<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>2nd floor, Deli<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Brazil, Natalie<br/><hr/>Drake tensed up, readying the lamp as he took a breath and held it.   He had nothing whatsoever against the gentleman who owned the place, but he couldn't be allowed to raise the alarm.  He simply couldn't.  There was too much at stake, now; finding out what was happening was simply too important.  He would certainly regret it, but he had to make sure the old man was out of commission.  With any luck whatsoever, Drake would simply knock him unconscious, and he would suffer nothing worse than a concussion.  Of course, Drake knew that this sort of thing rarely ever worked the way it did in the movies, and there was a chance that a blow to the skull would, well, kill him.  Drake hoped not; he was no killer.  He wasn't.  He couldn't be.  He simply couldn't.  Once you surrendered yourself to that abyss, there was no turning back: you were damned.<br/><br/>Leave it to Blondie to make the decision for him.  When she shattered the mirror, the loud, violent noise made him jump, and he stared at her accusingly.  "Are you out of your<em>mind</em>?"  he grunted at her as she stormed past.  What was she--oh no, no, she couldn'tpossiblybeabouttodowhatitlookedlike OH GOD.<br/><br/>"Jesus! Jesus Christ!" he moaned as the guy went down, screaming, spurting blood all over the place from his ravaged eye socket.  He stared at Brazil in complete and utter horror.  The bitch had just<em>stabbed</em>the old man without a second thought.  In the<em>eye</em>.  Okay, sure, there was a fine line between what she did and what Drake himself was going to do, but holy shit!  She'd done it without hesitation, without thinking, to an old man who was assuredly someone's husband, someone's father, maybe even grandfather, whose only crime had been being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  A cold ripple surged down his spine as he continued to stare at the blond woman, realizing that she had just outed herself as a stone-cold killer.  Had she succumbed to the subliminal brainwashing?  Was she only the first among them that would do so?  Or was she a psychopath bitch from the get go?<br/><br/>In shock, he staggered forward.  The poor old guy was bleating and whimpering now, his face a bloody mess.  Drake wanted to do something for him, but had no idea what.   He was likely beyond all help.  "Hang in there," he whispered.  "I'll call an ambulance."   It was dumb, but what else could he do?  The fellow was likely a goner.<br/><br/>A new thought struck him; what if someone else came into the shop?  The door was likely unlocked now.  Say a customer entered the store, saw the store's owner lying on the ground in a pool of blood, surrounded by a handful of strangers.  He knelt down, slipping his arms underneath the man's arms, tried to drag him out of view.  There had to be a pantry, a closet or something.  He glanced at Natalie as she bolted past.  "The door! Lock the door!" he implored her.<br/><br/>Meanwhile, Blondie was storming out.  "Hey!" Drake shouted.  "Don't you fucking go anywhere!"  he snarled.  Ice cold killer or not, she still was the only one with the vital information.  She could not be allowed to leave them behind.