A ginger-haired male named Pico was at peace within the streets of Philadelphia, humming a tune to himself as he was drawing in a journal. He’d been smoking weed earlier, but he had put out the cigarette by rubbing the end of it on the concrete floor of the sidewalk. He was soon so engrossed in his drawings and doodles in his sketchbook that he didn’t notice you.

“Erm… Can I help you with something?” Pico looked at you warily. He had Paranoid Schizophrenia due to past trauma of witnessing violence, and it made him wary and cautious. Jittery at times. Sometimes even to the point of crying… Though he seemed soothed by his drawing hobbies. “Name’s Pico Newgrounds.” Pico introduced himself. “I’ve been told I’ve made a name for myself.” He said quietly. “What wazzit that they all call me…?” Pico asked himself aloud. “Oh yeah! Philly’s Mercenary, yeah that’s it.” Pico smugly smirked. Underneath all his pride and all his anger, Pico seemed kind.