see a few of his toes poking out of the old, beaten shoes that he wore. He ran his fingers through his long, greasy hair. A wild, scraggly beard decorated his face. Barbers were too expensive. Sighing, Graves wrapped his tattered grey coat around himself more tightly. It had been rescued from a garbage can in a back-alley of Detroit, probably from a restaurant that served seafood judging from the smell.

How had it come to this? Graves knew the answer all too well- Black Friday had left other honest lawyers like himself in financial ruins. His wife, Stacey, had been the first to leave. The partners in his firm were quick to follow. The beautiful house in Boston, the car, the wedding ring, it was all sold. The only valuable he had left were his rounded spectacles. Staring into his gaunt reflection in a store window by the gas lamps that dimly lit up the night, he couldn't believe what he saw. He was twenty-five years old; he looked at least fifty.

As he peered through them at his glasses, he noticed the reflection of an old lady crossing the street by herself. She was clutching her purse tightly and her head darted from side to side cautiously. Such a nice purse, he mused. Surely it contained a fair amount of money and valuables...

“And why not?” he spoke out loud.

His voice was raspy; it seemed as if it had been years since he had spoken.

“Why the hell shouldn't I? I've come this low, I haven't eaten a square meal in a week's time, why the hell shouldn't I!”

Graves' voice rose and he noticed the woman scampering quickly across the street, casting fearful looks back at him. He spun around, looked about quickly, made sure there were no other pedestrians, no potential heroes. The area was deserted, only the soft glow of the single gas lamp was present. One foot in front of the other, Graves began to briskly walk toward the old bird, then a jog, then a full run. He had boxed in college; the athleticism was still there. Within seconds, he had caught up to his target, who was shaking with fright and opening her mouth to scream- she musn't, she musn't. With all the force he could muster, Graves struck the lady with his fist, knocking her out cold. Looking around once more, he snatched her purse and sped off down the block.

When he felt like he was a safe distance away, he sat down on a stoop and caught his breath. Fingers shaking, he fumbled with the latch to the purse. It didn't seem like such a nice purse, now that he held it in his hand. In fact, it seemed old, and in a similar state to his coat. No matter. It was bound to contain lots of cash. Graves reached into the old bat's purse and felt around. A small pocketbook was in there, a small notepad, and some other odd things. Seizing the pocketbook, he opened it eagerly.

A single ten dollar bill fluttered to the ground.

“All this...for ten bucks?” Graves slumped forward on the stoop and covered his face with his hands. “What have I done? What have I become? A simple criminal, a petty thief? Just for ten lousy dollars?”

Glancing up at the dark, Detroit night sky, Walter C. Graves wondered what the future would bring.

-Prophet- looks at the man whose down because of the ten dollars. -Prophet- was watching from inside his car which was parked out in a vacant opened garage that cold day fog had covered most of the deserted area, he needed a sleep but was awoken by a voice. He had saw the whole ordeal, he opened the car door and the cold air hit him like a bullet through soft flesh, he shivered but still ventured to the man on the ground.

"Your one of us now," -Prophet- said in a cold tone, because he had to pass a similar test to become what he is now. He gripped the man's shoulders, "It ain't easy but the score will get bigger, here have his as a sign of good faith," -Prophet had rested the jacket over the man and rushed back to the warmth of the car. He then drove of to find a nice place to have some coffee, and get warmed up.

Graves thought about what the mysterious man had said.

"One of us now," he muttered out loud. "One of us...criminals? Is that really what I am?"

The ex-lawyer stopped and chuckled at the irony. Picking up the ten dollar bill, Graves stared at it for a second then stuffed it into his pocket. A life of crime was risky, not to mention against the law. But he had taken this first baby step into the underworld. Maybe he would meet others like the strange samaritan who had helped him out. Someone he could work with- or work for.

Graves very much wished he had the money for a cigarette right then and there.

Lordian walks down the dimly lit street keeping his head up and eyes moving. After everything that's happened lately, you learn to keep your eyes out. As he rounds the corner he hears two men talking to one another but can't quite make out what they are saying. He pulls out his pack of Charleston's and his Zippo and lights one up, purposely closing the lighter loud enough for them to hear before rounding the corner.

He tips the brim of his hat up as he strolls down the stree toward the men, glancing toward their hands every now and again as he approaches them.

"Say, either of you gent's happen to have the time? I lost my watch last week, and I been lost without it myself since." he says in a heavy Italian accent. He places the lighter in his pocket and takes hold of something else he keeps stashed in there for just such occasions.

Sir it looks as though you are finally travaling down the dark side.

Welcome home.