<div class="floatleft">(http://img818.imageshack.us/img818/2395/samatclashofthetitanslo.jpg)</div><br/><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Sam Washington<br/><strong>Age:</strong>28<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Beat his senior officer to death with a heavy duty stapler from the L.A.P.D.'s copy room while singing the national anthem.<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Library, Main Lobby<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Natalie Brewster<br/><br/><br/><hr/><br/>The stapler. That was but one of the cruddy nicknames the press had given him. They were all uninspired and humourless. Still, Sam Washington preferred them over cop turned cop killer. In the eyes of any lawman it was the biggest crime one could commit. The brutality and general insanity of his own deed continued to baffle him. How had it come to this? One minute he had been making some copies for the precinct, the next he found himself being restrained by three colleagues, staring down at the dead body of his superior officer, a bloody heavy duty stapler in hand while his lips chanted the word "justice" over and over again without his concent. It had been a stroke of luck for him in the end that the judges dictated his actions to a bout of "temporal insanity." Having a stellar record had its advantages, even in such a dreadful situation. Rather than the chair, he now had twenty years in prison. "At least you're still alive" was the only comfort here.<br/><br/>The van grind to a halt, disrupting Sam's train of thought as he lifted his head to face the man in prison guard unifrom seated opposite of him. Neither of them said a word as they felt the weight of the vehicle shift, its driver getting out, slamming the door shut behind him before moving towards the back and opening that one. "Get out," he said simply to the man in the orange jumpsuit, his voice betraying neither hints of compassion nor disgust; professional detachment, one could call it? Sliding across the bench, Sam's white sneakers made contact with dark asphalt, the tip brushing against half molten snow that blended in with its surroundings, having taken up a similar dark colour. That was New York for you; dark and dirty.<br/><br/>"Move," he was told, a rubber nightstick poking between his shoulderblades to usher him forwards to make room for the other guard. With one on each side, they circled around the van, stepping onto the dull, concrete sidewalk in front of the rather majestic looking, but obviously worn out, library. A pair of bronze lions guarded the entrance atop the staircase. Despite their obvious age, they retained their impressiveness and slight intimidation factor. There was something amiss though, as the trio were quick to note the tendrils of black smoke fuming from the upper levels of the large buildings, most of which dissipated into the smog riddled sky above. Soon a fire alarm rung loudly, the sound spilling from inside.<br/><br/>"Shit! The building's getting torched!" the guard to his left exclaimed, one hand moving to rest atop his balding head, an expression which clearly displayed both shock and awe plastered across his facial features. They had to do something, Sam thought. Not just stand around like cawking monkeys. That alarm didn't go off by itself. There were people inside, people that needed rescuing.<br/><br/>"Fuck! Shit! Get... Get Washington back into the van and call nine one one. The fire brigade better get here quick before the whole block burns down," the other guard responded, his previous composure rattled by the unpleasant surprise the burning library presented. This was probably one of the last things he had expected to happen when he woke up this morning, his mind trained for prison riots and not large fires. He moved to grab Sam's arm, but the prisoner, for the first time since his initial arrest, resisted, surprising both of the already startled guards. Driving his knee into the stomach of the guard to his right before spinning around on his heels to headbutt the other, Sam's hands swiftly reached towards the latter man's belt, ripping the keys away with all the strength his cuffed hands could muster.<br/><br/>Former Los Angeles policeman Sam Washington dashed up the large stone staircase, leaving the pair of stunned prison guards behind, miraculously managing not to trip even once on his way up before he threw himself shoulder first against the double doors of the front entrance. With a grunt he landed on the smooth, marble floor, skidding along its surface about three feet before coming to a halt. Looking down at his wrists, he struggled for a minute to find the right key to undo his bindings. Discarding the cuffs and keys, he pushed himself up onto his feet, rubbing his wrists unconsciously as they were now freed of their painful restraints. They had been put on him too tight on purpose, for sure.<br/><br/>The alarm was even louder inside, but so were the scent of smoke and burning materials. Deep inside, somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear a tiny voice chanting "justice" over and over again. Ignoring it, Sam turned his head left and right, scanning the lobby for anyone, living or dead. A girl stood by the wall, next to a tiny red box he recognized as a switch for the fire alarm, hands clamped over her ears in an attempt to mute out the positively deafening sound which echoed through the large room. She was young, slender and beautiful. Probably no older than twenty, by the looks of it.<br/><br/><em>Not now!</em>He had to remind himself of the current situation for a moment, shaking those idle thoughts from his mind as he approached the young woman with a brisk pace. Placing his large, strong hand on her delicate appearing shoulder, he asked her, "Are you alright, miss?" loudly, attempting to raise his voice to a level where it could be heard over the roaring sound of the alarm. Tugging lightly, he pulled her down along with him into a crouching position. "Keep your head down! It's easier to breath that way!" His throat would surely be soar as hell in the morning if he kept this up.