Ten minutes ago, she would have said she'd seen it all; killer robots, plague of locusts, a strangely maniacal toaster, you know, the regular gamut of weird ass things a superhero faces daily. But no, just when she thought she could say, that's it, there is nothing that can surprise me now (especially after the case of the Mysterious Hillbilly), Fate decides to change it up and throw her a goddamn curveball. And hell, if this isn't the sickest looking curveball she's ever seen. Of course she's had her share of questionable encounters before, she has had this gig for over a century and a half. That much time fighting off super-villains, a couple zombie apocalypses and the odd alien invasion has certainly provided her a pretty spectacular resume, as well as a unique view of astonishingly revolting crimes that would cause most other superheroes to gauge out their own eyes. But this, this takes the fucking cake (probably the whole damn bakery too). Her team is nowhere in sight, having abandoned her for a night of karaoke and she's sure a fair amount of general debauchery. It's probably for the best though; Vogue would probably comment on the completely blasphemous use of a sewing machine, Jingle would talk her ear off regarding the poor choice in ambiance music, while Crusher, Saint and Wheels projectile vomited over the crime scene. Frankly, she's better off without them on this one.
While she's never before been particularly thankful for her ability to fly (heights are worse than zombies), she is now. Floating above the floor allows her to not only keep the scene intact for Wheels to investigate later but, more importantly, to keep blood off her shoes and costume (it takes a special kind of dry-cleaner to wash blood stains off a spandex onesie). The bloodshed below her is absolute; hundreds of bodies piled knee deep lie in a deep pool of blood. They have been arranged so as to create a pathway of carnage leading up to a large shrine. In the center stands a grotesque statue of flesh, a collection of body parts and skin sewn together. From far, it creates the illusion of a twelve-foot tall man, up close it is the defilement of the human body. From a speaker she has yet to locate, The Beatle's Eleanor Rigby plays softly, almost too low for a human to hear. She is anything but human. On the far wall behind the shrine is written a message in what she's sure is blood. It reads:
He who dies in sin shall be reborn and from the ashes of sin shall rise a savior.
She's never been particularly good with words (as evidenced by her poor SAT scores and penchant for reading 'In Dog We Trust' on bills), but nevertheless these words send a chill down her spine. It's the fourth time she's seen them in less than two weeks and, frankly, the fourth too many. The always come surrounded by bloodshed. Even the most hardened of criminals would say "now that's fucked up!" The stench of the slaughter is so potent and vile that she would rather spend a fortnight living at the bottom of Jacob Ben Israel's laundry basket than spend another second hovering over the massacre.
Unable to stomach the scene any longer, she flies away, leaving the horror behind, far from forgotten. She dials Jingle's number on her way to the lair, almost crushing the phone in her hand when she receives her voicemail. "Hello, you have reached Jingle, superhero extraordinaire. If you need me for a heroic rescue, press one. If you'd like to buy a Jingle action figure or a copy of my New York Times bestseller Jingle Hells, press two. Finally, if you wish to leave me compliments, please direct your admiration to my manager at tchang . Thank you and I look forward to reading your praise. Beep!"
Having run over 2200 miles in little over a second, she arrived at the secret hideout. On the outside, it was a plain little comic book store called Will's Comic Emporium. While overrun with geeks and pimply virgins, none knew the location of the 100,000 square foot hideaway 500 feet below their socks and sandals.
Entering the main room, she slumped onto the couch and turned on the TV (evidently the reporters had found out about the massacre at St. James church).
"In news today…the brutal slaying of…Deputy Finn Hudson tells reporters…grizzly scene…death toll estimated at four hundred…police nicknaming killer The Butcher…"
It was days like today that made being a superhero feel like the worst job in the world…
A/N - This is just the prologue. I have the next chapter written and it is much longer. Hope you all enjoy!