<strong>Name:</strong>Adam Smith<br/><br/><strong>Location:</strong>Gehenna<br/><br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Necromancer<br/><br/>Adam's body rose. His back arched, as if there was a thread attached to his navel raised by some unseen hand. He drew breath, lungs expanding as they filled. His eyes opened suddenly, and awareness flooded the mind of the masked man. The man's back slumped back down, striking the floor. As he sat up, he was free from injury or sign that he had been injured. There was no blood beneath him, and no crime laboratory would find the typical tell-tale forensic clues that he had been shot if by some unfathomable means they were to acquire and analyze his personal effects. The cold blue eyes of the masked man surveyed the club's interior, and he perceived that the fight was still going on. He could not have been out for very long, then.<br/><br/>He got to his feet, and gripped the handle on his weapon tightly. His shoulders bunched, and he trundled into motion. Whether there was enough chaos for him to advance unnoticed or whether he drew attention was not something on his mind. Tactical considerations were for other minds. Since most of the attention seemed to be on the man in the pinstripe suit, Adam selected another target: the necromancer. The magic-user was behind cover and firing with pistols, but Adam did not care. Whether any of the bullets came his way, or if the necromancer fired on his original targets was immaterial: the behemoth did not stop. Adam grabbed the overturned table with his free hand, and hefted it up with a silent yank that sent the thing flying across the room. Adam raised his weapon, a length of steel covered in razorwire, up high, and then brought it down. There was no aiming, beyond the necromancer's general location. Any hit was good. It was unlikely that Adam would strike a death-blow with his initial attack, and that was fine. Inflicting pain upon others was satisfying.