<div class="floatleft">(http://img819.imageshack.us/img819/3311/filmnoir3.jpg)</div><strong>Drake Holland</strong><br/><strong>Age:</strong>35<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Aggravated assault, torture, attempted murder<br/><strong>Location:</strong>New New York, Public Library<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Sarah, Tim, Natalie<br/><hr/>"Perhaps someone wanted to kill us all," said Drake, wryly.  Collectively, they certainly were a motley crew of misfits, criminals, and psychopaths; and he could see why a vigilante do-gooder might take it upon himself to rid the world of what he certainly would deem the dregs of society.  Who, realistically speaking, would miss Tim?  Who would miss Drake?  Come to that, who would miss Sarah?  The only person who intrigued Drake out of the sorry group was Phaedra, who seemed the most "normal".  However, there had to be something wrong with her, as well; or else she wouldn't have been there in Dr. Shrink's "therapy" session.  And then there were the two new additions, the pretty young girl and the motorcycle dyke.  How did they get mixed up in this? Were they just in the wrong place at the wrong time, or were they latecomers to the ill-fated session?<br/><br/>"Or perhaps they just wanted to kill one of us," he pointed out.  "You have to admit, there's no end to the list of possible candidates.  The owner of the art gallery, perhaps, Sarah? One of the boyfriends of the people you gunned down, Tim? Or..."  he glanced at Phaedra, drew a blank, and decided to move on.<br/><br/>"Which brings us to you two."  This was to Natalie, as Brazil didn't seem exactly approachable at the moment.  "What's your story?  Are you part of our misanthropic menagerie?  I'm Drake, by the way.  Big guy is Tim.  The goth girl is Sarah, and the businesswoman is Phaedra.  Between us, we're all arsonists, killers, and thugs."  He grinned; that is to say that one side of his mouth tilted upward.  Without his sunglasses, Drake was a rather unremarkable personage, a veritable study in the character of the Down-and-Out Washout: with his loosened tie, his stained shirt collar, his old, weatherbeaten fedora, and his knee-length raincoat, he looked like something ripped out of a 1950s pulp fiction novel.<br/>