SOMEWHERE IN CHICAGO
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2016
6:10 PM

“. . .in other news, Chicagoans, you'd better bring an umbrella if you plan on going out tonight. We're looking at moderate to heavy rain lasting well into the morning, with possible lightning and south-southwest wind gusts up to 20 MPH. Expect reduced visibility, so be careful out there on the roads. Renee?”

“Thanks, Chuck.” The news anchor grinned into the camera, her photogenic face filling the screen on one of the monitors in the cramped space. Men and women worked at desks and tables, keeping an eye on other monitors or speaking into headsets with low, urgent voices. All were dressed in gray and black fatigues. Urban camouflage, perfect for Chicago at night. Especially in the rain. Outside, the last of the sun slipped below the horizon. Seated in the center of the room, by himself at a desk, a man was not busy with an assigned task. Instead he hunched forwards, feeling his age in his back as he painstakingly cleaned an old but well-used Smith and Wesson Model 15 revolver.

“In other news, the anti-vigilante group known as The Iconoclasts has announced intentions to operate here in the city of Chicago,” the smiling anchor went on. The older man briefly looked up from assembling his revolver, motioned for one of his subordinates to turn up the volume before looking back down at his task.

“Responsible for the deaths of a total of 37 vigilantes, including twelve in Memphis last week, the origin or motivations of this group remains unknown. We spoke with the head of the CPD Vigilante Task Force, Vaughn Czarny.”

The image shifted to a thirtyish, well-built man in a cheap suit. A subtitle identified him as Lieutenant Vaughn Czarny, VTF Leader. “The Police Department is still the law in Chicago,” Czarny said flatly in his Polish Downtown accent. “Vigilantes still are not welcome in this city. However, neither are murderers.”

The image shifted back to the newsroom as the man inspected his handiwork. Satisfied, he began to slowly load .38 rounds into his revolver. “Any civilians who see a vigilante are urged to avoid them and immediately dial 911. Anyone with information on any vigilantes or The Iconoclasts are urged to contact the VTF at the direct number listed below,” the anchor said. With that, the attention shifted to sports- the Bears had played the Jaguars earlier today. Interest lost, the older man focused entirely on his handgun. Satisfied by his work, he slipped the revolver into the holster on his belt. He stood, slowly. All the talking and movement in the room suddenly died, as the men and women in fatigues stopped what they were doing and looked expectantly at their leader.

He cleared his throat delicately. “Begin,” he said simply, and sat back down in his chair without another word.

The activity resumed and doubled, messages sent to all over the city. A song began to play over the encrypted radio net: No More Heroes, by The Stranglers. Music to pump them up.

All over Chicago, weapons were checked one last time, face-concealing welding helmets put on over heads, cars started. Dozens of drones rose into the misty air, their tiny but powerful motors struggling against the rain. Vehicles of every shape and sized moved out on patrol, ready to respond at the first sighting.

The Iconoclasts were on the move.

FULLER PARK
6:26 PM

They called Fuller Park the worst neighborhood in all of Chicago. The corner liquor store exploding probably would not change any minds on that point.

“This city is diseased! A cancer eats away at it!” the man raved as he pulled yet another bomb from out of the satchel hanging at his hip. Aside from the cloth mask, he was dressed like something from a bygone era- a brown tweed seat and an old-fashioned derby hat. That hat, and his proclivity for explosives, were why they called him Demolition Derby. Even vigilante fanboys admitted that he did far more harm than good.

“Neighborhoods like this are the worst tumors!” he yelled in the middle of the empty street, rainwater running off the brim of his hat. Onlookers had wisely decided to flee from the madman, who now seemed to be giving his speech to empty air. “Cradles of filth and pestilence, breeding grounds for crime and poverty! Bastions of filthy immigrants! These neighborhoods must be destroyed!” With that, Demolition Derby hurled a block of plastic explosive into the window of a rusting abandoned car with his free hand- his left tightly clutched something small.

Seconds later, the timer ran down and the car exploded in a fireball, showering shrapnel all over the street. “Come for me, Iconoclasts!” the bomber ranted, fishing in his bag for more explosives. “If I am fated to die by your hands, so be it! But I will see my work begun first! Chicago shall be cleansed by fire!”

Luckily, no one had been killed yet. But if Demolition Derby was left unchecked it was only a matter of time.

CHINATOWN, CHICAGO
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2016
6:10 PM



Friday night. At some point in my youth I was programmed to believe that this night, out of all of the nights of the week, was the greatest of nights—excluding the night before Christmas or New Year, or the night of Thanksgiving where we all gathered in the family’s car after overeating to engage in a binge of consumerism and herd mentality, ready to pop some bitch in the mouth over a Wii. Teenage pop stars sing songs written by forty-year-old white dudes about how great it is that it’s Friday night. For people my age, Friday night’s the night to go to some party full of people you don’t really like and listen to those aforementioned shitty songs turned up way too loud so you don’t have to realize that nobody actually has anything to talk about and they’re all just regurgitating some bullshit they saw on Reddit. Meanwhile, the whole time you’re drinking cheap light beer and vodka that comes in plastic bottles with the hope that by the end of the night you’ll lose enough of your self-conscious or your self-respect to makeout with somebody you’re not really attracted to and maybe get to third base before one of you throws up, pisses themselves, and ruins the mood.

Of course, for me it means delivering Chinese food to the losers who stay home on a Friday night. Families who don’t want to subject waitresses to the abject horror that is their young children. Fratty dudes who’d rather play video games then put up with the ten dollar parking just so they can spend another fistful of cash buying drinks for women who will ultimately go home with some other douchebag. Old widowers who answer their door in various stages of undress that nobody deserves to witness. The losers who don’t get invited to the parties. Losers like me, although I’d never be caught dead at one of those parties anyway. Still, I’d rather be in my room reading a book or finding an all-ages show that I can ride my bike to than delivering Kung Pao Chicken to delightful people that think the delivery fee covers the need to give me a tip.

I complain, but in actuality the worst part of the job is how slow it was. As it turns out, a Chinese restaurant run by a Polish chef who got fired from every kitchen he ever worked in just wasn’t that popular in Chinatown. Mostly it’s because the food was absolute garbage, but it didn’t help that the store looked like a complete shithole. The restaurant has the aesthetic and feel of a laundromat, between its buzzing fluorescent lights, its stark white walls, and even its old arcade machine that no longer works. There are a few tables, hardly more than cheap card tables with folding chairs, but even with less than ten spots to sit it’s an unrealistically optimistic setup. A small tube television hung on the wall, and a spider had taken to using the antenna as a support beam when building its house. There’s a red door that leads to the kitchen behind a sparse counter and underneath a sign with sad, sad pictures of the menu, although I completely refused to go beyond the door out of fear of black mold. Usually my shifts consisted of me sitting in an uncomfortable, plastic chair while thumbing through my phone and pretending to be texting somebody important, trying to avoid having any conversations with my uncle, the aforementioned “chef”.

Tonight was no different. Well, except for the fact that I might die tonight—but even I didn’t know that as I peered over the screen of my obsolete smartphone at the subtitled news broadcast. I saw the word “Iconoclasts” and I tensed up. I hated myself for reacting like that, because for the last week I had been jumping at the very mention of their name like a crackhead who heard sirens. I thought about running away when I first heard them announce my hometown as their next target—yeah, for two whole fucking seconds before I shoved that idea out the window. But it bothered me that I had the thought it in the first place. Turning and running, putting my brother in danger, yeah right. I shook my head and smiled as the news report shifted over to the world of sports. Part of me hoped that the Iconoclasts striked tonight. If they did, I’d put them in their place and light up the damn sky like it was the Fourth of fucking July.

A strangely wet plastic bag radiating a rather lethal smell plopped down in my lap. Man, I really, really hoped tonight was the night—anything was better than working, especially working a job that made me bike a forty minute round trip to Fuller Park for a ten dollar ticket. Still, it was better than spending the rest of my life stuck in that uncomfortable chair. I zipped up my hoodie and grabbed my backpack from underneath the table. Throwing it over my shoulder, I picked my bicycle up from where it leaned against the wall and wheeled it outside where, of course, it was raining and already getting dark. I nearly threw my back out with a sigh as I uncaringly dropped the plastic bag in the bike’s basket and jumped on, spinning my way through the emptying Chinatown streets.

Fuck Friday nights.

FULLER PARK
6:27 PM



They had intended to ignore it at first when they overheard their scanner make mention of an armed vigilante in Fuller Park. After all, what purpose did Flare have dealing with other vigilantes? True, they didn’t like how some of their contemporaries deemed they were justified in their murders, but as long as they didn’t harm any innocents then Flare could shrug it off as a necessary evil. Besides, only an idiot would want someone like that lunatic, redneck trucker or the creep with the fetish for genital mutilation on their back. There was an unwritten rule in the vigilante community: don’t fuck with me, I don’t fuck with you. Unfortunately, there was a second unwritten rule, a sort of exemption clause. The way Flare saw it, vigilantes who harmed innocents were just criminals wearing stupid costumes. No exceptions. Plus, assholes like that gave the rest of vigilantes that tried to do some actual good a bad rap.

So, Flare dumped the sack of food into a trash can; somebody would be going hungry tonight, but at least they’d have a home to be hungry in. Already, while dressed as a civvie, the vigilante had been passed by enough running people to know that the situation was bad. When they not only heard but felt the explosion that rocked through the neighborhood they had veered their bike into an alley, unlocked and unzipped their backpack, and quickly upgraded their already dark outfit with a tactical vest and a black airsoft mask. Snapping on gloves, Flare flipped their phone off and stashed it in their backpack, securing the bag to their bike and chaining that through a loop on the green dumpster. The last thing the vigilante wanted to do while fighting crime was become a victim of a crime of opportunity.

Sticking to the service alleys and side roads, Flare made their way towards the explosions as the blackened sky above threatened to flood the whole city and sink it into Lake Michigan—all things considered, a small improvement. The only sound they made were the quiet splashes of their feet in the water pooling in the divots and potholes as they sprinted past gray cans overflowing with loose trash and cardboard shelters slowly being demolished by the rain. There was enough light out still that Flare could see black smoke rising over the low rooftops, adding itself into the swirl of storm clouds above. Squeezing between two old and vandalized buildings, Flare could feel burning alcohol vapors sting their eyes and choke their throat as they approached the street. They could see the pyre now as it roared with an unnerving ferocity, the cool rain waters doing little to quell its fury as it licked at the edges of a neighboring building.

The inferno was almost as loud as the asshole throwing all the goddamn bombs and yelling into the void like a doomsday preacher.

One week and a hundred and forty-something years ago, the Great Chicago Fire was allegedly started by some old lady’s cow kicking over a lantern in some barn. Or maybe it was a bunch of gamblers. Hell, Flare didn’t care how it was really started. They just knew that three hundred people died because nobody reacted fast enough to the crisis, thinking that surely someone else would be their with a bucket of water to put out the blaze. Well, that, and back then everything was made out of kindling, so they were kind of screwed in the first place. Regardless, Flare wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if they let someone as idiotic, careless, and racist as Demolition fucking Derby wipe out an entire neighborhood and go down in history as the starter of the Second, Slightly Shittier Chicago Fire.

Still, even though Demoliton Derby was never the most stable of vigilantes, it disturbed Flare how he had been driven by the threat of the Iconoclasts to act so irrational. The threat had already come little more than a week ago, and already Flare had seen plenty of evidence that their words had affected the city and its vigilantes. Namely, the amount of crimes that went unpunished had risen in the past few days, and the amount of reports about vigilante activity in the area had fallen. It seemed to Flare that the only vigilantes left in the city were like Demolition Derby, absolutely crazy and showing it, or like themself, also crazy but better at hiding it. Flare pitied the man almost as much as they hated him—both of Flare’s parents had been filthy immigrants after all, and their cheeks burned with a heat that wasn’t from the nearby blaze. Still, he was just misguided, little different than the gangbangers that he believed he was throwing bombs at. Regardless, they had to stop him before he hurted someone, even if that meant crippling him.

Unfortunately, anger and a loose sense of justice weren’t enough to stop a mad bomber that casually lobbed bombs like they were delivering papers while screaming challenges that echoed off of the emptied streets. Normally, Flare would take their time stalking their target, engaging them only when they knew that they were alone and lulled into a false sense of security; with Demolition Derby, every passing second was enough time for him to destroy somebody’s livelihood if not their life. Also, normally their targets were armed with at most a glock and the delusion that having a positive kill-death ratio in Call of Duty meant they knew how to actually shoot a real gun. With the way Demolition Derby was acting, it wouldn’t shock Flare if he took a play out of the “filthy immigrants” book that he so hated and wore a special vest set to explode himself and half of the block underneath his ugly suit. If Flare had to get close, it could get ugly for them.

And to make matters worse, Flare had to get close. Even with their fancy pepper spray gun, their mace only had a range of about twenty five feet while their taser shot only about fifteen feet. Flare didn’t know much about explosives, but they assumed that was too close for comfort. If it was a summer blockbuster, Flare could pull out their orange flare gun, step into the streets like some dueling cowboy, and hit Demolition Derby in just the right spot to trigger a chain reaction of explosions that’d even make Michael Bay call bullshit. Of course, in reality that’d be next to impossible. The flare would corkscrew past Derby’s stupid little hat and smash into somebody’s window, where it’d probably start a fire and put Derby one step closer to purging the entire city. Flare should’ve just kept one of those stolen guns they lifted from dealers instead of tossing them off of the pier in a fruitless, one-person attempt to disarm the city.

Fuck it, let’s wing it. Probably the last thought of every vigilante ever, excluding I can make that jump.

Checking to make sure that no other idiots were in the streets, Flare stepped out of the alley and crouched behind a stoop. They estimated that Derby was about a hundred paces away; that gave Flare plenty of steps to fuck up and make enough noise so that Derby could turn around and spot them. It also gave them enough steps to realize what a terrible idea this had been and turn back, leaving Derby up to the SWAT or any vigilantes that were more qualified for the job (which was most of them). More than anything, though, it gave Flare plenty of time to get hyped. Adrenaline coursed through their body and the sound of their quickened heart beat in their ear as they pulled out their switchblade, quietly dashing behind a large blue mailbox. They had never taken out a terrorist before. Beneath the mask, Flare smirked. No matter what happened, it’d be a blast.

Chicago. A city made by the night and shaped by the culture. It was a jungle of cement and steel, bent and twisted by time. Heroes were remembered well, but it was the legends who remained immortal, shaping history in the form of tattooed names on walls and whispers in the backstreets of shady lots. Its heart was the people. Its blood was the streets. It was dark and untamable, with the attitude of a boxer in it for his final fight. No care. No fear. Only a deep, primal hunger burning a wildfire of hardcore passion. The streets were gritty. The system was tainted. Bad ruled over good, and over them all conquered the worse. It had its own people, it's own rules. You either went with it, or get caught in the current and drown. Chicago was harsh. But it was also home.

Blue. Violet. Red. Maybe a hint of yellow, but not too much. Just enough. Gentle curves, swaying hips. Full breasts full out in display alongside beckoning hands. Sexy. Seductive. Deadly beautiful. And, atop it all, grinning wide with her knowing smile, the woman's skull, dark and longing. Death and beauty. Thorns and roses. The Bella Donna. An Italian name. Or maybe French? It was hard to remember. Beautiful, it meant. Poisonous, it was. Small, deadly berries the color of midnight. A harsh truth wrapped in gentle lies.

The Toy King stared up at the woman with the skeletal grin. Posed with class, forever beckoning at the city from within the confines of her cement prison. Or at least until some asshole painted over her. Then the cycle of paint and erase, create and destroy, would start once more, ending when the whole building would be torn down. Hopefully it'd be a while before that happened. The mural had taken a week or so to finish. Between ditching passing cops and screwing over rich assholes, it was a surprise it was even done in the first place.

But there she was. The Bella Donna. Exposed to the city in all her blue, naked glory. The King stared, gloved fingers tapping on the spray can's nozzle as they surveyed their work. Not bad. Not bad at all. After a moment's pause, they tagged it--a black crown with 'TOY' hastily scribbled in the center. The ink bled, mixing and blending before dripping down to dry.

Then, without another word, the Toy King turned and walked away, returning to the blitz of nrgjt lights and the shadows that flickered between them.

---

---

It was the line of police cars that told the Toy King that something was wrong. It was the explosion that confirmed where it was.

The sky was dark, smudges of grey blossoming amongst the stark dark. The moon and stars had disappeared behind their bed of clouds, yet the city remained lit with headlights and streetlamps. The taste of electricity tingled in the air--a herald to the coming storm. The light mist was growing stronger by the minute. Soon it's be a complete downpour, drenching the unfortunate souls who'd dared to go out.

Toy King perched at the edge of the apartment roof, the ground a mere ten stories below. A perilous fall, but a bland observance to one so used to heights. Their dark eyes followed the flash of red and blues, and the blaring squeal of the sirens. They were close. Dangerously so. It wasn't the cops the King was afraid of. Those were easily avoided if one took the right precautions. Rather, it was what they were driving towards. Something was happening. Something big and bad, and the King wanted nothing to do with it. This wasn't their turf. They did corrupt bosses and lying politicians. Not this. Not terrorists or psycos or whatever the hell was going on over there. This wasn't them.

Another explosion shook the sky. For a moment, the sky shone a hellish red, fading into remnants of a black cherry horizon. More cops and even a SWAT van were already making their move. The King stared at them, still enough that they seemed to be an out of place gargoyle poised in stone. Then, with a reluctant sigh hissed from behind their black mask, they rose up and stood. This wasn't their turf...but it was still their job.

Navigating their way through the city was easy enough. The secret pathways of close gapped jumps, fire escapes, and wire posts were familiar to the King. The sirens blared far ahead, showing them where to go. The journey was easy enough, save for a minor slip or too. Toy King reached the scene of destruction in good time. The streets were empty while a building burned brightly despite the heavy rain. In the center of it all, Demolition Derby. For a moment, King thought they were an extra helping hand. Another vig to take down whatever the hell was going on. The exploding car was enough to change their mind.

They shouldn't have been this surprised. In fact, they weren't. The King hadn't personally met Derby--they made it a general rule to distance themselves from other vigilantes. Best avoid rivalries or troublesome partners when possible--but any news story mentioning the guy involved a gruesome body count, not always at the villain's choice. Not the most stable person, but this was just going too far.

Toy King shifted their position and narrowed their eyes. The roof was a good lookout spot. It was away from Derby's eyes, and the shadows offered better coverage. It was far from the destruction, unless the idiot was planning on throwing a bomb the King's way, which they doubted. The spot also provided a good bird's eye view of the situation. They saw the madman in al his rambling glory, the quickly spreading flames, and what the hell was that person doing.

There, crouched be hung a mailbox away from Derby's line of sight, was a figure clad in black. A vigilante, by the look of their attire. Clutched tightly in their hand was...a pocketknife? Toy King blinked hard. No, they couldn't be that stupid. It could be a gun, or a grenade, or nope they were definitely that stupid.

They shook their head and focused back onto Derby. The guy had explosives. The King had spiky pipes. They paused for a moment and stared at their choice of offense. Explosions. Pipes. Explosions. Pipes. Suddenly, the kid's switchblade seemed less funny. At least they could afford to cut someone up. Still, there had to be at least some way of getting to Derby. Their gaze traveled to the satchel. There. The explosives. All of them seemed to be stored in the bag. That gave them several options. One, they could try to run in and separate the two. Lessen his supply. Two, they could try to find a way to blow the bag up. Not the most ideal choice, as it involved too much destruction and death. Separating, however, would require actual confrontation. And considering that running full speed at the bastard wasn't exactly ideal, confrontation was the last thing they wanted. Dammit. There were too many risks. Too much to lose. Which left them with option three. The King headed for the nearest way down, a handy little fire escape nestled within the side of the building. It was time to just go in and hope for the best.

Oct. 14, 2016 | 6:10PM | Marigold Apartments, Central Chicago, IL

"I know man, I just... I can't come out tonight, alright?"

The young man fumbled with the keys to his apartment's door, shoving the door open with a sigh. The place was dreary, looking like a damn disaster zone. Trash was all over the floor, ranging from a gallery of hard liquor bottles to pizza boxes to even more bottles, the labels faded to the point of uselessness. The furniture didn't fare much better either - The most expensive thing in the room was probably the smartphone pressed up against his ear. He made his way in, grabbing a remote off his coffee table and flicking on the news.

"Come on..." The voice on the other end started, "It's just a couple drinks. Some pool. We never see you anymore!"

The man sighed as he plopped down on his discount sofa, shaking his head. He was half-tempted to just hang up at this point, though he stayed on the line as he went and grabbed a baseball bat resting beside the door, fumbling with an odd mess of wires and electronics near the cap of the handle.

"Look," said the man, irritation barely masked, "I'm busy tonight. It's really important. It's for, uh... School. Or something. Whatever. Just go out and have a good night without me."

"Jesus, we haven't seen you for more than five minutes since what happened with Vicky! You think she'd want you wasting your night away by yourself?"

The fuck did you just say about her?

He paused, gritting in his teeth in frustration. He opened his mouth to start on a whole new kind of rant, when he heard the muffled boom outside of his window. He paused, getting up and rushing over, looking as well as he could over the crowded skyline. Smoke plumes. Not a short walk but maybe he could make it before the pigs did.

"Shit, ah, Mark, I'll talk to you later. Bye." He hung up without waiting for a response, slipping his phone into his back pocket. There would be time to clean up street thugs later, this looked like one hell of a thrill.

He grabbed his bag and bat and rushed for the door, the TV's news of the militant group known as the Iconoclasts falling on deaf ears.

---

Oct. 14, 2106 | 6:20 | Fuller Park, Chicago
Arc

His bat rested on his shoulder as he sprinted through the alleyways towards Fuller. He knew the place. He patrolled there often. Never had to deal with explosions, though, usually just idiot thugs and teenage 'gangs'. Something must be going on tonight.

Arc stopped in an alleyway, taking a moment to catch his breath. Despite the nights of ass-whooping and staring death in the eye, his cardio was still garbage. But he would never admit that. Instead, he told himself he wanted to get ready. He knelt down beside the wall as his breathing leveled out, pulling his shoulder-bag off and digging inside. Not long after a black bandanna was tied firmly around his face and the hood of his ratty red sweatshirt was up.

He pulled a couple of 9-Volts from the base of the bag, propping his bat up against the wall and doing what he could to shield the electronics from the rain. It was pretty sturdy stuff, wouldn't short out or anything, but he'd visited the nurses with more than a couple of electrical burns before. He'd really just prefer to avoid that tonight. He slipped the batteries into the device, and a red LED on the side beside a switch flickered on. It was ready. He pulled his goggles from his bag, zipped it up and strapped them on before he broke out into a run again.

The shouting and the booms were getting closer, and while he wasn't completely sure he swore he heard sirens in the distance. But he didn't have time to worry about that now. He'd escaped the cops before, more than once. He just needed to get there before them. He didn't trust them to deal with the situation, least of all if explosions were involved. They'd probably try to take him in, and he'd end up pulling some other kind of stunt and blow up a bunch of coppers too.

Or worse, they'd take him to the hospital, and he'd...

Shut up. No time to worry about that. Focus on the task at hand.

His thoughts wrestled as he emerged in the street at Fuller Park. He knew the neighborhood looked like shit, but woof. Shrapnel in the street, cars on fire, innocents begging in the streets... It'd seen better days, and that was saying something. Arc proceeded forward, walking past a woman crying on the ground. She grabbed at his leg, begging for help, but he paid no mind, simply shaking her off and proceeding forward. He needed to focus. She could leave on her own time. Then, he spotted them.

The man stood in the street, and Arc recognized him almost instant. Derby. He'd seen him on the news once or twice. And boy did he hate him. The guy was a total nutcase, blurring the line between fighting for justice and just getting your rocks off killing people.

Sounds familiar...

"Shut up..." Arc muttered. No time for doubts right now. This guy was a problem. Arc flipped the switch on his bat, the red light blinking out in favor of a green one. Primed. The batteries only were good for one good hit though, so he needed to be sure. He scanned the street quickly. There was a lot of ground to cover and charging at a guy with 'Demolition' in his name wasn't the brightest idea.

Maybe it's time to walk away. Or at least come up with a plan.

He squinted forward, reaching up to move his goggles. He was in plain sight. The only reason Derby wasn't coming after him yet was likely because there were much better things to blow up nearby... Nearby... Hm?

Arc's eyes spotted some shadows across from him, on the other side of Derby. Two? Three? Maybe his eyes were playing tricks. Then again... Could be more vigs, or- Better yet, maybe the people Derby was after. They were probably facing a similar dilemma. Which meant maybe Arc could work something out.

Alright. I have a plan.

This isn't a plan, it's suicide. You're taking a huge chance with your life here.

It'll be fine. Just watch.

A distraction. The enemy of my enemy. There was no way Arc could close the distance in time to get a hit in before he got blown up. Derby had good control of the field. But at this distance... Maybe Arc could get away before any explosions hit. I mean, they were explosions so of course this was fucking nuts, but he had a better chance of getting to cover the further away Derby was. If he was right he might be able to pull Derby away from the scene to somewhere more convenient where he could get the upper hand. If he was wrong, well... He prayed that those shadows weren't just cowardly innocents.

"Hey, sweetheart," Arc said to the woman at his feet, hefting his bat up. "If you don't want to end up as paste on street, you might wanna get going. Things are about to get busy." The woman stared a moment before scurrying away, terrified. Arc barely noticed. His blood was pumping. Adrenaline filled his veins and sent all kinds of pleasure up to his brain. What a goddamn thrill. He put his fingers underneath his bandanna and let out an almighty whistle, taking a few measured steps towards Derby.

"Hey Derby!" He shouted, hefting his bat up. He was half poised to run, half about to fall down from fear. But he pushed on. "Your momma pick your clothes out this morning? Figured she'd be too busy to dress you after fuckin' every foreigner this side of Chicago last night!"

This is nuts. This is stupid. I'm going to die.

If you keep worrying you will. Focus. Things are getting exciting.

ABANDONED SANDLOT
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2016
6:25 PM

Halfway through polishing off her third sixteen ounce hard rootbeer (she hated real beer but could never get enough hard soda) a slight tremor rocked the poorly maintained dirt baseball diamond Slugger found herself sitting atop-she simply wrote it off, to caught up in the ongoing storm. Rather than being bothered by the rain hammering down on her she had actually seemed to to be enjoying the show mothernature was putting on for her. She'd been pondering the idea of simply staying here and enjoying the storm for the rest of the night-maybe polish off the rest of her six pack and smoke some grass in the old grafitti riddled concrete dugouts of the abandoned sandlot. Before she was able to complete her train of thought the somewhat serene scene was ruined by yet another slight tremor, one that was quickly followed by a second....and then another. The ground shook gently enough that Slugger felt rather confident that she was ok-whatever was making these manmade tremors was a safe distance from her.

Atleast for now.

Standing up to her fully less than intimidating size of about 5'8” Slugger began to beat away at the brown dirt and mud clinging too her red pinstriped uniform-an act honestly done more out of habit than anything else. Prioritizing she first gathered up all her empty alcoholic beverages and then went about crushing each can in a rather satisfying way before tossing them all into the closest trash can (which had been located in the nearest dugout.) Quickly makeing her way back to “home plate” she was glad to find that she was indeed sporting a decent buzz despite the events now unfolding. It was a state that she thought mixed well with the adrenaline rushes she'd almost become likewise addicted to at this point in her life.

She'd deny it if asked outright but lately Slugger had fallen into a bit of a habit when it came to what she deemed as“patrol nights.”
These aptly named nights, which were originally meant to almost be a sort of break for Slugger while giving her an excuse to flex her muscle and put the scare into low level criminals without any real effort. Tonight had been like many patrol nights before-she'd first set out fully masked in an attempt to genuinely make the streets a safer place for everyone by randomly patrolling parks tonight. It was an honest attempt that had somehow failed yet again while passing Ricos Liquor Store. Somewhere between polishing off her second and third hard soda the practice of “patrol” had devolved into more of a “hunt” for criminals. The once genuinely honest and reasonable practice was now just an excuse to drink, snort, and smoke just about whatever she could get her hands on before turning her attention to some legal punching bags.

In an effort to push away the inconceivable realization the she herself had slowly started to become what she fought against she did her best to turn her full attention to the full body uniform she wore. It may have been a basic look, just white pants and a shirt with red pinstripes along with a pair of black fingerless leather gloves that matched both the beat up black helmet atop her head and the modified cleats on her feet.

In her opinion though it was the best outfit she owned.

Mutch like tonight she always seemed to eventually find herself to a baseballfield in one way or another-whether that meant breaking into Wrigley Field or simply drinking a hard soda or two over an unnamed sandlot like the one she sat in tonight didn't matter. There was just something about being surrounded by that dirt and chalk, the fresh cut-

-Another explosion, rather closer this time, rocked Slugger in her place, before she knew it she was checking to make sure her secondary weapon was at the ready. She was extremely satisfied as her fingers rested on the conveniently jerry rigged weapon strapped to her back with nothing more than the combination of simple clothe (that had been tied to the base of the bat) and a hefty metal doughnut (that was likewise tied to the cloth)-the whole contraption working in a rather simple fashion: as the doughnut slid onto the bat it created its own self tightening harness that doubled as a flail of sorts whenever the doughnut was knocked loose from the little league bat.

Not breaking from tradition though the main weapon she clutched at her side with a vice like grip was still her same old infamous Louisville Slugger, although a keene eye or two would also notice the baseball at the ready in her right hand-a small round object she could throw with unnerving accuracy.

Like a mad woman she ran towards the commotion. Even if she couldn't "help" the whole thing was sounding like one hell of a show.

CHICAGO SIDEWALK
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 14TH, 2016
6:19 PM

"And make sure you put plenty of relish on that thing! I need my relish bad, man." A gruff sounding individual barked at a nervous, simple hot dog vendor, couldn't have been older than 20 with his bowl cut hair, stained apron and nervous demeanour, standing on the sidewalk of some street in Chicago. Neither of them knew the name, it wasn't exactly important to either of them. What WAS important, was this large man was purchasing a hot dog, plenty of ketchup, plenty of mustard and plenty of relish. The meat was buried under a rich encompassing sea of toppings, that to your average man, would seem excessive. But to this stout customer, this was the PERFECT way to make a hot dog and he would have it no other way.

"That'll be $4, sir." the vendor replied as the large man dug into a pocket on his jeans and dropped some change into his hands, a dollar over for that as he took his hot dog in the itty bitty napkin that could barely hold the over sized snack and quickly turned to go on his way with a satisfied grin on his face. As he left, the vendor called to him from down the street. "Hey, excuse me! You gave me extra!" He insisted, waving a hand with the $5 bill in it.

"Bah, keep it! I don't need it anyhow!" The large man insisted, not breaking stride for a second and simply waving a hand behind him as he went on his merry way, shoveling his well earned treat into his jaws and munching away noisily. To anyone who passed him, the man was somewhat slovenly, eating with no form of manners or etiquette, walking casually by as if he were doing nothing wrong. But considering the guy looked like a strange cross between a lumberjack and a construction worker, no-one was exactly going to call him out on it. That would just be plain rude.

SOME ALLEYWAY
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 14TH, 2016
6:30 PM

Big Rig was sitting back in his comfy truck cabin, settling in for the long haul of the night on the comfy leather seats. He'd had a lot of time to grow into these things and boy had it been worth it, now they practically felt like a second skin to him. He tossed the dirtied napkin he'd been using to carry his hotdog earlier out the window, carelessly polluting. It WAS just one little napkin after all, he figured, who would notice? More to the point, who the hell would try to call him out on it? He'd beat the crap out of someone if they went on at him for that stupid little detail.

He'd been in need of something to eat all day and the hot dog had been perfect. Since he'd returned to his vehicle, he'd put back on his usual attire for when he was doing his secondary job, his welder's jacket and gloves, plus his helmet over his face. It wasn't a massively comfortable article of clothing to wear, but he needed to keep his identity a secret after all. Couldn't have no policing types showing up on his doorstep one day and hauling his precious machine away to be scrapped. It'd be a cold day in hell before that ever happened...

He'd parked his machine in an alleyway, dark and quiet, two large buildings rising overhead, casting an effective shadow over him, with only the light of the cabin even indicating someone was there. Just one of the many advantages of working the streets in a vehicle, he thought to himself with a smile. You learned the roads, you learned the back alleys, you learned the parks, you learned every little shortcut and path you needed to out drive anybody. So now, here he sat, awaiting any possibly calls or situations he could make himself useful in. He had no main targets as of tonight, no big gang he needed to blow away. Plus, it was too early to be patrolling properly. His truck stuck out like a chocolate bar in a swimming pool and even if he COULD lose the cops, he didn't want to be doing it constantly... no, better to bide his time and strike when he needed to.

Of course, he had other tools to use for such situations. A stolen police radio sat in the front of his truck, tuned into the right frequency thanks to a fellow gear head down at the junkyard he'd gotten friendly with when he was looking for spare parts for his rigorous motor. So now, it was usually a matter of finding some situation the cops couldn't handle for shit, charging in there like the hero he was and wrecking whatever needed wrecking. It didn't matter who was doing what, nothing could stop this veritable tank he was driving around.

In the back of his head, something was tickling at him though. He thought it was just some hair caught in his welding mask at first, but he knew this tickle was coming from within. That name he'd heard over the radio... Iconoclasts. He'd seen the reports occasionally on TV, bunch of thugs who went from city to city, taking out vigilantes. Not even comitting other crimes or doing any other shit, literally just gunning for people trying to make a difference. To Big Rig, they were a bunch of show off pissants who just wanted some time in the limelight. If they were regular old crooks, they'd be doing other shit than gunning for his type. Nah they just wanted the glory of it, to say they did it and gloat about it like the bunch of fatheaded pigs he suspected they were. Rank amateurs, the lot of them. He gripped the wheel a little tighter just thinking about the bunch of pansies... what he'd give to run them off the road and give them a little taste of Chicagoan motor based fury. He'd shove a tire iron so far up their asses they'd need to-

His train of thought derailed into a screeching halt when he heard something going on nearby. Sounded big, like an explosion... that and, the flower of flame erupting into the air tipped him off just a little bit. This wasn't usually his style... but, he decided he'd get out to investigate first. When explosions were happening, you looked before you drove. So, he dropped out of the cabin and headed out of the alley to take a peek at what was going on. And what he saw was one of his kind lobbing bombs everywhere like some kind of maniac... yyyyep, this had all the hallmarks of a 'Not my problem' situation, as Big Rig would refer to them. As much as he would've loved to run down this moron like roadkill, bombs and vehicles did not mix. He didn't want to have to spend another month or so looking for parts in the junkyard because of this jackass flinging explosives everywhere, and at his truck if he tried to go after him. So, scratching his neck slightly, he promptly turned around and headed back to his truck, climbing back into the driver's seat and just waiting for it to blow over.

Hell, this city was crawling with vigilantes, one of them would get to it eventually...

Now, would he listen to rock or country western for the next hour or so? Decisions decisions...

Rush University Medical Center
Friday, October 14th
6:06 PM

Chicago, a beautiful place but a dangerous one to live in. The crime rate here is significantly higher then the US average. Still it was nothing compared to cities like Detroit, Memphis or Oakland, which hold the top 3. Hell, Chicago isn't even in the top 10, or top 20 for that matter. Actually statistics show it on number 24. So basically i'm living in the 24th most dangerous city in the United States, but that dosen't make me feel any better.

I'm at the Rush Medical Center, visiting my comatose girlfriend. It's been five years since that horrific night and there were still no signs of her waking up. I've been coming here for the past five years, about two or three times a week. Talking to her, holding her, praying that one day she would wake up and so we can move on with our lives. I would give anything in the world for that. I always made sure she had a bouquet of red roses, her favorite flowers, in her room, changing the ones that dried up with fresh ones. The nurses and the doctors here have come to know me very well and admire me for my love and for not leaving her in these hard times.

Some people in my case just move on with their lives and find someone else to love and cherish, but I can't do such a thing, it's not in my nature. I'll wait 20 years if I have to but i'll always be here. She has to wake up one day, especially since the doctor that takes care of her says that her body is in good shape, the only problem is that he dosen't know when she will wake up from the coma. That can happen any time, tomorow, next week or even in five years. I remember one of the nurses grabbing me by the hand last week as I was leaving and telling me how much she admires me and how much she whishes that her man was like me. I gently removed my hand from her grasp, smiled and said "thanks".

Right now the night is beginning to settle down and I need to get back to the car shop and gear up for another night of patrolling the streets. Hopefully tonight i'll get to kill another criminal scumbag, not like last night when basically nothing happened and I decided to retreat at 2 AM in the morning, because my Honda motorcycle was low on fuel. The nurse at the desk saluted me as I was heading to the exit. I saluted her back as I got out of the hospital with rain pouring down on me. "Awww this is just wonderful!" I said as I covered my head with the news paper I had in my right hand and ran to the parking lot.

After reaching the parking lot I take out the keys and open up my car, an old, turqouise, 1965 Ford Mustang Fastback. Despite customising cars for a living I decided that I want to keep this one exactly as it came out of the factory, despite not being very fond of the white and turquoise combination vinyl interior. The only change I made was that I replaced the original radio with a radio + CD player so I can listen to my music on it. I loved cars ever since I was a child, especially Ford Mustang's and always dreamed of owning one. Although these new Mustang's that Ford is making right now are absolutely great, nothing compares with these old school models. That's why there was no doubt in my mind what Mustang I wanted to purchase when I finally decided to buy one, four years ago.

As I got in the car, I threw away the water soaked newspaper and slammed the door shut as I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second and made myself comfortable on the seat. I start up the angry roaring V8 engine and as I was revving the car I take out The Blessed Hellride CD from Black Label Society and put it inside the player as the 1st track from the album started playing in the speakers.

Restoration Shop
Friday, October 14th
6:22 PM

After I got back at the shop, which was empty and closed because everyone went home I parked outside and got in as I turned on the lights and went to a corner of the shop and pulled away the cloth that was covering my bike. As I look back at the heavy rain i'm starting to wonder whether it is a good idea or not to get out tonight. Afterall, it wouldn't hurt if i'd took a break at least for one night. My thoughts changed however after the explosion I heard. I didn't hear it very well, which meant it was pretty far away. As I run to the shop's exit I saw smoke rising up in the sky. It was coming from the South Side, an area in which I was rarely seen. But that didn't matter anymore.

I run into the office and then through another door that leads to a set of stairs that went up into my apartment. Once inside the apartment I quickly took my gear and started putting it on. There was no time to make choices on weapons so I took whatever I first layed my eyes on. With the MP5 resting on my back, the CZ-75B and the knife in their respective thigh holster and sheath, the flashlight and extra magazines in the tactical vest pockets, Red Hand was finally ready to get out and deak death on whoever decided to start the 2nd Chicago fire.

Red Hand ran back down in the shop, climbed on the bike and started it as he rode outside, stopping at the exit, climbing off the bike and closing the shop up as he ran back on his bike and rode to the location of the explosion, following the smoke in the air. He only prayed that he would get there in time to stop this nutjob, whoever he may be.

Fuller Park
Friday, October 14th
6:31 PM

Red Hand's black Honda CB-1000R was a real beast, no denying. It took him to his destination in no time. He was happy he made the right choice by buying a fast, powerful and agile motorcycle for his night raids instead of a big bad car that would probably get stuck in the city's busy traffic. The choice of a Honda was absolutely random. The place was nonother then Fuller Park itself. One of the most dangerous places in Chicago. After parking the bike, Red Hand got off only to see lots of people screaming and running away. Red Hand grabs one of them by the arm and pulls him near to him.

"Hey what's going on?" He asked.

"What's going on? Some nutcase wants to blow up the entire neibourghood that's what's going on." Said the man as he let himself go of Red Hand's grip and continued to run away.

Red Hand took out his CZ-75B and headed slowly into Fuller Park. He finally caught a glimpse of the nutcase that the man spoke of. It was nonother then Demolition Derby himself. This guy had the nerve to call himself a vigilante. In Red Hand's eyes he was nothing but a criminal. Tonight however, Red Hand was determined to end his pathetic existence once and for all as he started sneaking closer and closer to him with his gun in his hand and staying in the shadows.

UNDISCLOSED APARTMENT, SOMEWHERE IN CHICAGO
6:00 PM

Sitting in his apartment in a revolving office chair, dressed in full vigilante attire, Steelheart was carrying far more burden in his hands than any man should have to bear, even one in his disposition. He was in the middle of making an dreadfully important decision, one that could decide the fate of not only his life, but the lives of every citizen of Chicago.

Now, which filter looks best on this picture?

Clicking through the Instagram interface, Steelheart tried on filter after filter, looking for the one that would set the mood perfectly. He spun around in his seat, a part of him knowing that he was only trying to distract himself from the nerves that had plagued him for who knows how long. Of course he had plenty of reason to be nervous; anyone would be if they knew that a group with the skill and lethality of the Iconoclasts was on a witch hunt to exterminate everyone who chose to live a life like his. And yet, on the other hand, he just could not decide whether a Gingham or a Slumber filter looks better on the picture. "If there's one thing that you can credit Instagram for, it's that they've got an innate amounts of filters to choose from," he mumbled to himself. Finally becoming frustrated and choosing one at random, he took a moment to look at the picture that would soon worm its way onto every Instagram user's feed. This was a simple one, a selfie that he took on an entirely white background. Gone was his usual cheesy smile, duck face, or obscene hand gesture, he held himself with a serious air that most would find out of character of him. Below the picture was a small caption that read:

"The Iconoclasts plan on coming to this fair city with their minds set on nothing but murder. I truly hope that this is what they find in Chicago, although not in the way that they expect. Wish us luck. Or not. I really couldn't care less.

-You know who it is ;)"

Taking a small breath, he clicked his computer mouse and sent the picture to the masses, via an untraceable bot account that he had whipped up. He could imagine that tech geeks everywhere were baffled by his methods and envious of his talent, a thought that often brought a smile to his face. Still, there was more reason than this post for him to delay hitting the town. Indeed, Steelheart had been spending the past few months preparing for that fated night when Death would come knocking on his doorstep. He knew that, in preparation for the bloodbath, some vigilantes would attempt to hide and cower rather than fight the group face to face. Thus, all of the billboards that he had managed to hack across the city, rather than displaying a constant stream of beautiful, beautiful memes, displayed a rallying cry of sorts to every vigilante in the city. Mostly, they were filled with motivational bullshit that had happened to come to mind while he typed, but he hoped that they would be enough to turn up a few more heads and give the Iconoclasts a run for their money. He had also spent plenty of time gathering equipment, making sure to stock up on nylon rope and pepper spray, should they be of use. Alongside his baton, he carried a weapon that he would normally never touch: a .44 Magnum revolver. Under usual circumstances, Steelheart was never the sort to pack any heat, but he knew that these circumstances were not usual in the slightest. He would try to avoid using it until it was absolutely necessary, but this was more out of safety than any moral standard. He only had basic knowledge on how to fire and reload the weapon, making him just as likely to shoot his own foot than a threat. Also, if the gun jammed for any reason, he would be clueless on how to repair it. As he checked his phone to find the weather, he stated, "If I don't carry it around nowadays, there's a good chance that any night could be my last. Simple as that." He frowned at the rainy forecast for tonight that he had received from his phone; his good old rope always served him well, but it was notorious for becoming slightly weaker when wet. Still, he shook his head and glossed over this, especially when he thought of his final preparation, the "pièce de résistance" of all of his paranoia and planning.

Although it had taken considerable effort on his part, as he was certainly no seamstress, Steelheart had installed an extremely small waterproof camera into his black shades about six days before. It was certainly not something that went unnoticed, but anonymity was not his goal. This was really more of a project for him, something to work for. As he went around town and performed his daily acts of vigilantism, he would record every second of it. Eventually, as he suspected that it would take weeks, once he had enough footage, he would cobble it all together into one video and hack into every news station in Chicago and stream the video. It would be the most difficult feat that he had ever tried to pull off, but he personally hoped that it would shed some light on the work of a vigilante to the average Joe's out there. In the fight against the Iconoclasts, public support could do wonders. Or at least he thought it could. Besides, if we're able to defeat the Iconoclasts, then people might just stop seeing us as the bad guys. As he stood from the chair and prepared to leave the apartment, he left it with one final thought.

"What have I got to lose?"

---

FULLER PARK
6:30 PM

If anyone were to ask Steelheart what had led him this far out of his territory, he wasn't sure if he could provide them a straight answer. Maybe it was boredom, maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was plain instinct. No matter how it happened, he found himself wandering the alleys of Fuller Park tonight. If anything, he knew that the lower income neighborhood would have a bit more action, and he could always use a good chunk of footage. Still, even if he barely knew the place, something about the atmosphere felt... off, like the deceitful calm of the eye of the hurricane. Gripping his baton in one hand, with the other on the holster of his revolver, he crept through the alleyways, hoping to be the lucky one to catch some dirtbag trying to break the system. Although there were plenty more criminals than there were vigilantes, sometimes Steelheart felt like he couldn't take a step in the city without stepping on the toes of another of his own. It was probably one of the many reasons why he chose not to work with other vigilantes; everyone seemed to be in the game for a different set of reasons, a different style, and a different goal. He felt like once they all attempted to work together, the fragile system that had been created would crumble to pieces faster than a rotting Jenga gam-

"Oh, shit!" he shouted suddenly as he turned the corner and almost immediately hid back behind the building. Steelheart hadn't seen much, but it was enough. A car in flames, a crazed man with explosives, that was all it took for him to tell himself that he was out of his league. Don't think like that, he thought halfheartedly to himself. Still, he knew where his priorities and strengths laid, sticking to the shadows, computing his way through obstacles. A face-to-face confrontation with an insane vigilante armed to the teeth with bombs was obviously not something that he was prepared for. No names came to mind of the man's name, but then again, Steelheart never really bothered paying attention to the acts of any other vigilantes either. It was the reason that he spray painted his alias onto his shirt in the first place. Everyone who saw him would know who he was. Returning to the present, he peeked around the corner and tried to see what else he could see. After a few moments, he noticed that he was not alone. Apparently, exploding a car in the middle of a street was enough to draw some attention from at least a few others. All of them vigilantes, from the look of it.

"Okay, so that was useful, I guess." Now that he had more information, Steelheart tried to make some sort of plan. Truth be told, he had plenty of options at his disposal. The first would be to try and sneak up on the nutcase with the explosives, knock him unconscious, and go from there. He would be at an advantage, considering how one of the vigilantes was going out of their way to provide a distraction of sorts. However, he was also far out of his territory and unfamiliar with his surroundings, so there was a good chance that he would get caught, and he had a feeling that getting caught would be the last thing he ever did. Another choice would be to try and solve this his own way: get a few good pictures of the guy and hook them up to his face recognition software. If there was one thing that Steelheart knew that every vigilante feared, it was getting their identities exposed. Of course, this was an unlikely course of action for many reasons. The software was still relatively unstable, and it would take twenty minutes at least for it to find a match. Also, if he wore a mask, as most of their kind dos, it would be almost impossible to get accurate results. Finally, he would have to get multiple high quality pictures of the bomb toting vigilante, and he couldn't think of a good way to get them. The only other option that he could think of, unfortunately, was not one that he even wanted to consider.

He could leave.

He could turn around and walk back to his apartment and leave this up to all the other vigilantes quickly swarming the area. There were plenty of them; surely, one of them would be able to resolve the situation. One of them must be better prepared, more daring, more willing to face a dilemma like this. In fact, the more that he thought about it, the more it felt like the only possible solution. He couldn't possibly try to take this guy down without being blown to smithereens, and that was not something that he wanted to face tonight. Or any night, for that matter. But if this were to end up on the news tomorrow, headlined something like, "Bomber in Fuller Park, 12 Killed, 30 Injured," could he manage knowing that he could've done something and walked away? With that thought, he came up with a different idea. Well, maybe I don't have to leave, but I don't have to go fight that guy "kung-pao guns blazing" either. Maybe I'll just wait until the situation either resolves or escalates. I'll decide what to do from there. Making his decision, he slid back behind the building and watched the situation unfold from a distance. Perhaps it was a cowardly decision, but he thought that it was better than doing nothing.

Undisclosed Garage, 5:30 pm

The smell of motor grease permeated the small office. A crowded room, inside there was a man. Sitting behind a desk. Less of a desk, more of a folding table. Less of an office, more of a closet. Less of my employer, more just a man. Because I had just been fired. Terminated. Pink slipped. Bada bing. Bada boom. There were other garages, sure. But the environment here was what made it special. The run down building had been sitting here since '65. The man running it, my employer, was an Italian immigrant. Somehow had retained the accent after 50 odd years. His business had been slower lately. It was just him and I at this garage, and he couldn't afford to keep paying me. Nobody owns a muscle car anymore. We were the main purveyors of muscle car parts, until the trend fell flat. I suppose this was inevitable, but yet somehow I believed it would last. It had been 8 years since the Recession. Maybe old Pietro would hold out.

I walked home, to begin my second job. Crap apartment. No job. I guess vigilantism is all I have until my medicine career takes off. Or he gets a brand deal. "Buy a Sting figure, with real almost causing fires via 9 volt action!". The musician would sue for sure. But I had a job to do. Rummaging through my 'vigilante box', hidden behind 3 locks, I pull out the mask. It's time.

Fuller Park, 6:30

Sting wasn't all that good at parkour. He had decided to leave the generator off tonight. With those godforsaken Iconoclasts roaming about, stealth was of the utmost importance. Slinking from alleyway to alleyway, he decided to move towards the explosions rocking the neighborhood. Shithole. Whatever. Deviating from his normal route, he noticed the neighborhood. He didn't come over here all that often, but when he did it was considerably dangerous. But he had friends here. So if they died...well, he would probably off himself. Maybe an exaggeration. Maybe not. Mental unbalance was common in the business, as evidenced by the nutcase shucking molotovs at local businesses. As the explosions grew closer, he noticed something in the alleyway. Dear lord.

The trucker vigilante. What was his name? Big Rig, was it? There was his truck. Sitting there. Alliances weren't something he usually looked for, but Sting had been a mechanic. Maybe they could tag team. Fix up his truck. Who knows. Then again, Big Rig might had been doing vigilante work as a cover for drug smuggling. Distract the cops, hide the coke in the back, bada bing. Bada boom. It was for the best to investigate. Who knew. Cleaning up the city one step at a time, yes? Sting figured it was no use to hide himself, and knocked on the door. Hopefully he didn't get his head blown off by that damn shotgun.

FULLER PARK
6:31 PM

No two professionals agreed on what job title best suited Steve Canicelli and Ravi Gupta. “Freelancers” was too polite, only broadly accurate. “Stringers” worked well for those in the know but was a little outdated. “Nightcrawlers” was evocative but put on in mind of something gross and slimy.

At any rate, it was their business partnership and their personal friendship that brought the two men into Fuller Park tonight. When everyone else was fleeing the area with their most valuable possessions, Steve and Ravi were running into Fuller Park with their most valuable possession: a Canon XF305 camcorder.

“Hold that thing steady,” Ravi admonished his friend in a harsh whisper as the two crouched in an alleyway, hoping to remain out of sight. Not like anyone would hear him over Demolition Derby's ranting a dozen yards away. “No station is going to buy that Blair Witch Project shaky cam shit.”

“They'll buy it and they'll like it,” Steve retorted, struggling to focus the lens to compensate for the rain. “None of the major stations are going to get past the police blockade, they're going to have to settle for helicopter footage. Not up close and personal like this. They'll pay out the nose for this. We struck gold here, man,” he said with a light punch to his friend's shoulder.

“Oh shit, another vigilante!” Ravi excitedly pointed at the second figure walking out into the street to confront Demolition Derby. He squinted through his glasses, trying to identify the newcomer. “Is that Slugger? They've got a bat. No, it's Arc. Arc! Fantastic.” He couldn't resist hopping up and down in excitement. Steve tried to ignore his partner, focusing instead on getting usable footage of the dramatic confrontation out in the street. “Oh man, Steve, this is gonna be-”

Ravi's voice suddenly stopped, replaced by a trailing wet gurgle. Steve took his eyes away from the camcorder, looking back over his shoulders to tell Ravi to be quiet. The admonition died on his lips.

Ravi's chin rested on his chest, looking down in disbelief at the broad blade emerging from the front of his chest. And yes, there was the blood, hot and coppery in the cool fall air, already being washed away by the rain.

Steve scrambled to his feet, but it was too late for him already- the blade disappeared from Ravi's chest, sending the man crumpling to the ground. Steve had a brief glimpse of the blade singing through the air, the edge cutting through raindrops in its path. And then the machete buried itself in his skull.

“Wasn't that a little much?” a voice asked from further back in the alley. Though it was muffled from behind the welding helmet, a trace of Boston could be detected in the accent.

The big man pried the machete from Steve's head, shook blood and bits of bone from the blade as the rain spattered . “Operational security must be maintained. The Colonel would agree.” His accent was Haitian, far more pronounced. The Haitian was huge, nearly seven feet, and built like a linebacker. The Bostonian could use the other man's urban camouflage fatigues as a tent. Satisfied that his machete was clean, the Haitian slipped it back into its sheath. “Start getting your men in position. Rooftops, alleyways, the like. Stay out of sight until I give you the order.” He paused, seemed to consider. “There might be other vigilantes hiding nearby. If you happen across any, deal with them quietly.”

With that, well-armed men and women, all dressed identically in urban camo and welding helmets began to quietly surround the confrontation taking place out in the street. Suppressors were screwed onto guns, various melee weapons drawn in case of running into a vigilante by accident.

THE STREET

Demolition Derby reacted poorly to Arc's taunt. Very poorly. “Traitor! Snake in the grass! Immigrant lover!” the man in the hat spluttered, digging in his satchel for another explosive. His left hand tightened on whatever it was he was grasping so tightly.

“Try this on for size, liberal!” Demolition Derby screamed as he hurled a brick of explosives directly at Arc. A dwindling countdown could just be seen on the side as it hurtled through the air.

AN ALLEYWAY IN FULLER PARK
6:31 PM

He'd settled on country, in the end, those familiar twings and twangs of the banjo and the guitar really knew how to set his soul at ease and let him settle in for the long haul of the night. He heard the police radio blaring about a blockade being set up, but he didn't care at this point. The other vigilantes could handle the bomb lobbing moron, he could just settle in until something worth his time came up... he did have that odd itch in his head, still, something that was telling, nay, demanding him to get out there and do something. But the comfort of the old leather seat and the dulcet tones of the music... it created this unique cocktail mixture of emotions inside him. He wanted to do something, but was too content to do anything... how did you cure something like th-

BANG BANG BANG!

"Wha! Whuh what? What?" Big Rig was stirred from the slight stupor he had settled into by a sound banging on his cabin door, shaking his head a bit as he returned to his senses. Was someone attacking his truck? Nah, those bangs didn't carry a loud enough sound to be a weapon of any kind, not even a small hammer or something... no, chances were, it was someone looking to bother him. And he didn't care for being bothered... of course, it depended on who it was. So, with his left hand, he reached down and hit the button to lower his window. He then used the same hand to grab his shotgun, Betty Boomstick, just in case this person got smart and tried to do anything whilst he was still a little dazed. He peered out over the window of his cabin, looking down.

...the fuck was he looking at? Some scrawny looking guy was standing there, bold as brass, looking up at him. He had a weird mask on, kinda reminded him of those stone statue faces you'd seen carved into pillars and artwork sometimes... with it's blank-ass eyes to boot. Other than that, the kid seemed kinda scrappy, that tattered trench coat and his generally batty attire... was this kid messing with him or did he just like to dress weird? Everyone needs a hobby after all.

"The fuck you want, kid? Can't you see how extraordinarily busy I am right now?" he barked at him gruffly, his welding mask muffling his voice slightly, but chances are his sharp tone would be further intimidating by the skeletal face painted over it.

"Aaaaaand that was track number 13 of 40 on our Country music countdown!" Squealed the radio announcer, a dullard of a man, just from the sound of him, and southern as could be. "Now, lets move onto track 12 wi-" Big Rig quickly shut him up by thumping the radio with his right hand to turn it off.

"Ignore that." he mumbled. "Seriously, whatcha want, knocking on my door here?" He demanded to know, looking down on this resident weirdo.

FULLER PARK
6:31 PM



A sharp whistle cut through the low rumble of the flames and momentarily froze Flare like a deer in headlights. Flare’s mask peered around the hump of the mailbox and caught the silhouette of man wielding a baseball bat several yards beyond Demolition Derby. A quick rundown of known vigilantes that used bats ran through their mind: Arc, Slugger, Bat Boy, Slammy Sosa, Pitch Perfect, Grand Slam, Speedball, the Ump—the list went on, but Flare gave up. This vigilante had only name in Flare’s mind: Distraction. Yet while they were thankful that Distraction had shown up to keep Derby busy, there was a part of their mind where they couldn’t help but think of how fucking stupid this vigilante was—and this was coming from the neophyte armed with a switchblade and a couple of self-defense toys from less-than-stellar Christmases whose plan of attack was to play it by ear.

Still, at least Flare didn’t make fun of some racist psychopath’s mother like they were a preteen boy playing a first person shooter online. They doubted it’d take much to set off Derby’s fuse, and now that Distraction had gone ahead and thrown out a “yo mama” joke the timer on the next explosion had been turned to imminent. There was no more time for this sneaking around shit. Eyes rolling behind their mask, Flare used the chatter to conceal the quiet splashes of their running shoes on the slick street as the sprinted towards Derby. Derby was yelling something back at Distraction, but Flare tuned it out. Listening any further to Derby’s casual hatred and Flare feared they’d actually end up burying their switchblade into his neck just so he’d shut the hell up.

Eighty paces. Flare’s could see the faint reflection of their dark eyes widening off of the tinted lenses of their mask as Derby reached into his bag. Sixty-five paces. Unsurprisingly, it was a bomb—an idea that would have been insane a few months ago. Distraction had a new name now: Victim. They felt their calf muscles tighten as they broke out into a dead sprint. Fifty paces. No longer did Flare worry about being silent. They had to get their before the street was covered with chunks of bat, blood, and bone. Forty paces. Shit, shit. Derby cocked his arm back; Flare could see the red LED numbers already counting down. Thirty paces. Shit, shit, shit. The bomb left Derby’s hand. Shit. Hopefully the other vigilante was good at sprinting. Fifteen paces. Flare ripped the taser off of their vest and leveled it at Derby as they pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation.

It was around the second the barbs pierced through Derby’s coat and fifty thousand volts of electricity ran through the man’s body that Flare realized what a fucking terrible idea attacking him had been. The man emitted a sort of animalistic squeal as his whole body locked up. It was until he flopped to the ground the device he had been so carefully clutching freed itself from his grasp as Flare ejected the cartridge from their taser. It seemed like time slowed down for the vigilante as they watch the switch-like device clatter to the ground. They turned on their heels so they could run as far from the man as possible, and to Flare it felt like they were running through molasses. They hadn’t made it more than a few yards when they felt a wave of heat and saw the darkened street light up like a Christmas tree from the flash that was coming from behind them. The street shook as there was a deafening explosion; Flare’s body was lifted from the ground and tossed like a ragdoll down the street, their small frame crumpling against a trash can. Demolition Derby was completely wiped from the face of the planet, replaced by a smoldering crater and a few scraps of blackened gore.



The first thought was that I was dead, and that heaven looked even less appealing than it had sounded when my folks had dragged me to church. As my eyes focused and the fires and broken down buildings came into view from the crushed trash can that I laid upon I realized I was mistaken. I wasn’t in heaven. I was in hell, and hell looked a lot like Fuller Park—and then all of the feeling came back to my body. If I was dead, I’d hurt a lot less. Everything ached, but it didn’t feel like anything was broken or missing. My chest hurt something fierce, though, and I felt like I was drowning. I could see blackness creeping in at the edge of my eyes, and by pure willpower and a lot of luck I managed to hold onto my consciousness.

What had I been doing? I could see the street in front of me, lit red by the flames circling where Demolition Derby once stood. Some of the buildings around the epicenter of his spontaneous combustion had shattered glass, although I couldn’t remember if that had been the case before Derby had blown himself up. It was silent. Like, strangely silent—and then I heard the ringing in my ears like as if I had been standing too close to the speakers when a punk band had started to play. I had been trying to save that other vigilante, right? Did it work? Did it even matter? Right now, the only thing I could think about was how fucking stupid I had been. Well, that, and how hard it was to breath.

I lifted the bottom of my mask up just enough to let some fresh rain drip on my chin as I sucked in some cool air. My head dropped back down onto the trash can, my black hair probably dripping into something nasty. If I were an optimist I could have looked on the brightside of this situation: at least I wouldn’t have to waste one of my flares. Unfortunately, I could only focus on the fact that I had just unintentionally murdered someone...or would it be manslaughter? Maybe assisted suicide? I suppose I could figure out the proper definition of whatever number of crimes I had just technically been an accomplice to by waiting around for the police that were likely on their way, but that idea just didn’t sit well with me. The idea of moving didn’t sit well with me, either. In fact, doing anything sounded just like a horrible idea. Groaning softly, I let myself go as my body went limp in the garbage as whatever so called luck or willpower I had ran dry.

6:31 PM, Fuller Park
Arc

Arc's eyes were trained on the bomb as it emerged from Derby's pack. This was his first time dealing with explosives. Guns, he knew. Knives, sure. He even fought a guy using a chain once. But bombs were a whole new deal, and he was quickly beginning to feel that he had made a massive mistake in stepping forward. His mind began to race as time seemed to slow down around him.

Okay. It's about to get rough. We need more of a plan than 'wing it'.

Let's think. How long do we have? What side of the explosion do we want to be on?

How about neither? None? We can run back. We're far enough.

Then he what, follows? Then we have a new problem. And he'll probably blow up some other shit. I say we charge.

What? No, that's nuts, we-

That was when Arc stopped thinking. He had no time to think. The bomb was going to fly any second, he had no time for this reasonable bullshit. And he knew the little devil on his shoulder had a point, if he hid himself away or ran, Derby could bring his bombs elsewhere. Arc was fine with collateral damage but he wasn't going to be the direct cause of it. He had to do something now, while his adrenaline was pumping through his veins and his bat had a charge.

You know what? Fine. Let's just do it. Just GO!

Arc yelled and raised his bat, charging forward, ready to deliver Justice to this crimi.... Why was he shaking like that?

Arc skidded to a stop, and let his eyes focus. The fires nearby had polluted his vision with light and the shadows around became far darker, but he was now making out someone on the opposite side, dressed in all black. His Knight in Shining Leather? Maybe things were going exactly like he wanted... Relatively. He turned his eyes to Derby, watching the man fall to the ground. Shit, this had been easier than he had thought. Lamer too.

Then, the bright flash of the explosion hit his eyes. He slammed them shut as he cursed himself for forgetting about the goddamn explosive on the ground, and in a moment he felt hard cement on his ass and a sharp pain in his ears, which were taking five from hearing things. He was tossed back, shielding his head as his bat clattered to the ground before coming to a stop a little ways back. He chanced opening his eyes, his vision swimming around as the shockwaves after-effects left him dizzy. Maybe this was a pretty bad idea. He closed his eyes once more and sat for a moment, letting the pain in his ears abate and setting his head straight.

Well shit. That was something.

Good plan, good plan. Okay. Everything still attached? Great. Now, what the fuck happened?

Arc uncurled from the his prone position, pushing himself to his feet. He looked at the smoldering stain on the street where Derby had been. Nothing left. Just smoke. Arc considered this for a moment, getting his bearings back, before grinning and letting out a laugh, clapping his hands.

"Hell yeah!" He shouted, victoriously. People nearby pulling themselves up from the ground nearby and observers far stared, worried and surprised. "All according to plan!"

Bullshit.

He stumbled over to his bat as his legs found themselves again, flicking the switch on the side. The batteries would probably lose their charge, so that's a waste, but hell, it's not like he'd need them for that goober.

Cops will be here soon. Let's go.

Wait, hold up. What about the guy who just stuck their neck out? They were way closer than us.

They knew what they were doing. They had a plan. They're probably fine.

Yeah, sure, they probably just wore explosion proof armor. Quit being a dick. You're a hero. Go check on them.

Arc let out a long breath, before starting a brisk jog. He circled the smoke, because mulched asshole wasn't a scent he needed to add to his list of things smelled. His eyes scanned around, the shadows nearby turned to pure darkness due to the flash of the explosive, before his eyes fell on a limp leg near a trash can, not too far.

"Hey buddy!" Arc shouted as he started over, waving. "Nice fucking job, bud, that took some -balls-!"

He couldn't hear a response, but his ears were still jacked up. He continued forward, slowing as he approached. Were they alright? Were they moving? He couldn't see through his goggles and fucked up vision. As he got close, the hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. What?

He spun around, looking around. No one of note. What was this feeling of being watched? He felt.... Uncomfortable. Maybe the cops had snipers on the roof? I mean, this guy had bombs, it wouldn't be unreasonable... He spun back around to look at the limp body by the trash, stepping over urgently and kneeling down.

"Hey hey, Hero, you alright? I owe you one but we gotta get going. Cops will be here and you don't wanna be laying around when that happens. Wake up." He reached out with his bat-less hand prodded at the vigilante's side.

An Alleyway in Fuller Park
6:31 pm

The door opened, and Sting was proven correct. Big Rig. Trucker vigilante extraordinary. How nobody tracked him with this monster of a vehicle would forever elude Sting, but he shrugged it off. Extending his hand, he launched into an explanation of his disturbance. Country music played off the truck's radio, and explosions could be heard in the distance

"Bonjour.", Sting stated almost matter of factly."The name is Sting. I, too, am a vigilante. Now, Mr. Rig, may I call you Mr. Rig?", Sting asked, channeling as much charisma as could be channeled behind a piece of Roman art. "As you probably know, the Iconoclasts are out hunting tonight. Safety in numbers, right? I figure I could tag along in your truck while the whole thing storms over. I have experience with mechanical engineering and whatnot, so I could service your truck whilst you shoot some 'baddies'. What do you say?", Sting asked, extending his hand in an amiable manner. Strike them fast, that's how the used car salesmen always did it. But this was a far lesser evil.

At that moment, the King couldn't tell who was stupider: The vig on the street playing chicken with boomboomexplosive-man, or themselves for running towards the explosion.

Toy King stumbled as the cacophonous BOOM shook the alleyway, a flare of orange and red illuminating the darkened streets. The smell of gunpowder and smoke seemed to choke the air as the fire raged on, unperturbed by the pouring rain. Somewhere a car went off, followed by the howls of several dogs and perhaps some yelling. It was hard to tell when thunder and bombs were going off at once. Toy King steadied themself against the alley wall, staring the ruined street. A body lay amongst the debris, but it was hard to say who's it was or if it even was alive. And judging by how things went, it probably wasn't.

They shook their head and turned away, a bitter taste in their mouth. Death was a regular part of this job. It was full of danger with a hollow reward. Cops, criminals, other vigilantes; there was even those damn Iconclausts and their trail of blood. From day one and even before that, the danger of being a vigilante was clear. Still, the distance between parading around totally fine to a battered, broken body nine seconds later was surreal and uncomprehending.

A flash of lightning and a blur of shadow shook them from their thoughts. Toy King quickly reached for their pipes, the movements quick and fluid from years of practice. Their muscles were tense, their stance ready, as their dark eyes swept across the dark alleyway. There was something there. What, they didn't know. Something creeping at the corner of their eye, lurking in the shadows waiting to--

"That took some balls!"

Holy--

Toy King whirled around, pipes flailing wildly as the voice pierced the air from behind them. With a grunt of surprise, they slipped on the wet cement and, with the grace of a drunk flamingo trying to hook up with an elephant, slammed into the cold ground below. It took a moment (and a bit of embarrassed coughing) before they stood back up and dusted off their soaked hoodie.

The shadow forgotten, the King rushed out of the alleyway. A guy, probably another vig, was making his way to the now moving figure on the ground. A soft, amused Tch slipped out of their mouth. So idiot was tougher than they looked. Good to know. Toy King sheathed their pipes and walked out of the alleyway, promptly signing the ever so eloquent words: 'What the hell?'

FULLER PARK
6:32 PM



I heard words drifting in and out between the ringing in my ears, something about balls and cops and heroes and waking up. Yet like an early morning alarm screaming on your nightstand, the sound hardly registered as anything more than a part of your dreams. Only, I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t sure what it was that I was doing, technically. In a way, it reminded me of the one time I had been convinced to go to a party with my peers. In a desperate attempt to escape from the bore of socializing with a bunch of assholes, I had taken to drinking straight from a plastic, goliath sized bottle of vodka. At least that was what I was told by piecing together evidence from pictures on the Internet. All I know is that I spent the next morning on the floor, my entire body dehydrated and hurting as I stared at some strange ceiling and fought off the worst migraine of my young life.

And like a hungover prick who’s still probably drunk, I reacted very poorly to outside stimulus. Normally when somebody felt their body get shaken while they were in some sort of sleep they’d do something about as drastic as opening their eyes, muttering under their breath, or even sitting up. Me? When I felt a hand push into side I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I was in the middle of one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Chicago taking a snooze after accidentally committing an act of terrorism. A hundred scenarios ran through my head of who I’d see when I opened my eyes. None of them were good—a dealer whose friend I busted, a cop who didn’t like people doing a better job than him, the ghost of Demolition Derby, one of the Iconoclasts waiting to collapse in my skull.

So I struck out in an attempt to blindly fight them and threw a kick out in the direction of the hand. Pain forced my eyes open as my shin cracked against something wooden and a yelp like a tiny dog being caught underfoot escaped from my lips before I could stop it. I rolled over in the trash and tucked my knee into my chest, rubbing my raw leg and making a mental note to purchase shinguards. I lowered my mask down over my chin again and winced as some loose strands of black hair got pulled with it, but at the very least I could actually see now. A pair of goggles held up by a black bandanna was staring at me, although it was kind of hard to tell, and the wooden object my leg had lost to took on the shape of a bat, only it had all of these weird wires laced around it. It was the lightning bolt on the man’s chest that made me realize it was that other vigilante—Arc.

I didn’t know what to feel. I doubted that I had actually saved Arc, really. I heard him call me “hero”, but in my ears it had the tongue-biting tone ringing behind it like when somebody called a fat buy “tiny”. Still, I should’ve at least felt relieved that he hadn’t been murdered by the big bang. Yet there was a part of me that was disappointed, even angry that the man I had stuck my neck out for had been Arc. The baseball god of thunder had unjustifiably taken numerous lives in the past all under the pretense of justice. He wasn’t as bad as someone like Derby or Big Rig, but he was still a killer. Like I was now, technically. My body bristled at the thought. No, fuck that. The reason Derby was dead was because Arc forced me to act. The blood’s on both of their hands, not mine. The only thing I did was survive a massive explosion due to their cock-up.

Yeah, that’s right. I managed to not only stop a terror attack with a taser but walk away to tell the tale. Fuck, what a rush, what a rush.



Flare pushed themselves up, the black bags and loose trash shifting beneath their body as they tried to find a way to steady their body. Finding some kind of support on the crunched trashcan, the vigilante picked a piece of garbage off of their tactical vest and then looked over at Arc. A moment of silence fell between the two as Flare sized him up, deciding on whether or not they should even say anything. Fuck it, they thought. They weren’t going to get far until their own feet steadied, and the odds that this person was both a recent graduate from their school as well as somebody who’d recognize the voice of that bitch who got expelled was unlikely.

“Yeah, I got some huge fucking brass balls. Enormous,” she said, her voice strained and weary. About as much balls as I have brains. She held out her hand expectantly. “Well? You just going to leave me in the trash?”

Her hand fell before Arc had a chance to take it, dropping to where her taser should’ve been as a shadow emerged from the alley and into the burning street. Her fingers scrambled frantically over her vest, but her weapon was nowhere to be found—a quick glance to her right saw that it had been dropped a few yards from the trash pile that was now slowly turning into her place of residence. Shit. Her fingers snapped the vibrantly marked pepper spray off of her chest, but by then the figure had already fully emerged. Flare’s hand relaxed as her eyes darted over the person: white jacket, toolbelt, black mask, pipes, spray paint—Toy King, if Flare remembered the moniker correctly. Why they were here was a mystery, however. Fuller Park never had any corporate fat cats hanging around its streets, and Flare somehow doubted Derby’s alter ego had been that of a board member. An eyebrow went up under Flare’s mask as Toy King made some kind of gesture.

“What the hell?” said Flare, unintentionally translating Toy King’s signing.

To Flare, when they heard the term “ASL” they thought of creepy dudes in anonymous chat rooms. She shook her head in slight disbelief, her hood bouncing back and forth. She was going to ask the two of them what the hell they were doing in her territory, but the familiar sound of sirens dipped between the tinnitus in her ears. Late as always. She hadn’t even fired off a flare, but with an explosion that big she didn’t need to—nor did she want to be tied to what had happened in Fuller Park. A heavy sigh escaped from her lips, as if she was somehow upset and burdened by the other two for being there.

“Look, we can swap origin stories or whatever the hell it is that vigilantes do when they run into each other later,” she said. “Let’s get off of the streets.”

With that said she rolled off of the garbage, grabbed her taser, and began to unsteadily struggle to her feet.

AN ALLEYWAY IN FULLER PARK
6:32 PM

"...you got some real fuckin' guts, kid." Big Rig tilted his head slightly as he looked down at the young man making his case unto him, drumming his fingers on the window edge slightly as he let his shotgun go for the time being. This kid wasn't a threat, his voice made it sound like he was still in school even. Kids needed hobbies after all... "Walking right up to the truck and figuring i'd just take ya on?"

Though something else he said cut through the bullshit for a moment... the Iconoclasts. So they WERE out hunting tonight? Big Rig hadn't heard that confirmed on any radio station... but street chatter tended to ring true when it mattered. Fuck, he hadn't gotten that higher density armour plating on... just the regular. It'd stop most shit, but who knows what those maniacs were packing...

"They're out tonight, huh?" He scratched his chin slightly. "Alright kid, get in the other side. You better know how to shoot too by the way or i'll throw you out at 60 MPH." He might as well instill some fear in his new little partner so he wouldn't try and shoot him. Besides, he knew his way around his cabin better than he did.

THE STREET

The last and largest explosion had not gone unnoticed, of course. Proof of that arrived with flashing red and blue lights.

The patrol car screeched to a halt mere feet from Arc, Flare, and Toy King. Two officers spilled out, the luckless men who had been ordered to get a closer look at what exactly was happening. "Hold it right there!" one yelled, training his sidearm on the three of them. "One step, vigs, and I'll drop you where you stand." The officer turned to his partner, leaning back inside the patrol car. "Call it in. Get Czarny from the VTF."

The excited cop made the rookie mistake of looking away from the people he had cornered, opening up a split-second to act.

THE ALLEYWAY

The massive armored rig had also not escaped attention. The Iconoclasts had done their homework, they knew exactly what this parked vehicle was and who drove it. Six of them began to cautiously surround it, weapons at the ready.

One of the men stole forwards, silenced pistol at the ready, keeping low in an effort to stay beneath the driver's line of sight, until he came right up to the driver's side door. Handgun ready, the man in fatigues and welding mask reached up for the door handle. . .

6:33 PM, Fuller Park
Arc
Arc made no attempt to hide his snort as Flare drove a leg into his bat, watching them grab it in pain. He was trying his best to be nice but, well, he wasn't very good at it. He shifted backwards, gripping it tighter as he pushed himself up to his feet. At least they had sense enough to kick at strange men standing over them. He rested his bat on his shoulder, thankful he had turned off the device strapped to the side. The last thing the guy probably needed was a high voltage alarm clock.

“Yeah, I got some huge fucking brass balls. Enormous." Hm. Wasn't quite what he was expecting but you never really know what to think with masked morons who fight criminals for a living. He extended a hand to help them up as they asked, before noticing them snap into a combatative mode. He tensed up, turning serious for a moment as he glanced over his shoulder at the approaching figure coming out of the shadows. Thug coming in when the two vigilantes were weak? Derby's partner?

Arc didn't watch much news, at least, not sober, so he wasn't quite up to date on who was who out on the street. But when Toy King emerged he relaxed somewhat. He didn't look like the type to help out a bomber, though the hand movements gave him a small bit of anxiety.

Are those hand signals? Are these two together?

Maybe. Who cares? Doesn't look like he's coming at us.

Arc exhaled but stayed at the ready, offering an awkward wave with his free hand to the third member of their meeting.

"I, uh, wasn't trying anything, pal. Just checking up on 'em." Arc offered a thumbs up as the sirens drew closer.

“Look, we can swap origin stories or whatever the hell it is that vigilantes do when they run into each other later,” said the figure on the street. “Let’s get off of the streets.”

Arc looked back down with a nod, chuckling faintly. "Now if that ain't just the best damn plan -any- of us have had all night, I don't know what is."

He extended a hand to help steady Flare, scoping out nearby for the quickest path away, when the sirens sounded a whole lot closer than he remembered. Shit, his hearing was jacked worse than he thought. The screech of tires rang out behind him, and he dropped his hand away from Flare as he spun around. For real?

What, ten minutes since you got in costume? This has to be a new record.

It's this jackasses fault. If they'd just let you deal with Derby you'd've had your hands washed and been out of here by now, busting gangsters jaws, safely away.

No. She saved your ass.

Maybe. But still. She's in no position to run, and she's the one actually pulling shit. Let's get going. They'll get their perp, you'll get your night.

Hell no. Maybe that'd work but you owe her one. Stop with... Whatever that plan is. You're supposed to be a hero.

Can't be a hero from a jail c-

Arc shut his thoughts down before he convinced himself otherwise. He wasn't just going to leave, especially since he'd probably be a crater if he had gone through with his original plan. He refocused on the situation at hand... What were these morons doing?

"Call it in. Get Czarny from the VTF." The cop was looking away, and his partner halfway through the window of his car.

Arc had been caught with his pants down many times before. Not literally, most of the time. And he'd gotten alright at dealing with this kind of thing. But honestly, this was just insulting. Or maybe very lucky, considering he had a wounded vig and an unknown element right beside him. Probably a little of both. Regardless, he figured it was time to pay back the kid for sticking her neck out, and the best way to do that was to make sure she wouldn't be spending the night in a jail cell. He took a deep breath as he darted forward.

"Get the car guy!" He shouted at no one in particular. He didn't know if they would, and if they didn't, well.... Maybe things would get complicated. But he could improvise.

He approached the nearest police officer quickly, adrenaline coming back to him. He twisted his torso, gripping his bat with both hands and shouting as he swung it right into the cop's hand. If bones broke, the sound was masked by the sound of delicate handgun bits jostling and being thrown around. The gun flew from the hands of the man, sliding across the ground a distance away.

Put him to sleep.

I don't know if we need to go that far. But make sure he won't follow.

As Arc's swing came back around, he twisted his grip and pointed it downwards. This time, the sound of bone against wood had no camouflage as his bat met the cop's knee. He was above killing cops, but hell if he was better than giving them terrible injuries. The cop shouted and fell to the ground, writhing in pain as Arc pulled his bat back into a ready position. How was the car guy doing?

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The Toy King suppressed a groan as the dark pavement was illuminated by red and blue, the annoyingly familiar siren blaring into the night. The fuzz. Just what they needed. They shot a glare at the approaching vehicle, though it had little affect thanks to the mask.

So this is why I stay out of shit like this.

The police were no stranger, and neither was the interior of a police car. The King had faced trouble with them in the past. Nothing major, though. Vandalism, street fights, trespassing; stuff that warranted a quick drive in the back before they could manage to hop out and run. But that was then, when the alleyways actually felt safe and the more deplorable city areas a safe haven. Things were different now. There'd be no telling who'd get caught and revealed. They needed to act, and act fast.

"Get the car guy!"

A blur of motion caught their eye was one of the Vig's (Who were they again? Slugger? Arc?) dashed forward and slammed his bat into one of the Feds. The officer jerked in pain, dropping the gun a good few feet away. The King stared, momentarily stunned and confused on whether this guy was ballsy as hell or just plain stupid, before gathering their bearings and drawing their pipes. Stupid or no, the guy's action opened up a much needed opening.

The cop in the car had turned away, more concerned about his partner than the currently onrushing Toy King. They threw open the door, the flabbergasted look on the officer's face near comical. In a fluid motion, they managed to grab him and drag him out the car. They tossed their pipe in the air and caught the spiked end before slamming the blunt end into the officer's head with a sickening crack. The officer went limp, a surge of satisfaction filling the King before a sharp pain in their hand caught their attention. Though their gloves were worn and tough, it didn't do much to stop the wire and nails to dig into their palm.

Putting away their weapon, the Toy King looked around uneasily. There'd be more cops coming soon. Unnecessary trouble for an already troublesome night. They glanced over at the other Vig's, more specifically at the injured Flare. As easy as it'd be, it didn't quite feel right to leave them here. Damn moral compass. Still, they needed to get out of here, fast.