Tragedy always followed the mantle of the Griever. The loss of a loved one usually resulted in the need to seek vengeance, and with that, came the need to find a higher power in order to fulfill the mission. Created over a hundred years ago, the mask had been passed down from generation to generation, some bearers welcomed the identity and power that came with it with open arms, others were forced into it by the cruel hand of fate. Zeta Vercetti was no exception.
But he was different from the rest. He had control of his grief and misery. There were plenty of things to occupy his mind. Being in charge of eight classes was quite the workload for any teacher, but Zeta doubled his course load as he assumed duties from both Manor House Prep and Liberty High. Teaching history to a bunch of high school kids was a walk in the clouds compared to his night job.
Even now, he'd labor over their exam papers in the den of his very modest dwelling in Brookyln, New York. It was just far enough from everyone he knew but close enough to the action. Besides, Brooklyn was a safe place for him. They were smart kids, his students. Though some were problematic. They'd write lewd, unnecessary comments on their papers to which he'd take the dreaded red pen to. He understood it was just a defensive reaction to failure.
The hum-drum of his life wasn't exactly what you'd expect from a man who stalked among the shadows at night in a frightening guise. Then again, you wouldn't expect anyone TO commit to the latter. Once in a while he'd take a moment to cast a glance on the image of Savannah Kennedy held in a frame on the desk. It reminded him of his mission, his long term goals. It also made his life feel a lot less hum-drum and more spectacular than it ought to be.
Cherry red metallic casing of a secondary cellular device beat against the desk as it vibrated, nearly falling off the edge if he hadn't caught it. He didn't need to check for a name or a number, he knew who it could've been when he pressed the phone to his ear to answer the call. ``On my way, Betty.`` His mentality shifted after he hung up the phone. The stack of test papers was abandoned and he pushed himself up to a stand, ``Let's go, Alfred.``
The ears of the german shepherd stood erect when hearing his master, following him down into the building's secret garage where the GR-Mach 1 awaited. It'll get him to the base quicker than his 1968 Ford Mustang could. It had grown routine by now -- the calls, the mask, the need to quell the crime and corruption in the city -- nay, the world -- while contending with the fact that his own brother lead an organized crime syndicate. But there was always work to do, and he'd fight the never ending battle until his very last breath.
