A Fist, Raised

[Static Bolter]

Emily opened her eyes, blinking uncontrollably at the harsh light directly above her. The light was so blindingly white that the rest of her surroundings were nothing more than indistinct black shapes, though after a few moments her vision adjusted and brain cleared enough to register that she was strapped tightly to a hard flat surface, a table close beside, and something beeping faintly just behind her head. It was the contents of the table, however, which truly caught Emily's attention; a collection of small, precise knives, tongs, syringes, liquid filled jars and other torturous seeming implements were laid out with careful exactness.

"Ah," came the calmly professional sounding voice from just beyond the range of the focused lamp above Emily's head. "You're awake. Excellent." The voice was that of a middle-aged man, with something of the self-important-yet-unimportant quality Emily would normally associate with bookkeepers or lower management at the firm she interned for. When the man stepped into the circle of light he looked just as unimportant as he sounded; short, balding, and peering closely at her through his thick glasses. His bland appearance did nothing to lessen Emily's fright at her situation, especially upon meeting the look in his eyes.

"I'll need your name and full medical history, if you please." The man officiously asked while tapping at a clipboard he pulled out from under his arm. A click-pen was retrieved from the top pocket of his long white coat and held at the ready as though this were nothing more than a regular visit to the local GP. Emily strangled a nervous sound in her throat and struggled against her bonds; they were quite secure. "What is this?! Let me go!"

"Oh come now that's quite out of the question," the perturbing doctor replied. "The procedure is all ready to begin. Now, do you have a history of diabetes in your family?"

"You're insane!" Emily declared, trying to tilt and swing her head as much as she could in her currently restrained state, hoping wildly for any sign of rescue. "HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" she screamed. The madman holding her captive merely tsked and took a step closer, setting down his clipboard in resignation.

"Very well, we shall have to do without, though this could seriously compromise the integrity of our results." The doctor picked up a scalpel and examined its edge with a clinical eye. "Oh, I must warn you, I'm entirely out of anaesthetic. Terribly unreliable suppliers." He tsked again in faint irritation as he leaned across Emily's terrified shaking form and flicked a switch somewhere behind her. A drill kicked to life with a loud whirr. Emily screamed again.

--------

"What've we got, LeBlanc?" Detective sergeant Mills asked gruffly as he ducked under the police tape that criss-crossed the alleyway. He turned up the collar of his coat to keep out the unseasonally cold rain that threatened to run down the back of his neck and nodded to the officer guarding the cordon before turning for the answer to his question. LeBlanc rubbed tiredly at his forehead and sighed. "Young woman. Early to mid-twenties. It's just like last week; some crazy bastard cut her up and burnt her in places. Forensics is with her now; it's not pretty, sir."

His expression grim, Mills stalked slowly over to where the body had been dumped and surveyed the damage for himself while the forensics doc went about their work. Straight slices on arms and legs, some on the spine. Part of her hair had been shaved away and there was a big ugly stitch-line crossing the bare patch. Mills shook his head with a sigh. "Do we have an ID?"

"Nothing on her, sir. She was left here in that smock. Jenkins found a tire-print but we're not sure if it's related to whoever dumped her or not."

Mills gave a quiet grunt to himself and crouched down beside the body. "Those burns...someone told me that one last week had been radioactive. Shouldn't we be--"

"Our perp used a concentrated burst of radiation to cause those," the forensics expert cut him off, "But at this point it's nothing we need to suit up for. Relatively benign."

Another grunt escaped Mills as he took in the scene one more time, committing it all to memory. There'd be photos taken of every inch of course, but he liked to take the time to process things mentally before the investigation truly began. "Well, we've got a repeat offender on our hands..." he observed quietly. The look LeBlanc subtly returned him suggested the statement was less than groundbreaking. Mills ignored it and unclipped a pen from his pocket, gently using it to lift a small amount of the victim's hair so he could see her face. He frowned more deeply. "Well...we have our ID. Emily Barrell. She's been missing for more than a few days now. We should probably pull up other missing person files. We may be seeing more of them soon."

[Static Bolter]

The insistent bass-beat from Paradise, one of Advent City's more exclusive nightspots, followed Beth out into the street as she sashayed down the few steps at the doorway. It was still relatively early for most club-goers, and so there was a long queue of people angling to get inside. One of them waved to get Beth's attention and with a vague smile as she tried to remember who they were she tapped the bouncer on the shoulder and had him wave the young man inside, exchanging a few quick pleasantries about how she was just 'stepping out for some air'. Calmly strutting up the street Beth moved around the corner and headed over to her car. Time to suit up for a patrol; it'd feel good to burn off some excess energy.

"Miss Wells?" Came a voice from somewhere behind Beth. She froze midway through popping open the boot of her car and spun around in surprise, smoothing a hand over her dress. When she took in the young man's appearance brandishing a digital recorder Beth released a slow breath; had he waited a few seconds more he could've caught her pulling out her costume.

"Advent Enquirer, Miss Wells," the man began after hitting play on his recorder. "You've left the club awfully early tonight, I was wondering if you had any comments on Paradise? Something happen inside?"

"Oh!" Beth began awkwardly, her relief at the more or less meaningless question washing over her. "No nothing untoward. I adore the place, dear. And Lewis is an absolute darling, you know. Perfect host."

The young man's interest almost immediately waned, but he pushed on anyway. "It's certainly unlike you to leave before a party gets started, Miss Wells, may I ask wh--" The question was cut off by a sudden scream and a screech of tires; both Beth and the grunt reporter gasped and turned their gazes to where the road branched into the next corner. With a quick glance back at each other the pair ran up towards the intersection only to stop again when a black van careened around the corner and zoomed past them at top speed. Beth could swear she heard another muffled scream coming from somewhere within.

"Call the police!" Beth yelled at the man and quickly yanked off her heels while he fumbled around for his smartphone. Dropping the expensive shoes unceremoniously to the pavement the young redhead tore off quickly after the van, running as quickly as she could justify without seeming unnatural to try and keep up with the vehicle; there were far too many eyes on the street, the queue congregated around the club entrance all watching Beth's passage with wide eyes before turning to gossip loudly about whatever could have occurred.

A few blocks down the crowds had thinned down to nothing; almost a minute had passed since the van disappeared down a side-street barely visible in the gloom of a streetlight ahead. Beth had to risk it, someone's life could be at stake. With a bright flash of lightning the woman traversed two blocks effortlessly. She strained her gaze down the next street, hoping it wasn't too late, and just caught a glimpse of the van disappearing behind another building a few streets ahead. Lightning flashed again as Beth zig-zagged her way up the street to the corner and charged headlong down to the next cross street before skidding to a halt. She swung her head around to peer in each direction, but there was no sign of the van anywhere. She'd lost it.

Cursing, Beth turned to make her way back towards the entrance to Paradise. Police sirens were wailing not far off; no doubt they'd want to talk to any witnesses.

[Black Starbeam]

The clouds over Advent City began to lighten as the sun rapidly approached the horizon. It had been a fairly uneventful night thus far for the Black Starbeam. A couple of garden variety thugs had needed discouragement, a slight disagreement between a few Ruin hoods and the Riversiders had been put to a quick end and a handful of run of the mill bar fights had been broken up. It had easily been the quietest night of this patrol so far.

Still, there was always more trouble to be found and the Starbeam was never one to lay down on the job or rest on his laurels. A lack of superpowered activity was only a clear indication that something big and unpleasant was headed Advent’s way. The calm before the storm, his experience insisted. He glanced around the rooftop he’d been perched on for the better part of an hour and decided that it was time to continue moving about the city.

Starbeam rose to his feet, dusting off the knee he’d been resting on as he stretched his legs, ready to run. Even after all this time, habit still forced him to do things to protect muscles that couldn’t get damaged by simple use even if he was trying. Blood flowing through his legs, he took a running start at the edge of the building, vaulting over the side. Sunlight started to fill the alleyway between the buildings below him as he rushed through the air. He landed on the next rooftop with a slight stumble in his step as he continued his momentum forward.

He continued to run from building to building, taking a leaf from the books of the many, many parkour masters whose art he had never bothered to even consider learning. He enjoyed running across some of the older buildings. Advent’s rebuilding program had been quite aggressive and some of the newer buildings in the City’s business district lacked some of the charm of the older buildings out here in the ‘Skirts. Still, they also lacked a lot of the petty crime and social problems that were found out in the forgotten sections of Old Wilmington.

Starbeam reached the end of the block and took a split second to consider his options before leaping into the air and switching on his flight device at last. He soared over the roadway and continued his patrol from the air, dipping between buildings and deftly swinging past their corners. He soared over the heads of people as they started to arise and head down the street to pick up their morning coffee before heading to work. He soared over buildings where people started to turn off their alarms, shower and brush their teeth. As much as zipping through the air was an important part of his very serious work, he had to admit that he really, really loved the solitude and thrill of flight.

The houses and business buildings below had started to give way to a more industrial section of the ‘Skirts. Factories, some of which had been reclaimed, but most of which had been damaged in the fire and abandoned passed below him. He had just darted around a smokestack when the beeping began to invade his thoughts. It took a few moments to identify the source. By the time he’d realised it was his flight pack warning him that it was out of charge, it was too late. He was carried forward by his momentum for a few moments before gravity kicked in and he started his rapid five storey descent to the junkyard below.

The first strike was unpleasant. Starbeam felt his ribs crack inside his body as he slammed into the remains of an old refrigerator, slowing his movement slightly before he felt the handlebars of an old bicycle puncture his left thigh. He rolled away from it on instinct and continued to fall, popping free of the intruding piece of metal before he slammed onto something soft on the ground below. He paused a moment, giving himself a second for pain before getting his bearings. He’d been hurt far worse before and the nanites would take care of it soon enough. He turned his head, trying to clear it as he tried to sit up and take stock of things. His ribs groaned at him as he moved, but he managed to get up enough to see what he had landed on.

He turned, coming face to face with the corpse of a young man. At least, he assumed it was a young man. The man’s face had been twisted by death into a wretched reflection of a human face. He was used to finding bodies by now. They were commonplace out here in the ‘Skirts, but normally they were peaceful and serene. More often than not, people out here died of exposure while they were asleep. This corpse was clearly the result of a different experience. Skin bulged out in random places, muscles seemed grotesquely enlarged compared to the others near them. The look on the dead eyes reflected some unseen horror of the last moments of his life.

Starbeam attempted to draw to his feet and take a better look at the corpse. It was a hard task to steady himself, his wounded leg complaining as he tried to put weight on it. Still, he managed to stand and stared at the deceased man. His face was not unique. Up and down the man’s mostly naked body, muscles bulged at random, seemingly in defiance of the muscles around them. Starbeam faltered a moment as his leg finally gave out under the strain, bringing him crashing down to the ground next to the corpse. He glared at his leg in frustration, only to notice that for some reason, the gaping wound was showing no signs of healing whatsoever. He quickly checked the charge on his faceplate to find that it was in full working order.

Something around here was amiss and it wasn’t just the corpse.

[AlwaysAPrice]

((Concurrent with Bolty's post.))

Across the street and high above Paradise, death skulked. Not any personification of Death its actual self, but one person it had touched. One it had visited but been turned away from, one dead girl named Jane. Perched on the edge of a rooftop, she had an expansive view of the street below, and watched on as the lights of the club's sign cast flowing bands of color over the long line of warm, over-decorated bodies waiting to be judged worthy of entry.

Nearly forty of you. Standing there. Lined up like cattle. Why? Dance, flirt, mingle, right there. Only thing different inside is drinks and music. One guy with a cooler and a boombox, you're set.

The idea of a night on the town pretending to be normal used to intrigue her, but she'd had more than enough of them and the charm had long ago worn off. Jane was a curious woman, but her curiosity about this subject was sated, and soured, decades ago. It wasn't the night life that drew her here, just one of the people partaking in it.

Jane was not good at people. Not at socializing, small talk, nor crowds, not as far along as her condition had progressed, dampening her emotions to faint echoes of what she'd once been able to feel, trying to reduce her attachments to no more than potential sources of sustenance in her mind. Still, she had her ways of preserving the few near-friendships she chanced into in Advent City, and this was one of them. Not stalking, she told herself. Socializing from a distance. Watching them from afar kept the primitive impulses quiet and let her build a private rapport, an understanding of her living acquaintances as just that, living people.

The music surged as the door opened, and Jane hunched forward, peering down for a glimpse inside. A tingle rolled down her spine as she focused her hearing beyond its usual enhanced sensitivity for a few seconds, picking out the murmurs of the cattle outside, clear and distinct from the thumping music or boisterous voices inside. A familiar voice exchanged minor pleasantries and excused herself for some air, and Jane swung her legs back around to the roof to stand. She followed the roof to the corner of the block it occupied, head turned to watch Beth Wells the entire way to her car. She'd lied to the acquaintance she passed on the way out. Ignoring the glamorous club-going attire, watching how she moved, Jane identified relief in Beth's posture, determination entering her stride, and understood.

Beth moved behind her vehicle, attention on opening its trunk -- she didn't see the man approaching behind her. Again Jane was awash in the tingle of conscious metabolism, honing her senses again, and felt a satisfying tug within her abdomen as her diaphragm suddenly contracted to draw her second breath since night fell, in case she needed to shout a warning. Her eyes fixed on the hand the man was slipping into a pocket, studied the contours of the object being pulled out beneath the fabric -- flat, rectangular, not a gun. Maybe a taser.

Jane hoped it was a taser. Would be funny, she thought without amusement, pushing the air out of her lungs unused.

Jane listened for a moment longer as the man introduced himself as a reporter and Beth humored his intrusion, then started to let her focus withdraw, content there was no threat. Before her senses were fully withdrawn from the street below her attention snapped to the corner at the far end of the block Beth had parked on -- the unmistakable sounds of struggle, shoes kicking helplessly against asphalt, a scream that might have been a cry for help muffled somehow into an unintelligible sound of urgency and protest. Already aware of her surroundings from the time she had spent lurking up there tonight, she broke into a dead run towards the other side of the building.

She could make it across Paradise's block faster on the more even rooftops on the next street than she would taking the shortcut of a dive into the street below, risking injury that would both slow her down and drain her reserves. Instead, she sprang across an alleyway to the sill of a window on the story-taller neighboring building, spidered up the wall using the protruding frames of its windows as hand and footholds, and rolled over the edge of the roof, unfolding onto her feet and resuming her run without any pause to appreciate the efficient elegance of her own movements.

After the screech of tires, she knew which way they were heading and angled her run accordingly. The screech suggested they were in a hurry, but she hadn't heard any sirens. If they didn't think they were being pursued, she could catch up. Precision rolls, run-ups and leaps turned every obstacle into a shortcut. She alighted on an apartment building's fire escape railing only for the instant it took her to push off it and roll into the open window leading to the floor's central corridor, where she rolled back to her feet and continued her breakneck pace without a grunt or a gasp.

As she emerged on the opposite side's matching escape, the black van shot past in the street below, its speed increasing. She started to question what they were running from, as she still hadn't heard a siren in pursuit, when an arc of lightning illuminated the block. Hope she ditched the reporter, Jane mused, then pulled her weapon out of its leg-straps, leapt, and swung the three-sectioned staff up and over a cable that descended to the building across the street. Her grip on both the outer handles provided her with an impromptu zip line to the other side of the street.

Jane tossed one handle back up and over the cable and began to fall, taking the staff with her, but the momentum carried her forward just enough to place a hand and one foot against the wall she'd been sliding towards a moment before, and bounce off for a relatively soft landing on the sidewalk below. Lightning flashed again, arcing over the next two blocks, and Jane rushed into the street and vaulted into the back seat of the next passing car, a dark red Mercedes convertible, as casually as one might hop a subway turnstile.

The driver turned his head so fast his Bluetooth flew out of his ear and bounced off Jane's forehead. A violent shudder rolled through her as she felt it leave a trace smear of earwax behind, but she had to focus. "Drive," she intoned with blood behind it, and she lurched in the backseat as the driver looked ahead and floored the gas. "Safely..." she added, always uneasy with applying her abilities this way, infringing on a person's free will, and hoping to minimize any danger she might be putting the driver in. "Black van, turning three blocks up. Catch up."

Jane rubbed at her forehead with the sleeve of her hoodie, shooting the driver a sour look through the rear view mirror, then set to strapping her staff back to her leg. "Get me close. Will get out of your life." she instructed in her normal voice, ensuring that he'd forget who exactly detoured him when this was over.

"Jesus, why am I even doing this?" the young man, whose hairline was receding entirely too early, wondered aloud as he navigated the light traffic of the road and took the turn she'd indicated, barely slowing. Guy can drive. Lucky night. "Are you some sort of superhero?"

"Not really."

"Then what's with the fist?" His eyes flicked nervously to Jane's chest in the mirror.

Jane looked down at her hoodie and opened her mouth as if to provide an answer, only to find she didn't have one to offer. "Don't know, didn't ask them yet." The van was in sight, and Jane rose into a crouch on the back seat, peering through, then over the windshield. She added, "Not a hero. Still good guy."

As they neared the van, Jane's eyes darted ahead to the changing street light ahead of them, now yellow. The driver gripped the wheel, white-knuckled but determined to catch the van as he'd been instructed. "Do I hit it? Try to run it off the road? Who's even in there?"

"Someone young and scared who doesn't want to die. Little closer." Jane hopped forward to squat on the front passenger seat's headrest as the man sped up, gripping the frame of the windshield. She focused, the familiar tingle coming on more intensely, coursing throughout her body as she prepared herself. As the van shot into the intersection in spite of the red light, Jane barked. "Brake!" and the driver did, immediately slamming on the pedal. With her body's tensed muscles reinforced by a burn-off of blood, she leapt just in time to preserve and add to her momentum and launched across the intersection.

A loud horn bellowed and tires screeched to her right, her fingertips brushed the handle of the van's rear door, then a bus slammed into her hip. Jane caromed out of the intersection, twisting and tumbling through the air until she caught the fender of an inconveniently parked Cadillac with her spine, and flopped onto the asphalt next to it. Her head smacked into the street at just the right angle to let her see the van shoot past the expressway on-ramp and veer around a corner further down the street.

Jane mouthed a breathless sigh, a trickle of someone else's blood escaping from the corner of her mouth until she pressed her lips shut and gulped it back down. She tried to dig her cellphone out of her pocket, but found it difficult without the ability to turn her hips until her spinal cord had a minute to mend. She got it eventually, ignoring the frantic bus driver and other concerned bystanders, including the driver of the convertible she'd hijacked as he tried to assess how badly she was injured - apparently he had some medical expertise. A very faint, only slightly bitter laugh escaped her when he looked at someone with worried, oblivious eyes to ask "What was she doing in the middle of the road?"

Jane's thumb flew over the keypad of her sturdy old Nokia in precisely timed sequences to find the letters she wanted, and she sent a brief text message to the number Starbeam and Bolter had given her when she made it clear she was going to keep popping up. Van still in city, skipped expressway. Lost it at the warehouse district.

[Dr. Qiang]

“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s easy scratch. I can introduce you, if you’d like.” The distant voices were thin, and echoed oddly in the dark tunnels. The mass of rubble and angular shapes in the Undercity played hell on the acoustics. In places, the echoes could carry for miles and in others they’d die after only a few meters. To an unpracticed ear, the Undercity was a confusing, disorganized hell where distance was impossible to judge.

To Riot, it was music. With his eyes closed he would’ve known the speakers were no more than a dozen yards away. With his eyes open, a tiny blob of orange light danced as a cigarette dangled precariously in the speaker’s lips. Three men stood out in stark relief, silhouetted by the fire in a nearby barrel that ruined their nightvision even as it whispered lies about safety. Even without the garbage fire, the cigarette alone would’ve been enough light for Riot’s dark, inhuman eyes to make all three men out clearly.

“What’s the work?”

“Simple stuff. Guard duty. Movin’ shit. Kidnapping.”

Riot’s eyes widened in surprise. Kidnapping was a new one, most of the Undercity gangs weren’t big on it. Protection rackets and petty thefts were easier, and for all their talk nobody wanted SWAT marching through the tunnels. It’d take a miracle for them to stumble across a victim but days to weeks of indiscriminate leg-breaking was bad for everyone.

“Kidnapping? Dude—”

“Relax, man. They just get dumped in some warehouse Upstairs. It ain’t no thing, there’s plenty of hidey-holes for us to duck into when things go tits-up.”

“How’s the boss like?”

“He’s crazy as fuck—”

“How many fucks we talkin’ about? One-night-stand-only crazy, or stick around for a few weeks ‘till you get bored crazy?”

“That’s a stupid-ass question,” the tough with the cigarette shrugged, then fished in his pocket to draw a semi-automatic pistol. It stood out a sharp black in the darkness, its sharpest edges reflecting the orange of the fire. “I stuck it out a week and got a free piece though.”

“Sold,” the skeptic laughed.

“ ’m in,” the third grunted.

“Where do I sign up?”

The thugs jerked, the armed one brandishing his piece while the others came up with more makeshift weapons—a length of chain and a bent pipe. Riot stepped closer, until the dim firelight began to illuminate his stained gray hoodie. He stood, hood pulled and hands in his pockets. It was a nonthreatening pose, in theory, but a concealed hand could hold a weapon even if that weapon couldn’t be fired with any accuracy. The first tough drew a bead, but seemed confident that the dozen feet between them would be protection enough. His friends stepped forward, about three feet apart as though they were football linebackers protecting a quarterback.

“Who wants to know?” the thug asked.

“I was just passing by when I heard you talking about a job,” Riot lied, taking another half-step forward and letting the fire illuminate him more clearly. “I like jobs.”

“Your name,” the thug replied, cocking his weapon in a wasteful and unnecessary motion he probably felt looked intimidating.

“Didn’t give it,” Riot replied. “You sure you want to point that at me? For all you know, I could be Unstoppable.”

“Unstoppable’s nine feet tall,” the gangster countered. “You ain’t that big.”

Riot grinned, his silvery teeth reflecting the firelight in a way his metal skin did not. “Maybe I’m only a little unstoppable.”

“Fuck you, man,” one of the man’s friends—the one with the chain—yelled. “Just waste him!”

The booming report of the pistol filled the tunnels, the sudden noise as loud and disorienting as the bright flash of waste gasses. A small-caliber copper-jacketed slug shattered on Riot’s sternum and another glanced from his shoulder. Then he was among them, not punching—just using his body as a battering ram, his outstretched arms sweeping the gang members he’d subconsciously named Chain and Pipe from their feet. Pipe lay still, clutching his ribs and made no attempt to stand. Chain rolled to his feet and ran.

Riot slapped the pistol from the first thug’s hand, trying to avoid doing any real damage though he was none too concerned about breaking bone. The man howled, clutching his broken fingers. Riot grabbed him by his cotton-candy colored Mohawk and drug him back upright. The surface of his inky black eyes glistened metallically as he leaned forward to stare into the speaker’s eyes. The man’s pale skin went white as though all his blood decided it had other, less dangerous places to be.

“Oh. Oh, shit. You’re Neon, aren’t you?”

Riot didn’t deny it, instead shaking the thug by his hair. He asked again, voice dripping with as much menace as he could manage, “Where do I sign up?”

((OoC: I can remove or modify this if the crazy of the week isn't hiring thugs, it just seems like a decent way to get Riot into the team. I do have a back-up plan if this doesn't work.))

[EikoMagami]

.

[Tanklet]

((Going to work the #returnthefavor angle))

Another typical day in the WADT newsroom; hectic as all get out. Keyboards tapped, various conversations from across the floor rose to a gigantic din of unintelligible noises. In the midst of it all Cassandra Alexis Blake continued staring at her screen of shifting images, in much the same position she'd been in for the past two and a half hours.

All of today's copy pieces were already set for production. By all rights, Cass should have just been walking through the door now, at 9AM but this story she'd been working on for the past two weeks just wasn't breaking. That bugged her.

It all started about a month ago, when a cell phone video hit youtube/facebook/twitter. That's when this particular hash tag craze began. People, from all walks of life, were popping up everywhere with it. The station wanted to know why. Somehow, it became Cassie's job to find the connection.

A mug of Dunkin Donuts French Vanilla coffee slid its way towards Cassie's left hand. If not for the heavenly aroma of that particular brew, Cassie would have had no idea that it's bearer, anchorman Paul Baylor, had been silently watching her for the past few minutes.

"You stare at the monitor any longer, and you're eyeballs are going to fall out," Paul cautioned warmly.

The man was a poster child for bi-polar. You never knew which Paul you were going to get, but as Cassie closed her eyes and inhaled more coffee aroma, she silently thanked her lucky stars that nice Paul showed up for work today.

"Anything yet on hash tag return the favor?" Paul almost regretted asking. Cassie looked like she'd been at it all night. If not for the fact that she was wearing different clothes than yesterday, he'd have given his suspicion deeper credence.

Cassie shook her head, swiveling in her chair to look up at Paul as she answered. First, she took a grateful sip of the coffee she desperately needed, "Nothing, and it's not like we're talking there's nothing to find. I'm getting the distinct impression it's protected."

Paul frowned, "Protected? What do you mean protected? How? Who? Why?"

Cassie almost smirked at the investigative journalist in Paul, but back to the matter at hand, "You know the alleged blue wall of silence? Like cops protecting cops. That's what this feels like."

At Paul still confused look, Cassie continued.

"I've sent no less than twenty PMs, at least ten on Facebook and the same amount on Twitter. Of those who chose to respond to me, each answer is similar. 'If you're asking about return the favor, you don't need to know about return the favor.' No other station has broken this hash tag. They're probably getting the same response I am."

Paul furrowed his brow in thought, "Then maybe we're talking some kind of cult."

Cassie shook her head, "I don't think so. I mean, look at some of these tweets; 'I'm alive because of you. Paying it forward. Return the favor.' Or this one 'Hugging my family extra close tonight. Maybe one day I'll find a way to return the favor.' There are hundred more just like it. Some even showed up attached to various charitable donations, but nothing connects these people. Cults would have some common string, and believe me I've been beating my head up against the wall trying to find something but there's nothing to find."

Paul didn't buy it, "There's always something to find. You want the connection? Return the favor is the connection, and we need to crack it before someone else does."

Just as Cass was about to turn around and get back to work, the scanners began to buzz. Police were at the scene of an alleged kidnapping. Paul and Cass exchanged knowing glances before racing out of the building to cover the scene.

((Feel free to lemme know if this works/doesn't work))

[EikoMagami]

.

[Visavis]

"211, repeat 211 in progress at Phoenix Rise Art Gallery on the corner of West 10th Street and North Madison Street. Description matches that of Jo--"

"Reports of a 459A, that's a 459A, on West 18th Street, address is--"

"Can I get a copy on that 288?"

The chatter from the radio scanner washed over Hypersonic. Or rather, went over his head. He felt it would be much more informative if they didn't insist on using code for most of what they did. Of course, they didn't do it for the benefit of people like him. He had only recently begun listening in, and so hadn't had much time to decipher the meaning behind the numbers they threw out. Still, he'd manage.

The night was still young. It was the most interesting part of the night, really, or perhaps just the part that he liked best. The sun had set enough to just leave a thin, orange cut on the horizon. On the narrow streets down below, however, night had already fallen, and the crowds made the streets feel alive.

"We have a 510 in progress, vehicle is heading south on North Market street."

-That's.. man, I don't got a clue where Market Street's at.-

So Hypersonic stood there, watching vehicles and the crowds go by down below in the city he'd only recently begun calling home. After spending the most significant parts of his life with the military, returning to civilian life had been surreal. He often wondered just how long it would take until he adjusted to everything. He'd found so far that it all just felt chaotic and yet somehow still boring. Like someone taking a brush and flinging paint haphazardly at a wall to color it, but the paint was all beige.

He paused.

-Nah. That's weird. Who'd do that?-

Beige paint brushes were cast from his mind. It was time he did something, or found something to do. So, after checking himself over to make sure everything on his red, black and white costume was secure and adjusting his goggles, he ran toward the edge of the ceiling and jumped. He fell a good hundred feet before finally directing his momentum in a less lethal direction. The wall on the other side quickly rushed forward to greet him, but a last second change left him ricocheting harmlessly and noiselessly away, over to the next building, and onward, down the street.

"We have a 415 at the Advent City Hospital. That was a 415, and possible 459--"

Advent City Hospital was familiar, at least. Even if Hypersonic didn't know what a 415 -was-, he could check it out. With that, he took off in the direction of the hospital. It was probably pointless. The police always had some of their people at the hospital. Still, he was bored enough, and it didn't take long to get there.

When he arrived, there were already a couple of police cars outside the main entrance, lights off, and two officers already on the move. The pair were near enough to the entry overhang that he could alight silently and listen in as they passed by.

"--going to check the north exit now. Security cameras caught him raiding the supplies and heading that way."

As the pair began to move, so too did Sean. It took him only a few seconds to reach the north side, where he watched from a ledge on the opposite side and saw.. nothing. At least for a few seconds. Then a guy dressed in a poorly made doctor's disguise slipped out of what looked to be a maintenance door. He was carrying a duffel bag. He took a couple of glances around, failed to look up toward Hypersonic's hiding spot, and started making his way down the street calmly, but briskly. About that time, the pair of officers that had been at the entryway appeared from one of the main doors, spotted the suspect, and began their chase.

The suspect took off, and Hypersonic followed at a distance. As the man rounded a corner, he tugged at the doctor's coat, stuffed it into the bag, and slipped on a pair of glasses. He had enough of a lead on the police, so he stopped by a different door with a row of bushes running parallel to the sidewalk, tossed the duffel bag behind the bushes, and pulled out his phone. It seemed like he was trying to look as though he had been there the whole time. As the police rounded the corner, the suspect was looking down the street in the other direction. The police neared, and the suspect looked their way.

"You looking for the guy who just ran by?" he asked loudly.

It seemed to Hypersonic that he sounded slightly out of breath, from his position in the parking garage overlooking the narrow street. As the police reached the man, they looked at each other.

"Nice try."

The suspect tried to slip away, but with the police already facing him down, he didn’t get far before they had him by the arms. In the scuffle, the phone the suspect had been holding was tossed into the bushes. He was nearly on the ground when he managed to kick the leg out from under one officer and elbow the other in the nose. The suspect scampered away. After taking a moment to recover, the officer who had been struck in the face pulled out a radio to call other officers while resuming his chase of the suspect. A second more, and the second officer began hobbling after them both.

-Huh.-

The suspect would have been easy for Hypersonic to take out, but it would have been overkill, really, and the police were already in pursuit. No need to give himself away. The stuff the suspect had dropped, though..

Nobody else was around at the moment, so Hypersonic leapt. A little added momentum carried him the whole distance to the wall of the hospital, then he dropped the rest of the way down, light as a feather. The duffel bag was easy to find. Opening it a bit, he found syringes, IVs, anesthetic, and various other drugs. Not surprising stuff, coming from a hospital. The phone was nowhere to be seen.. at least until it suddenly dinged, lighting up its screen within the bushes. Hypersonic fished it out and found a somewhat worn looking smartphone. On the screen was a text message asking, ‘Drop off for the doc soon u got his stuff??’

-This shit’s for a doctor? Why don't he got his own stuff?-

The police were, presumably, off handling the suspect, but there was no reason to dawdle. The text message was interesting, but Hypersonic also figured that taking the phone would just be taking evidence out of police hands. Not the best idea. Fortunately, he was no scrub. From his belt came a small device that could have been mistaken for a useless rectangular piece of plastic. Upon holding it up to the phone, small blue lights appeared just beneath its surface, turning on one by one until they made a complete circle. The download was complete.

Hypersonic tossed the phone into the duffel bag and put the device back in his belt. Another glance around told him that yes, he was still alone. ..Except for the security camera staring down at him.

-Fuck.-

A quick double-jump, and he was on his way out of there. He should have noticed the camera earlier. The mask he wore would hopefully be enough to prevent any identification. He sighed internally. At least he had managed to copy everything on the phone. Once he was back home at his computer, he would really be able to see what he had found.

[EikoMagami]

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