PRT Console Notes - OPERATION DOWNFALL 10/30/2010
By order of Director Piggot, a State of Parahuman Emergency has been declared for the Docks neighborhood, to last until the critical villain threat in the area is deemed to have ended.
As a reminder, for the duration of the State of Emergency all PRT-affiliated personnel are granted expanded powers of search, seizure, and arrest (as outlined in PRTCJ Article 5 Section 2). The property at 849 Wayland Avenue has been commandeered as permitted by PRTCJ Article 5 Section 3 and designated as Docks Forward Command (DFC). The location has been marked on all maps.
At least two (2) PRT squads are to remain at DFC at all times.
The eight (8) parahumans comprising New Wave have agreed to participate in joint operations for the Emergency, and should be considered deputized with the full privileges of a Protectorate or Wards member depending on age.
Securing targets listed in Appendix A should be prioritized. Similar targets revealed by new intelligence should be reported in and added to the list based on importance. At least one (1) adult parahuman should be deployed against any potentially resisting target.
At least one (1) flight-capable parahuman is to be designated for aerial patrol at all times. Agents on duty should additionally monitor drone feeds.
Should Lung be sighted, personnel are strictly cautioned against engaging. Blank should be dispatched to the location as quickly as possible along with at least one (1) PRT squad.
All other parahuman incidents are to be deprioritized unless involving imminent threat to life...
10:27 AM
The last of the ABB goons was a pimply, scrawny thing no older than she was. Vicky eyed him with open disgust. "S-stay back!" he stammered, back pressed firmly to the wall. A bead of snot dribbled from his nose. "O-or I'll kill her!" The woman he was holding hostage seemed half a corpse already. A thick layer of makeup couldn't conceal the papery paleness of her skin, and her hollow eyes registered no reaction to the knife tickling her neck.
Life as an involuntary prostitute was rough.
Glaring daggers at the slaver, Vicky turned her aura up a notch. "You won't dare." she growled, cracking her knuckles ostentatiously. The goon whimpered softly. A coward, it seemed, not one of the weirdos who grew more defiant the more raw intimidation she flooded their minds with. That was good. It made her job easier. His knees knocked audibly together and his hand shook violently, yet he didn't drop the knife. Fuck, that wasn't good. At this rate he was liable to slit her throat by sheer accident. Throwing caution to the winds, she put her aura on full blast. "Hurt her and I'll rip off your balls and shove them down your throat." she added for effect.
As far as threats went it wasn't terribly creative. Mom would have had something to say about her language, too, but she was too pissed off to care. Plus it did the trick. A wordless wail, and the knife fell from his boneless fingers. It hadn't fallen even halfway to the floor, Vicky burst into action. She kicked off the ground, accelerating rapidly to flight speed. Before the goon could react she was body-checking him into the wall. Something went pop. Vicky turned away as he collapsed limply. With gentle hands, she caught the hostage as she swayed on her feet.
"You're safe now." she said soothingly. The woman didn't respond. She spoke nary a word as Vicky guided her through the halls, back towards the entrance where they were gathering the other liberated sex slaves. Sex slaves. That phrase made her skin crawl. The cloying scent of perfume that still hung in the air, the portraits of scantily clad women hanging on the walls, it all hinted at the true horror of what had been going on in this place. Its mere existence in Brockton Bay was a shame upon everyone who'd gone about their normal lives while this had been happening; it was a shame upon all of them who called themselves heroes. She wished she had a pyrokinetic power so she could burn it to ashes, then burn the ashes. Only then would she feel clean.
It was a relief to make it outside. The air in post-industrial Brockton Bay wasn't exactly fresh, but getting out of that cursed place greatly lessened the skin-crawling feeling. Vicky cast a dark glance back at the innocent-looking storefront. Bath house, my ass. She led her charge to the part of the yard where the other women were huddled. "We got all those assholes." she announced with cheer she didn't feel. "They won't hurt you anymore."
In her fantasies, the women would have cheered in vengeance and joy; they did not. Most of them kept sitting there with vacant eyes. God, Vicky wished she was the kind of Master who could actually make them feel better—Dean would've done great here, she was sure. She didn't think making them all love her would be helpful though. Some of them still glanced anxiously at the ABB members on the other side of the yard.
Their former captors, a dozen or so strong, were handcuffed and under the PRT's watchful gaze. Vicky had taken down half of them herself, while Miss Militia, her partner on this mission, accounted for the other half. You could easily tell which were whose. Some were groggy and a bit bruised, while others were unconscious with their limbs bent the wrong way.
A terrible idea it might've been, but part of Vicky wished she'd hit them harder. You could only risk so much force on regular humans, and it left her oddly unsatisfied. Her fist balled. God, she almost wished Lung would show up. Never mind that they'd been ordered not to engage, never mind that it was another terrible idea, right now she felt like she could rip his head from his shoulders.
One of the women at least mustered the emotion for a bitter smirk. "Took you long enough."
"And you have our deepest sympathies for all you've been through." As if on cue, Miss Militia emerged through the front doors, a sheaf of papers tucked under her arm. "You're welcome at PRT HQ for the time being. If you have somewhere to go we'll get you on your way. Otherwise, we'll try and make arrangements with a shelter to take you long-term." That got another muted reaction, though a chorus of nods showed the message had gotten through. "Glory Girl, a word if you would?" she added quietly.
Vicky followed the Protectorate hero to a deserted corner of the yard. "I took a look at your work." she said with a hint of admonition. "I understand you've got a Brute power, but you could've used less force there."
"I know my strength. They'll live." Vicky said flippantly, then paused. "They will all live, yeah?"
Miss Militia gave her a look. "No one's in serious danger, fortunately. Still, some of those fractures don't look like they'll heal properly."
"Nothing Amy can't fix, then."
Miss Militia picked at the edge of her bandanna. "Even so. There are guidelines for acceptable force against the unpowered, and—"
"Excuse me if I don't feel bad for a bunch of rapists." Vicky snapped.
A different cape might have grown angry at her petulance. Armsmaster probably would have; Mom definitely would have. But Miss Militia's tone remained level, albeit a bit exasperated. "You realize the guards might not be here by choice either? Given the ABB's recruitment practices..." she trailed off with a sigh. "Look, I get it. As a hero, as a woman, seeing all this pisses me off too. But being a hero means controlling yourself, even for people you don't think deserve it. Otherwise you're asking for trouble—"
"Is that a threat?"
She could see the other woman's grimacing through the mask. In cape circles, Miss Militia didn't have nearly the stick-up-the-ass reputation that Armsmaster did, but in her own way she was very much a stickler for proper procedure. She understood the limits of her authority, though. "You aren't a Ward, Glory Girl." she said tiredly. "I can't put you console duty. But if we're going to work together, I'm going to insist you make an attempt. Can you?"
Their gazes met and locked for a couple of seconds. Finally Vicky accepted the off-ramp, shrugging with affected nonchalance. "I'll try."
"Glad to hear it." Miss Militia looked at her a second longer, then took the off-ramp herself. "Anyways, I thought you might want to see this." she flourished the papers in Vicky's face. "Found it in one of the back rooms. It might tell us where to find more places like this."
Vicky smiled grimly. "I'd like that. Very much."
12:10 PM
The vans had been going in and out of the lot all morning. Capes headed out on assignment or returned to base in teams of one or two or three, together with their PRT detachments. A steady trickle of supplies came flowing in from both permanent HQs—that, for me, was certainly most relevant. Given that this warehouse was to be my residence for the next couple days, it wouldn't do to be living in a pigsty. Thankfully, the former ABB tenants had cared enough for their creature comforts that the electricity and plumbing were both in working order.
When a truckload of inflatable mattresses arrived, I wasted no time claiming a sleeping spot in a secluded corner of the warehouse floor. Getting stuck in the middle of the room sounded like a risk. I didn't know which of my fellow heroes snored, and I didn't think that would count as a parahuman effect (unless, maybe, it was Triumph).
A little after that, we got a bunch of communications equipment, and a few techs used it to jerry-rig a portable console in the ground floor office. Being the only cape more or less permanently stationed here, it was naturally my job to put on the headphones and listen in. It was a duty I didn't mind. Not like there was much else to do around here anyways. Plus it was even less taxing than my shifts on the Wards console, since all the heavy lifting—actually directing people around and monitoring the camera feeds—fell on the agents back at PRT HQ. I was able to sit back and take in the radio chatter, an effective spectator to the cleanup of the Docks. Miss Militia and Glory Girl liberated a brothel. Assault and Battery assaulted and battered a pawn shop that had served as a money laundering front. Brandish and Flashbang seized a major drug cache, and so on and so forth. The dregs of the ABB put up some resistance, but they fought the law and the law won.
Neither hair nor hide of Lung was ever seen.
Bit by bit, order clawed its way back against disorder. Bit by bit, the city grew quieter. It was satisfying.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I took off one ear of the headphones to hear what was going on. "Uh...can we borrow you for a sec? I'll handle the console." Behind the face-concealing helmet, I thought I detected a hint of embarrassment from Trooper Clark (as her badge identified her). "Food's here, but the delivery guy doesn't seem to speak English."
I nodded, handing her the headphones. Outside, it was plain to see the PRT had been hard at work reinforcing this place. Even more barbed wire had been piled atop the exterior walls, and security cameras seemed to carpet every inch. Intimidating bulky contraptions guarded the rooftop—foam sprayers; I recognized them—and I was sure I'd seen the barrel of a sniper rifle poking over the edge too.
Of course, one could not eat rifles and barbed wire, hence why we'd placed some calls to the local restaurants. We'd chosen ones we were fairly certain weren't ABB fronts, to avoid them spitting in our food or worse. I spotted a beat-up old sedan idling outside the gate, its nervous driver hemmed in by troopers on all sides. He was a pudgy, balding man who looked like someone's bachelor uncle. When I approached he flinched, looking even more frightened than before. Come on. My reputation wasn't that bad already, was it? [Hello. What's going on?] I said with a wave.
He babbled something back, and I realized we were going to have a problem. That, unless I missed the mark, was Cantonese. Count on Americans to not know the difference. We wound up needing a pen and notepad just to communicate. Eventually, I managed to overcome my atrocious calligraphy skills and get it through that yes, we were expecting a delivery here and no, we weren't going to kill and/or arrest him.
If he still had any concerns, the promise of a tip dispelled them in a hurry.
Deciding I'd done my part in fending off starvation, I returned to the console. Immediately upon entering the room, I heard my substitute say something quite disconcerting. "DFC here. Can you confirm Purity's trajectory? Over."
I tensed. Purity. Flying Nazi with lasers. That wasn't a particularly good matchup for me. The lasers would be useless, but the fact that she could fly made it really difficult to get within range, unless she did something colossally stupid. Maybe if I were to somehow get above her and pounce—no, we would just fall to our deaths together. "Purity's coming here?" I asked.
Trooper Clark held up a hand, and listened to the comms for while longer. "Might be she's not here to fight us." finally came the reply. "Armsmaster says he's going to check it out, see what her deal is..."
12:24 PM
Armsmaster was not in a reasonable mood today. Either that, or he was simply a dick in general. Kayden wouldn't know; it wasn't as if they'd had much opportunity to interact socially before.
"No." The flat rejection came two sentences into her prepared pitch. "Absolutely not."
In hindsight, the fact he'd chosen to talk to her through a flying drone instead of coming personally should have been a hint. Even through the speakers, his disdain came through loud and clear. The drone went so far as to project a tiny hologram of his helmeted face, apparently added just so he could glare at Kayden like she was dirt on his boots. She resisted the urge to sigh. "I understand we've...had our differences." she said diplomatically. "But if you're moving against the ABB, I can help! I've fought Lung before, held my own—my power's strong, you know it is."
"Blaster 8, Mover 4 to be precise. It's in your file." Armsmaster said curtly. "What exactly are you expecting, Purity? That we'll simply forget about everything you've done? Welcome you with open arms just because your power's useful?"
That kind of had been what Kayden was hoping for, to be honest. The bitter scorn in his voice, though, made it quite clear it wasn't how things were going to go. Still, she gave it another try. "Maybe not that much. But given the emergency, I think can at least come to some sort of agreement—"
"Ah. Bartering your services then." he scoffed. "Well, this is no Endbringer fight. And I've had my fill of negotiating with villains for today."
"I'm not like Lung!" Kayden bristled at the implied equivalence. "I'm not even with the Empire anymore! I've been fighting the ABB the last six months, trying to stop the drugs, the crimes, the prostitution. Trying to be a hero, just like you!"
"Yet your old friends keep dealing drugs themselves. And as for crimes, beating minorities in the street certainly qualifies." he said coldly. "Funny. I don't see you doing anything about that."
"I—I don't approve of a lot of things Kaiser does. But I have to prioritize!" she defended herself. Admitting that she'd feel guilty fighting her former coworkers probably wouldn't go over well. "Come on, Armsmaster. You've been here for years, you've seen how things are, you know...?"
"Know what?" he said, voice low.
Kayden had the sudden feeling of treading on thin ice. She hesitated briefly—then she glanced at the exposed lower half of his face, his white face. In for a penny, in for a pound. "You know whose fault it is things have gotten this bad. Set aside the politically correct stuff—we've always had villains but Lung and his sort, they don't respect our rules. They're not civilized. They've poisoned the blood of this city—"
"You're a stupid girl." If Armsmaster's tone had been cold before, now it was practically at absolute zero. "You want to be a hero? Fly over to PHQ and surrender. Face judgement for your crimes. And then, if you do not prove utterly unsalvageable, the Protectorate might accept you as a probationary member." The hologram quite pointedly turned its face away from her. "I've wasted enough time on you. Interfere with our operations, and you'll be treated as another enemy."
The drone buzzed loudly, as if blowing a raspberry, then zoomed away towards the horizon. Kayden balled her fists. The urge to blast that stupid thing with a laser was very strong, even though she knew it wouldn't accomplish anything. Instead, she embarked upon the long flight home. The glow of her Breaker state obscured the frustration that must have shown on her face; small mercies and all that. Fuck him, Kayden thought, fuck that holier-than-thou bastard. She'd show him. She'd show the PRT, show them all, show Max. She was a hero, fighting the righteous fight. She would drag this city to a better place, kicking and screaming if need be.
Mind you, she still had yet to figure out exactly how. It was something to think about on the way back.
12:56 PM
Half an hour passed after Armsmaster told Purity to go kick rocks (in so many words), and nothing catastrophic had happened. Feeling the desire to go grab a bite, I flagged down a passing trooper. "Hey, I was thinking of getting lunch. Would you mind covering the console for a minute?"
The trooper nodded to me, taking over the headphones. I moved from the listening post into the warehouse, where a large table laden with trays of food and paper plates had been set up against the wall, right under the PRT banner.
Since the last time I'd looked, someone had gone and written 'NEW WAVE' on the adjacent wall. They weren't shy about marketing themselves, I'd give them that.
Shielder was the only other cape eating at the moment, and I thought I saw a marker sticking out of his pocket. That probably explained the source of the graffiti. Seeing me, he froze, then gave me a hesitant little wave. I absent-mindedly returned the gesture. Nope, nothing to see here. There might be a rule against writing on walls in the Wards handbook—but he wasn't a Ward.
I turned my attention to the buffet spread. It came in those restaurant-sized disposable deep dishes, covered in a thin aluminum foil sheet. Bit cold, but that was all right. What to get—hm, better start with rice. You had to have rice. A helping of Buddha's delight, for my daily intake of vegetables. Pot stickers...yeah, sure, although there was no vinegar to be found. Only soy sauce packets, those heathens.
The egg tarts made up for that, however. Bless whoever had added them to the order.
2:45 PM
"Take that, you knob-gobblers!" Skidmark cackled. The ground glowed blue, and a line of red-and-green clad idiots toppled over like bowling pins. He waved his followers forward, leading their advance upon the suspiciously unmarked storefront. The swirling trash vortex that was Mush towered over the crowd. "Come on, you maggots! You want that good shit or not?"
A meth-addled cheer went up from the ragtag Merchants. For too long, the ABB's sphere of influence had slowly crept northward. Block by block the Merchants had been pushed back until they were barely clinging to Archer's Bridge, the very place they were named after. They were losing their supply chains, losing their customer base, but most importantly they were losing the good shit. Real meth, pure meth made by chemists in New Mexico or one of those other crapsack countries down south. The sketchy witch's brew cooked up in junkies' basements, that they increasingly relied on for sale and use, just couldn't compare. Only thing that came close was the Empire's stuff. Skidmark had no idea where the Nazis sourced it, but whew,it had a hit like it came straight from a Big Pharma lab. Too bad those racist dickheads never shared. The only way to get any was to mug some loaded-looking skinhead and hope you got lucky.
But no more! Word had spread on the street. The heroes had fronted up on Lung, and he'd folded like a wet paper bag. One tweaker insisted he'd seen Lung in a rowboat out on the Bay, furiously paddling his way back to Japan. Other rumors said he'd picked up a samurai sword and committed hara-kiri out of the shame of it all. Any way you cut it he was out of the picture, and the Merchants were back, baby! They were so back!
The horde threw their bodies against the fence, heedless of the sharp wire gashing their skin. They sniffed at the air, as if they could smell the goods so tantalizingly close. What ABB members weren't sprawled on the ground cowered behind the windows. "Lung is a pussy!" Skidmark taunted them. "Now bend over and—"
Three flying shapes shot up over the horizon. Skidmark's eyes widened. "ARSE BISCUITS!" He dived aside from a beam of red energy. It struck where he'd been standing, sending a couple of nearby Merchants tumbling. "Bugger off, Laserbitch! Let me have this!" He shook a fist skyward in impotent fury. What were the heroes doing at a drug house, damn it? Those goody-two-shoes would only waste the stuff!
He knew this wasn't a fight he could win. Skidmark could apply his power to any surface, but the fucking sky wasn't a surface. "Cheese it! To the Squealer-mobile!" he ordered. He turned tail and fled, using his power to shove panicking underlings out of the way.
The ever-loyal Mush stepped in to block a second barrage of lasers, absorbing the energy of the blasts with his amorphous body. Tendrils of detritus in various states of decay reached out, lashing at the New Wave fliers. Lady Photon and Laserdream dodged easily, while the slower Shielder threw up a blue force field. It handily blocked Mush's attack, but something in the trash tentacle burst open on impact. Unmentionable liquids sprayed out in all directions. One cluster of droplets took an unfortunate deflection off the shield, splashing against Laserdream's legs.
"Gah!" Laserdream let out a wordless shriek of disgust. Another beam flew from her hands, blindingly bright. It lanced into the approximate center of Mush's mass. There was a crack of thunder. Bits of flotsam and jetsam went flying from the point of impact, and Mush was blasted backwards, dislodged garbage trailing behind like the tail of a biohazardous comet. He flew, shedding mass as he went, until he crashed into a wall on the opposite side of the street. The remains of his collection ended up forming a large pile at its base, and at the center of that disgusting nest lay a half-naked little goblin of a man.
The smell, needless to say, was indescribable.
Laserdream looked sheepish. "Um...might have overcooked that one."
In the distance, there was the roar of a steampunk contraption barreling away at high speed. A woman in a red bandanna nervously poked her head out the door of the drug house. "They're gone! We're saved!" she exclaimed. Then she looked up. "...we're fucked. Uh, we surrender?" she said meekly.
"Smart move." said Lady Photon. "Now can someone go check on Mush?"
Laserdream immediately touched her nose. "Not it."
"Not it." Shielder added.
"Darn it."
5:32 PM
"I'll take the evening shift." Gallant told me. "You can sign off for the day."
I stood up from the console desk, stretching. "Thanks. How were things out there?"
Gallant shrugged. "Not too interesting, honestly. I got to join in on two raids, but most if it was just patrols." He replaced me in the chair, the servos in his armor whirring. I turned to leave, and was halfway across the room when he spoke again, tone uncertain. "Um, the others should be back soon, if you want to...?"
I shook my head. It was nice of him to try and make me feel included, but I honestly wasn't that interested in the minutiae of everyone's day. It had been more of a polite question. "I think I'll get dinner, then go to bed."
"Really? It's only five-thirty."
"Well, something could happen at any time, right?" I reasoned. "I figure I should rest while I can."
Gallant chuckled. "True. I guess it would be bad if Lung pops up at 2 AM and we're all dead on our feet."
"Except Miss Militia." I pointed out. Being a Noctis cape pretty much ensured she, at least, would be alert.
"Except her." he agreed. "Man. I don't even know if I can sleep, what with everything."
"Eh, I'm sure I'll manage." I said. Usually, I slept like a baby for eight hours no matter what had gone down in the day. It was simple physiology; your body, like any machine, began wearing out after enough time without necessary maintenance. The last time stress had actually kept me up at night was...well, it had been the day I got my powers, before I was accepted into the Wards...
Gallant mulled that over before concluding he had no more to say. "Good night, Blank."
Topic: Docks state of emergency
In: Boards/Places/America/Brockton Bay
(viewing page 31 of 31)
MajorMayer
Replied on October 30, 2010
So just checking, we haven't had an actual cape fight since the morning, right? Besides New Wave taking out Mush, but he barely counts.
I mean, glad the Protectorate got off their butts to do something, but am I the only who thinks having them all go after a bunch of normals is overkill?
Brocktonite03
Replied on October 30, 2010
Eh, probably, but it looks a lot more impressive than PRT troopers and cops doing the same thing. Honestly a lot of cape stuff seems to be about looking impressive in the end.
Bruce Lao
Replied on October 30, 2010
Update from the central Docks: things very quiet. You can hear the PRT sirens from a mile away. Streets empty, no one dares to go outside. There's been a drone parked over us all day, just watching. Velocity and a bunch of troopers did a raid across the way about an hour ago. Broke down the door, dragged a couple guys out, took them away. Heard rumors one of the ABB bigwigs lived over there, guess it was true?
Feels kind of like a police state tbh, but could be worse. I'm not relaxing, though. Long way until we're out of the woods.
Greentext Enthusiast
Replied on October 30, 2010
- mass surveillance
- breaking and entering
- masked soldiers dragging people away
Damn, when did the PRT get so based?
Brocktonite03
Replied on October 30, 2010
Are you ever going to explain what 'based' means?
I assume it's all legal, given they've got Brandish participating and she has a JD and all. Admittedly I haven't read the PRTCJ in full, but maybe I should.
JBSHardin
Replied on October 30, 2010
So we can say it now, right? Lung is a certified fraud?
skipper98
Replied on October 30, 2010
Uh, please don't tempt fate like that. I'm keeping my mouth shut on Lung until he's confirmed dead/captured/fucked off. Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, and all that.
JBSHardin
Replied on October 30, 2010
Come on, we've all seen the video. One solid hit and he runs for the hills. Always thought it was weird, how everyone talks him up as the biggest deal in town even though he hasn't done jack in years.
Seriously, the PRT's been literally cucking him all day, and where is he, hiding in a hole somewhere? Dragon of the Bay my ass! Chicken of the Bay is more like it.
Bruce Lao
Replied on October 30, 2010
JBSHardin let me guess, you're new in town? Or did you somehow forget about the time he beat the whole Protectorate?
Because I haven't. I was there. Everyone in the Docks that day remembers. I don't believe for a second he'll go away this quietly.
Laser Augment
Replied on October 30, 2010
JBSHardin also, do you even know what 'literally' means?
Tbh not sure if this proves Lung is a coward, or if Blank is just really fucking scary.
skipper98
Replied on October 30, 2010
Speaking of Blank, no one's seen him since morning either, have they? Hope he didn't get a stealth suspension. I mean he didn't even kill anyone this time!
DirtyLarry
Replied on October 30, 2010
I must've watched that video 100 times and I still don't understand how they let Lung get away. If they'd given Blank something better than a wimpy-ass Taser all our problems would be solved but noooo, PRT cares too much about PR and "human rights". Next time, just give the kid a .44 Magnum and let him follow his instincts, man.
User was banned for this post: Don't advocate for extrajudicial killing. Definitely don't advocate for an underage hero to do said killing.
I awoke. Not from a dream—I rarely dreamed, or perhaps rarely remembered dreaming—but from nothingness. Someone was shaking me. "Huh?" I murmured. I had absolutely no idea what time it was. It was dark outside the windows of the warehouse, but at this time of year in New England that could mean anything between seven in the evening and six in the morning. The cots nearby were empty; I looked for the clock mounted on the wall, and saw it read only 8:47 PM. I'd gotten fewer than three hours of sleep. No wonder I didn't feel all that energized.
"A, uh, a situation's come up in the south Docks." A PRT officer, one Trooper Ortiz, bent over me, voice tense behind the fishbowl helmet. "Armsmaster says you're needed."
That had a way of getting me awake. I sat bolt upright. "Is it Lung?"
He shook his head. "Not quite. So it looks like the Empire's made their first move..."
Park Ji-hoo considered himself lucky, by Brockton Bay standards. His parents made enough that they could afford to live in the sweet spot of the Docks—far enough from the ABB's strongholds that their recruitment drives rarely reached, yet close enough that the Nazis had second thoughts about coming here for their jollies. Their church connections had let him score a spot at Immaculata High, a far nicer school than most of his peers could hope for. Maybe it was a fragile existence—inevitable, in a town where a villain in a bad mood could upend your life in a blink—but, on the balance, he had it pretty good.
For most of the day, it seemed like that luck would continue. Morning, afternoon and evening had all passed quietly. There were hopeful whispers that Lung had given up and fled town, that the PRT's show of strength had scared the other gangs from moving on the Docks. Ji-hoo had dared believe their prayers had been answered.
He was wrong. In a godless place like the Bay, the devil was bound to come calling sooner or later. It had all happened so quickly. A rumor, a ripple of unease spreading through the crowded apartment complex he lived in. Rushing into a neighbor's flat to peer out the south-facing windows. Seeing a pack of burly white men approaching, heads shaved and skin branded with Empire tattoos. At their head was a young man with pure white skin and hair.
Alabaster. Ji-hoo had heard the stories about him. A monster who came back no matter how many fatal blows he took. A monster who hated others for having different skin colors, even though his own color was different from anyone Ji-hoo had ever seen. Another cape, a boy in a red costume, swiftly arrived on the scene. The Ward Aegis descended from the sky like a meteor, striking Alabaster with a mighty punch. The villain staggered with blood streaming from his mouth. But mere seconds later his face was pristine, as if nothing had happened. He grinned, he spat taunts and words of hate at the hero—and then the fog came.
Fog. It was a natural weather phenomenon, but from how quickly it moved this instance was clearly anything but. He'd paid attention in history class—Nazis and a mysterious gaseous substance meant—a pulse of animal terror roiled his gut. He wasn't alone. Suddenly they were all jostling with each other, stampeding through the halls and down the stairs, driven by the primal impulse to get out get out get out. By the time he reached the ground floor the fog was already seeping through the walls. It swirled about like a living thing, both sentient and sadistic. It moved to cut people off from exits, to pen them into dead ends, to lick around them like a cat playing with mice. Ji-hoo saw a boy in a red hat draw a pistol and fire three shots blindly into the mist. Nothing happened. The fog enveloped him; he crumpled with hands clawing at his throat and pink foam spewing from his mouth.
Deeper in, he thought he heard the bump of something large and unseen.
Ji-hoo didn't know how long he had spent trapped in that labyrinth. He had no idea where his parents and sisters had gotten to. Eventually he had made it out, punching and kicking his way through a screen window. That proved to be a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire. As it turned out, the ordinary Empire goons were waiting outside for anyone who escaped the trap. All he could do was run, run away from his home and the cursed fog as fast as he could, their cruel laughter following him. He didn't look back to see how close they were; he didn't want to know. His legs pounded mechanically forward, taking him away from his home and everything he knew—then the sound of wailing sirens entered his awareness. He threw himself back, just in time to avoid being struck by a van with green and white lights flashing. A harsh voice blared out through a bullhorn. "Nobody move!"
He dropped to his knees, hands planted firmly atop his head. His father had given him the talk, told him what to do in case he was confronted by a cop. Maybe the PRT weren't cops, exactly, but they were close enough. Something flew overhead, and he flinched. He looked back in time to see a skinhead being blasted off his feet by a jet of pressurized water. Apparently, the nearby Empire members weren't so quick to obey as he had been. Half a dozen helmeted officers came pouring out of the van. A few gave Ji-hoo's kneeling form a glance, but none gave him a second.
The last person to emerge was not like the others. He could have been mistaken for another PRT trooper in the dark, but the symbol on his chest caught the flashing lights and Ji-hoo's stomach dropped into his shoes. By God in heaven. All the heroes in this city, and they sent him. The Oni Killer looked at him, actually looked at him and Ji-hoo's blood froze. He stared at his own distorted reflection in the visor, transfixed like a mouse before a snake.
But the moment lasted only a fraction of a second before Blank moved on. Down the street, the PRT was finishing the job of pacifying the Empire members. The most stubborn of the lot was beaten into submission with a baton, and despite everything Ji-hoo couldn't help but wince at his yells of pain. Blank, though, ignored that like it was nothing. He was staring at the apartment building that had been Ji-hoo's home, its lower levels still shrouded in fog. Whatever thoughts he might have had had behind that mask, he kept to himself.
Once the PRT had finished their work, they moved to flank him on either side. Together, they advanced.
Ji-hoo should have kept running. He should have gotten as far away as he could from this nightmare, this place unfit for mortals to survive in. But—maybe he felt he would be safer with a hero nearby, or maybe he wanted to stick around and try and find his family, or maybe it was morbid curiosity or maybe some combination of the above. Whatever the reason, he stayed put. Then, hesitantly, he got up and began taking cautious steps, trailing a safe distance behind the PRT group.
So it was that he saw what happened next. Once, Park Ji-hoo had often prayed that the heroes would come and deliver his community from the problems that beset it. After this day, he would pray that the heroes never had cause to come again.
So, it's been a while. Life has been getting in the way, but I won't make excuses. I did joke in Chapter 1 this would be lucky to get to an Endbringer fight without dying, and to be honest, the muse definitely feels like it's fading.
Still, not giving up just yet. Take it one chapter at a time. This is the point where things are (per my concepts of a plan) about to get particularly unhinged.