Mr Scarborough Fair.

- An Introduction.

Scar arrived at his location. It wasn't hard, but his body took the slight toll as he felt his energy sap a little. Closing the regular door behind him, he met up with the people who had 'called' him. For having a static-filled mind like Scar's, it wasn't easy for him to concentrate on the thing that's called life. His head buzzed like there was a nest of flies inside it. The people in front of him were wary, he could have been a stranger of all things. Scar fished out a cigarette and light from his jacket pocket and lit it, showing off his right arm and the curious mark burned white on the back of his hand. Not that it meant anything to them. He stashed the lighter back into his suit jacket and took a moment to straighten his dapper three-piece outfit. It took him a while to notice that he was meeting these people in a dark alley way and it was raining slightly.

“Mr. Fair?” was the question. “Yes.” was the answer. “Scarborough Fair, at your service.” He didn’t want to do idle talk. His brain is already filled with static and he didn’t need to remember the mumbling stories of anyone else. He was asked out for something and he just wanted to get that 'favor' done now. “So what do you want? I hope you know what you’re calling me out here for. By the way, put those damn guns down. You called a man for a reason and yet you threaten him with weapons. You’re not after me for my head, as far as I can tell.” Being psychic has its benefits, to see who called, what they called for and why they called. But snooping in brains isn’t polite. Scar only did it to see if they needed him for their 'favor' or if they were going to try to kill him.

His statement put them on the edge, but they did put the guns down eventually. Policemen, he noticed. The boys in blue. Scar took a long drag from his cigarette, he’ll soon need another one. He liked smoking. It wasn’t going to kill him. Not for all the years, decades, centuries in the world. He had no lungs anyway, but he was still mortal.

“A suspect by the name of Colton Gavins. A supernatural. Currently holed up in the building there. We just can’t get any closer, he has friends.”

Scar raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?” He sighed. “Dead or alive?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want him dead or alive?”

“Alive.”

“Fifteen minutes. Give me that pistol and wait at that door.” Scar motioned at the door he had appeared from. He took another long drag then discarded the cig. Then without listening to any other questions on how he would get his target, he opened the door and disappeared behind it. If anyone else were to open the locked door though, they would find themselves in an electrical room. Scar had an ability, using doors to get to anywhere he wanted.

And he found himself in the building the policemen were talking about. He lit another cigarette and went on his way, armed and dangerous. Colton Gavins had plenty of foolhardy people helping him and Scar showed no mercy. Quick and precise, putting a bullet or two into anyone and everyone who pointed a gun at him just for a second. He didn't give them the chance to fire. If they did, it was only out of nervousness and fear, aiming at nothing. Scar took a break behind a pillar to reload and to take a drag. He loved this killing. What was the exact number so far? He didn't care. But without another second to lose, he swung into action and downed more helpers. His head buzzed with excitement and it practically drowned out any sound he should have heard.

At least he reached Colton. If he was screaming for mercy, Scar didn’t hear it. Not over the static. He kicked the man into a corner, forcing him to drop his gun. Colton was then punched into submission, making it easier for Scar. “Why hello there Mr Gavins. You’ve been called on.” Scar smirked, then reached out with his right arm to touch the target’s neck. In a second, the man stopped fighting and screaming. Scar had all control over this man, just as long as his hand was on his neck. And he led him outside, back through the door he promised to appear at. All within fifteen minutes.

Unceremoniously, he shoved Colton on the floor in front of the policemen and handed the pistol back. "Give him a few minutes, he'll be back to normal. I've done my job, so good bye. You won't see me again." Without hesitation, he left back through the same door. Scar sighed. The people had used their call for something pointless. A waste of time. Out of fifty calls, he often got one or two that proved a challenge. All other calls were just... Boring.

Scar returned to his rundown apartment. Besides the peeling wallpaper and aged wooden floor covered with stains of unknown origin, his home had nothing else besides a dresser full of pocket watches and clothes, an old leather sofa, a tattered rug, a lamp and a red telephone with an answering machine. If others took time to look around, the kitchen was unused and in shambles. Only thing that came from modern times was the medical kit, constantly emptied and replenished of any supplies he ever used. If one paid attention to other details, obvious or not, the normal person would have been appalled. The number and variety of knives scattered all over the floor of the house was incredible, all 'souvenirs' from any of Scar's improvised melee attackers. The house had old blood stains splattered or 'painted' on the walls and floor, like death was a constant visitor here.

Nevertheless, Scar ignored the mess and went for his sofa, just a few strides from the door he entered from. Like he has done for years. He had enough energy for another run or two. From the answering machine, there were five calls within the hour currently. Four he had met before, the voices or names he remembered. He doesn't do a favor for the same person twice. Never. In the first few years within this century, Scar had handed out a name card. If anyone needed a private detective or a mercenary, Scarborough Fair was your man. He was the alternate solution and the last card to be pulled. Call at an unlisted number he has not changed in decades and he'll come within the hour. If the line was dead, call on another hour or day. Scar preferred late nights and he doesn't work for the same person twice, even if they tried to elude him by changing their name. His card also says that they must answer to the point. No more.

"Scarborough Fair.

I am here, listening to your call. All I need to know is your name and your current location. Should I take your call, all I ask you to do is keep your doors closed and sit tight. I will arrive within the hour. Remember, I do not do favors for the same person twice."

He listened to the call and sighed. He sensed another boring job. Well... That's no surprise. Scar was like an errand boy nowadays, nothing too serious but the usual call for revenge or arrest issues. Smoking another two cigarettes, he finally got up towards his one door, ruffling his wavy blonde hair for a moment. After this, he would be on a last run... Or sleeping for god knows how long to regain his strength. His powers and his immortal lifespan had a price and it drained him.

Scar could smoke or do drugs all his lifetimes and it wouldn’t matter. He didn’t even need to eat, unless he wanted to amuse himself. He had no organs, his body being described as a human shell with bones for support, with nothing else but a single beating heart. His only weakness.