La Ballade de Blackface Johnson
Première loi
Scène 1

Douze ans. Cela faisait douze ans que Cochese avait gagné ses galons. C'était un enfant quand il est entré, et peu de choses avaient changé à East End quand il est sorti. Une fois sag de marcheur de nuit vibrant, bien que les plis dans leurs visages s'apparentaient bien aux pieds du corbeau. Les rues elles-mêmes n'ont pas beaucoup changé non plus, encore jonchées de nids de poules et de trottoirs irréguliers; les ruelles s'ouvrent avec un feu intense de soleil orange des barils que les clochards résidents utilisaient pour se tenir au chaud - et pour voir si la seringue était entrée dans la veine droite. Les lignes de Turf n'avaient pas beaucoup changé non plus.
Comme prévu, la mort de Diddy Bop a envoyé des ondulations dans East End pendant une semaine. Sa mère s'est lamentée à ses funérailles, les médias ne lui ont guère prêté attention, il y a eu une veillée et des messages de médias sociaux distants « vous êtes dans mes pensées et mes prières ». Puis tout le monde est passé à autre chose. Un taxi jaune s'est arrêté au cœur du territoire des Cinq Couronnes, centre mort d'East End. Johnson regarda à travers le verre pâle de la fenêtre de la cabine des Couronnes rénové base des opérations; un entrepôt de graffitis lacérés, il était certainement plus que l'ancienne taverne abandonnée qu'ils avaient l'habitude d'occuper. À l'extérieur de l'entrepôt se trouvaient quatre jeunes recrues à la recherche : 15 ou 16 au plus, elles n'étaient même pas vivantes quand Blackface a gagné ses couleurs. L'un avait un peigne-over, l'autre avait des cheveux à cordes de longueur Kurt Cobain qui reposaient sur ses épaules, l'autre était orné d'un ensemble serré de jeans et de shorts en jean. L'un avait un iPhone. Peut-être que la fin avait changé depuis qu'il était parti.
Il est sorti de la voiture en portant son T-Shirt et une paire de jeans lui a été remise plusieurs années dans sa peine grâce à un donar anonyme qui a mis de l'argent sur ses livres. Son kutte a filé sur son épaule, il avait un peu grandi depuis qu'il était adolescent (un germe fécond de 5'9 à un bien proportionné 6'2). Il est allé jusqu'au trottoir, noir et blanc rayé Adidas a embrassé le gravier pour la première fois depuis plus d'une décennie. Un sourire brouillait son visage; un roi était à la maison, mais il n'y avait pas de trompettes soufflées, pas de tapis rouges roulés, et les quatre jarretiers devant lui ne lui avaient rien dit. Même l'air était différent, les choses étaient calmes et sombres, pendant un moment ces mêmes sentiments l'ont aussi vaincu. Il a fait de son mieux pour secouer l'ambiance malsaine et a fait son chemin dans l'entrepôt. Les quatre jeunes wantbes n'avaient pas reconnu sa présence.

"De la couronne de ma tête jusqu'aux bouts de mes orteils..."
". C'est ce que j'ai dit. C'est ce que j'ai dit. Un Roi des Cinq Couronnes avec tant d'âme!" La cochese a été dessinée en retour.
"Terry a continué,
"Chut cho' bouche!" Cochese estampillée.
"Comment ça va? T'es enfin sorti, hein? Comment ça se passe? "Tu as laissé tomber le savon?" Terry était l'un de ces Blancs avec cette "âme" indélébile noire qui accuse toujours les Blancs de manquer. Il avait du rythme, de la torche, du style. Il était, comme Shaft si éloquemment, mauvais.
Cochese a donné un demi-sourire et un rire sain dans l'accompagnement; la crainte qu'il sentait auparavant s'était dissipée, pour la plupart. La chaleureuse réception de son retour par Terry au milieu de plusieurs applaudissements et jeers d'autres membres à part entière (bien que beaucoup de nouveaux initiés qui avaient récemment gagné leurs couleurs) et certains wantbes lui ont donné de la facilité. Il a continué à bercer avec Terry sans rater un battement,
"Je ne suis pas sisy! Moi? Laisser tomber le savon? Tu sais à qui tu parles? Je suis la Blackface Johnson, bébé! Le chat le plus frais, le plus doux, le plus grossier, le plus grossier, le plus douteux de ce côté de Gotham!" Terry et Cochese se sont cognés à l'unisson.
"Nous attendions que tu reviennes, nous avons un cadeau pour toi! Brutus, fais-le sortir!" Sur ordre, un colosse bruissant s'est levé de la table ovale allongée et est allé à l'un des nombreux crevasses étendu le long de l'arrière de l'entrepôt et est retourné peu de temps après son départ. Un visage inconnu, Cochese l'a redimensionné, et Brutus moniker ne pouvait pas être plus prophétique de son physique. C'était un grand homme laid aux bras musclés et au visage écarlate qui portait les marques d'un homme que la vie n'avait pas bien traité. Terry a placé la valise devant Cochese alors que les deux d'entre eux se rendaient à la table ovale au milieu de bavardages incrémentaux d'autres membres, bavardage qui a laissé place à l'anticipation et au désintérêt tout de même quand Terry a considérablement traîné la révélation du retour du présent. Une Kutte fraîche, emblazoned avec un crâne sur son côté droit; la marque de celui qui a tué pour son droit d'être l'un des Couronned. Sous le nouveau patching se trouvaient deux couronnes réunies sur le côté avec des perles décorées et d'autres accessoires; le symbole de la seconde commande.
"Bienvenue à la maison, Prince!" Terry a chanté. La Cochese était le numéro deux maintenant. Il n'a reçu d'ordres que de Lunatique Terry lui-même. Ses émotions étaient mélangées. Parmi les applaudissements et sifflements rauques, il fit un sourire.
"On va boogie ce soir!" a crié une voix haute de la foule.
C'était bon d'être à la maison.
Name: Cochese Vermont Johnson.
Age
27.
Appearance:

Personality
An avid fan of seventies blaxploitation films, he retains the stoccata beat and imabic stresses exhibited by the earliest blaxploitation stars: Pamela Greer, Richard Roundtree, Melvin Van Peebles, Fred Willliamson. He is quick to fly into indignant and irrational fits if he feels slighted. His stride is lax, a smooth glide matches his otherwise tempered and simple outlook on life: be the flyest, baddest cat around.
Biography
At age 9 he was the 'look out' kid for local corner boys and petty drug hustlers. Number slips, nickelbags, grocery lists, anything one might fathom. By age eleven he had already learned how to use his first deuce-deuce or .22 as the ofay kids say. He shot bottles, cans, squirrels and any other unsuspecting inanimate (and when he felt especially cruel, animate) objects that crossed his path. Cochese was 15 when he shot his first human being. By then he had graduated to larger handguns: .45 ACP's, Magnums, Desert Eagles, real wrist ringers. Gotham's desolate East End was in the middle of a turf war between three gangs. Two-Face, Black Mask, and a small splinter gang formed of disillusioned and power-hungry dimwits from both sides, The Five Crowns, vie for the scraps of some old and long forgotten warehouses and rights to small strips of drug turf littered with empty syringes and an ever-dwindling clientele base.
Diddy Bop was his street name. His real name was Demaree Robinson, Cochese knew him from his time spent as a runner for Lunatic Terry, leader and founder of Cochese's ilk. Diddy Bop was one of Two-Face's boys: he was a clean cut kid, smart as all get out; he should have stayed in school, why did he choose to throw his life away like that? Despite his idiocy, the kid could dance his tail off, if this were the eighties and breakdancing was still avant-garde alongside the rest of Hip-Hop culture, Diddy probably would have been one of the best B-Boys of all time. But this wasn't the eighties, and Diddy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Cochese didn't want to do it, but if he didn't, he'd piss off Lunatic Terry--and if he did, well, let's just say there ain't no Black Caesars saving disenfranchised delinquent black boys from crazy white men with agendas and lots of guns. So, he carried out the hit. It was a late night in the dregs of East End's territory, and they were right on time. Two-Face's gang, outside of some of his closer conglomerate members, didn't take direct orders from the Face himself and instead the runts of the gang would wander off in search of their own opportunities to cause a little ruckus and bother the law-abiding citizens of the End. Upstanding patron of justice that he was, Cochese would stop them at all costs if it meant he finally got to rock colors: that maroon and brown with the golden crown engraved on the back and in white letters, "Five" stitched on the top of the logo and "Crowns" stitched beneath. It was all worth it.
He only wanted to hit one of them, though: Diddy. Why? There was no glory in killing someone you didn't know, any coward can do that. It takes some "cajones" as the Hispanics say to pop somebody you have a connection with. Black warpaint covered his face beneath a drawn hoodie and a baclava. He waited for them to separate and stalked his prey beneath the streetlights that only had every other one lit; the city hadn't bothered to fix the electrical wiring problem in East End for years, nobody cared. Finally, Diddy and his crew split up; Cochese crouched and advanced on his unsuspecting target slowly as Diddy shook up the spray can and began to tag a wall whose face had been decorated twelve times over by the other gangs. At this point, it was just more respectable to find a new wall to vandalize. Cochese took the safety off and cocked the hammer back mid-creep; the whir of the spray-can and Diddy's own adrenaline prevented him from picking up on the future Crowned King who would end his life.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOMBOOMBOOM!
.50 AE caliber rounds are made for putting down large animals, not human beings. Gruesome doesn't begin to paint how sickening the scene was. A quarter sized coup de tat gaped from the back of Diddy's head as his body crumpled and slid down the wall; that black hole stared right at Cochese, the murderer. Gunshots were common in East End, and normally wouldn't cause much rise from the tenants in the neighborhood, but these were death knells. The sound from the firing powder crackling alone was enough to rouse Rip Van Winkle from his slumber; windows flung open, blood rounded into a coagulated pool. Masked assailant and now Crowned King--official member of the Five Crowns, Cochese Johnson, later dubbed "Blackface" by his compatriots, had done it; he had earned his crown. He had thrown his youth away.
This was in the years before Batman had disappeared, the GCPD were still overworked, tired and underpaid--but they at least had the Dark Knight helming the effort against crime, particularly in East End. That's why it didn't take long for Cochese to be pinned with the murder. He had worn the same white and green Adidas tennis shoes that left shoe marks at the crime scene when he gotten into an argument with Lunatic Terry a few days later. Cochese had gotten cocky and carried himself with the same infectious pomp and arrogance as his blaxploitation heroes; his mouth got loud and loose--he started bragging about what he had done. It didn't take long for one of Gordon's lackeys to come knocking on his door with handcuffs and an arrest warrant.
He plead coersion and insanity--mental destability was common among his type, and he had taken orders from someone else. He served the first three years in juvenile until he was eighteen, then he was transferred to Blackgate where he served out the rest of his twelve year sentence.
Now he's back on the street. The Five Crowns are still active, and Lunatic Terry has done well to expand the small time band of rascals into a middling crime ring. But something is different... The Kings aren't too fond to hear about the returned of one of their Crowned.
Abilities: Metahuman (Gene is latent as of his introduction to the story)
Regenerative Healing Factor: Cochese can mitigate most forms of natural damage depending on the severity of the injury. His metagene accelerates his body's healing factor to exponential heights; this does not mean he is invulnerable or unkillable, rather it takes more than a few bullets and some stab wounds to take him down. If one were to cut off his head, he'd die a swift death. If he lost too much blood to a vital organ, he would die. Since he has no other unnatural entities in his body (metals, infusions) his healing factor is of a better grade than others and does not burn itself out as regularly.
Enhanced Agility: His metagene also grants him the ability to leap, twist, flip, duck, and weave effortlessly across a battlefield. He can chain punches and kicks together without having to think about it for a second.
Enhanced Reflexes: He is not fast enough to dodge bullets, but he can react quick enough to, say, a rapid offensive from a foe. His reaction speed is increased enough to allow him to avoid many unseen ailments to himself (traps, strikes coming from behind him or from the shadows) though he is not keen at detecting others.
Weapons: None as of right now.
Equipment: His Five Crowns kutte.
Weaknesses: Lacks refined martial training, he knows how to streetfight. He lacks leadership qualities and is often indecisive. His metagene has yet to activate, and so he is just a normal man. His pomp will get him into situations he often cannot get out of. He lacks insight and foresight, his mind is confined to the now.