It wasn't long before the Levani found the fortress city Shy'cago presents more of a challenge than any other human containment zone. The condensed "district layer" format the massive city adopted early on has been continuously built upon so heavily even the oldest and most traveled of residents would find knowing how to get around the whole city by heart quite impossible. Each district, starting from the lowest level, 1, to the highest, 5, separates business types and socioeconomic classes; lower class and industrial jobs on the bottom layers, middle class and clerical/pencil pusher facilities in the middle, and the higher end jobs up in the sun with the higher class's condos. Ever since the Levani walled up the sides to prevent escape, the lower class rarely see the light of day; streets and the remnants of skyscrapers puzzle together under huge fluorescent lights (each district is about 4 stories high; some buildings are shorter, some span into several districts) in webs and mazes of traffic, buildings and development.

Between gaping holes made by the Levani's weaponry left after their quick grab for control and natural gaps and open areas in the city's construction, 4% of the 1st District is open to sun (all from the damage of Levani weaponry) 25% of 2nd District, 35% of the 3rd, 50% of the 4th and 75% of the 5th; generally the fringe of the district is residential and more open air, making the fortress city appear like a gleaming mountain from farther away. Also on the top layers are public (and formerly public government buildings now utilized by the Levani) areas like the giant Fairway Park.

Fairway Park has been oddly quiet, as of late. Of course, parks have for many years been naturally quiet places; long ago a pact of sorts had formed over public parks between heroes and villains--people that heroes (even some villains) care about should be allowed to stroll without fear somewhere, and villains loved the idea of a convenient safe zone for business or simply to relax--the pact doesn't actually exist, though people that breached it tended to make the wrong sort of enemies.Even without the heroes' presence, though, the park seemed to retain its role of "safe haven," if not from habit then from convenience. Past occasional LDE patrols, the vast fields, lake, and forests remain unwatched. It is said that somewhere, hidden behind the trees, a forgotten monument of a forgotten war carefully hides the recently escaped Dr. Deus X. Machina's base of operations for a coming rebellion.

(Ophelia Evans, Second District, Ophelia's Apartment)

Ophelia sighed to herself, pushing back several choppy layers of black hair that never seemed to manage to stay out of her face. Fingers stained in autumn hues of red and orange wiped tiny beads of perspiration from her forehead, and she set down her brush, almost with relief. It would appear that this piece had at last removed all traces of itself from her mind and forced them to canvas. Pensive eyes, autumn-toned themselves, scanned slowly over the contours of the work, and she nodded slowly, satisfied for the most part.

No longer dulled with her absorption in the task before her, the pain came rushing back to her senses, and the young woman winced, crossing the main room of her small apartment quickly to the bathroom. Wrenching the rusty tap, she thrust her arms under the water that issued forth, hissing slightly as the cold liquid made contact with the burns that seemed to permanently lick up her arms. She was out of ointment, and knew that she should obtain more, but...

Shaking her head at her own pathetic brand of cowardice, she splashed her face a few times to refresh herself, though she never bothered trying to deal with the paint. She was never free of it long enough to expend the effort, anyway, and sometimes it helped to remind her that good things could come from her hands as well. And now you pity yourself. More the fool you.

She did not straighten the nondescript black sweater or brush invisible dirt from plain darkwash jeans as she might once have done, but instead opened the medicine cabinet and retrieved a roll of white gauze bandages. Normally, the one advantage to living all the way down in the Second District was that nobody bothered to look too closely at you, and so she rarely covered the burns. But in the absence of something to dull the pain, she did not want the raw red welts accidentally brushing against anything, and so she wrapped her arms, palm to elbow, leaving room to move her thumbs.

Deciding it would do for the moment, Ophelia donned a black trenchcoat, the solitary item in the tiny hall closet, before stepping outside into the chilly early spring morning. There wasn't a lot of light down here, especially not on the South end, where Ophelia's crummy apartment resided. Sticking her hands deep into her pockets, she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the sidewalk in front of her feet, studiously avoiding eye contact with the homeless she passed. What had she to offer them anyway? She was a few paintings a month shy of joining them, in all honesty.

Being unnoticed hadn't always come naturally to her, but she had learned the lesson well, and so was able to move through the darkened streets, illuminated here or there with artificial light (where such devices continued to work, anyway), letting her feet take her automatically to the little grocery shop down the road. There, she might supply herself with something to eat, and maybe some aloe if she was lucky. Occasionally, the owner even got the T.V. to work, and she might catch a glimpse of the news. All Levani-sponsored, of course, so there would be little useful information, but... she didn't get out much, and it was really all she had, save the occasional abandoned newspaper from a week before.

Ophelia shivered, and pulled her coat tighter about herself. Winter seemed loath to leave Shy'cago this year, not that it ever went quickly.

(Crazie Crawford, 1st District, Unknown Alley)

Just below Ophelia's feet lay a dank polluted cave. Though there was little sun where the starving artist resided there was even less that penetrated to the dark underbelly of Shy'cago in district 1. There was little sign of order or beauty here, much of the apartments and homes having long fallen into dilapidation. Only the dregs of society remained. Hustlers, drug dealers and their cooks, prostitutes, addicts, thieves, murderers, and rapists. All the scum who were unfit to reside in the levels above, or those unlucky enough to be born down here knew nothing but this bottom rung on the cities totem pole. Littering the streets were husks of cars, debris, broken glass, cockroaches and rats. Thick dark clouds from the industrial plants and factories clogged the air of the lower most district, allowing only diffused light from the flickering florescent lights which made up the sky. The noxious fog like toxins casting the entire district into shades of rusted greys, choking blacks, unearthly browns and synthetic greens. A near constant whirring sound echoed in the enclosed space and static filled the air evidence of the hundreds upon hundreds of electrical plants which powered the levels above. Massive black monoliths stretched down from the artificial heavens, the lower most reaches of the skyscraper spires which extended through the length of the metropolitan mountain before bursting out into the sky in all their gleaming splendor.

It is in this mechanical hell that a man by Benjamin Crawford had taken up residence for many long years. His mind, much like his place of residence, a charred and eroding husk of what it once was. The sound of garbage bag shoes clapped against the cracking pavement as the Crawford ran down the thin alley between two power plants. Clutched in his filthy hands was am unidentified object stuffed haphazardly into a paper bag. PANG! Sparks erupted from the metal wall nearest Ben as he charged his way around a corner, narrowly avoiding the 9mm round.

"Gotta go. Gotta go. Gotta run. Gotta hide. Gotta go." The bum mumbled as he made a beeline across the street, hoping to evade his pursuers.

"There he is!" Yelled a man behind him before the crack of gunfire exploded behind him, peppering his surroundings with bullets. Benjamin zigzagged awkwardly in a desperate attempt to avoid the fire. Stupid luck prevented a direct hit, but it could not stop the painful graze which tore across his thigh before he managed to round the next corner. Gripping his leg Benjamin hobbled only a few steps before stopping to gaze in horror at the brick wall only a handful of paces ahead.
Trapped.

"Hand it over you, thieving son of a bitch" Benjamin whirled to face the three men who had pinned him in this corner, each holding their guns aloft in his direction. The crazed man gripped the bagged object tighter, using his shoulder to shield it from view as if it was his own child in need of protection. Eyes wide with fright darted around looking for a way out, a futile effort. Crawford's muscles tensed when the gun fired, his eyes remained clenched even as the small projectile slowed to a stop only a few feet in front of him. Though they were still tightly shut, eyelids fluttered as if in a deep trance. "Oh shi-"

The small gang leaders head exploded in a shower of bones and gore as the bullet was thrown back with tremendous force. Simultaneous screams of horror came from the two henchmen as they fled the scene as fast as they could.
Soft lavender eyes opened to find the alley empty, save for the headless body which remained twitching violently even as Benjamin tore the object from its brown paper prison. Crazie Crawford stumbled backwards into the wall behind him, slowly sagging to the floor as he drained the amber alcohol contents of the bottle down his gullet.

(Soren "Nightstalker" Hawkins, Fifth District, Levani Technology Storage Unit #12)

A heist, Soren had discovered long ago, was a delicate thing. A balancing act between extreme finesse and precision, counterweighted by a need for swiftness and decisive motion. He had never found a challenge quite like it.

A challenge only amplified by the fact that he was attempting it in the fifth district, in the early hours of the morning. Unlike the district 1, where he had been born and raised, or even district 3, where he currently resided, the law of the Levani was in almost full-force here, circumnavigated only by the cunning and the very, very stupid. Soren smiled wryly to himself, well aware that his own penchant for taking jobs like this one had a tendency to tread quite closely the line between the two.

Booted feet made no noise as he ran across the rooftops of the similarly-sized corporate buildings of central first. These were not quite the towering monoliths of slightly further uptown, but all the same he was at least thirty floors above ground at this moment. The target building was just up ahead, a relatively unassuming structure which in reality held a very important piece of Levani technology: full city maps, encompassing each section of every district. Information was a powerful tool, and one that a number of people would pay dearly to have.

Unlike most of his jobs, however, Soren was not on contract for this one. In a rare show of personal initiative, he had chosen this heist for himself and only himself. The hour had been selected carefully; although the beginnings of dawn were already upon the horizon, this was the time when the Levani would change the staff of this facility, the time when he would most easily be able to slip in and out without detection.

His entrance point, staked out the day before, was a window on the tenth floor, which was mostly used for storage of low-importance goods. Things pirated from humans, in other words. Various televisions, computers, and the like were piled inside, evidence of the tightening control on information the Levani were exercising. Nowadays, nothing made it into the stream of communication that was not of their construction, save perhaps for what was put out there by the occasional rebellion, always swiftly located and crushed flat. Soren had once done a job for a being more machine than man, who might have been able to surpass the Levani systems, but he knew not what had happened to the mortal who called himself god.

The thief tested the window, only to find that it was, predictably, locked. This presented less of a problem for him than it would have for most, and he produced a thin line of wire from somewhere in the loose folds of his black clothing. The Levani in their arrogance had not believed that anyone would dare to steal from them, or at least not by entering from a floor a third of the way up (or two-thirds of the way down, as Soren saw it) and so they had not bothered to arm the windows against intrusion.

The lock itself was child's play for the one often referred to as Nightstalker, and he was in moments later. It was darker in here, but this was no issue, and eerie red eyes scanned quickly over the wares inside. Nothing worth spending time on. In the ceiling, however, was what he'd been looking for: a ventilation shaft.

Deftly climbing a stack of crates which presumably contained old computers, Soren entered the shaft itself with only minimal difficulty. He was quite tall and thus maneuvering in here would be difficult, but he was counting on not needing to come out the same way he'd made it in. Careful to replace the cover behind him, he crawled over it and patiently networked his way back up to the twenty-third floor. Why this particular location had been chosen for the device, he did not know, and the gap in his understanding of the situation troubled him. Still, there was always a calculated risk involved in his line of work, and it was with this in mind that he exited the shaft, dropping noiselessly onto the floor below.

This room, he imagined, must once have been an office of some kind. It had the neutral white walls and gray carpet of so many others like it, and a black desk with several layers of dust on it was pushed up against one wall. Leaving his observation for the moment, Soren advanced toward the door, pressing his ear against the wood. Sometimes, he wished his ears were as strong as his eyes, but you learned to work with what you had. Discerning only silence, he cracked open the door, then pushed it ajar the rest of the way, not letting it make a noise as it fell closed. Glancing down both ends of the hallway, he removed a silvery pocketwatch from the belt at his waist and depressed the button. A nearly inaudible click was heard, and the hands informed him that it was precisely 6:42. Perfect. The guards from last shift had just done their final sweep of this side of the building, and the next lot wouldn't be by for another few minutes at least.

Sprinting down the hall with no less silence than than he would have walked it, he kept track of room numbers as he passed them, stopping abruptly in front of 2312. Bingo. Testing the knob, he found it unlocked, and pushed it open carefully, peering inside. A single person, human, stood at the console to a large computing system, eyes fixed on the glowing screens in front of him, and Soren grimaced. This was going to make timing all the more important.

Slipping past the door, he was able to advance on the man from behind, but his image was reflected in the screens as he got close. "What the-" the man, a short, balding fellow in a lab coat, got not further, as Soren firmly grasped him in a sleeper hold, causing him to drop like a stone to the ground, unconscious, but not dead. Excess killing was wasteful, and it was not frequently that anyone attributed a death to the Nightstalker, at least not when something was also stolen.

Without any time to spare, Soren perused the contents of the room, finding the device, a Levani-style memory unit of impressively small size for all the data it held, inside one of the machines. Ejecting it carefully, he slipped the roughly triangular bit of technology into a pocket, and was about to exit the way he had come in when he heard voices.

Shit. it seemed that his need to incapacitate the man had put him behind schedule. Either that, or the morning shift was early today. Glancing around, he spotted another window. Running over to the clear glass pane, he observed that it was next to a building with maybe only eighteen stories. Calculated risk. That was the name of his game, and it was much less risky to get out now than have to contend with Levani forces or their human mercenaries.

Decision thus made, Soren threw open the window and climbed onto the ledge, the voices getting closer by the second. He spared no time for contemplation of what he was about to do; this was one of those times where crossing the line between cunning and stupid was best not lingered upon. Gathering well-trained legs underneath him, he sprang. There was a moment of weightlessness and a slight accompanying vertigo, and then he was falling, and fast. He hit the roof hard, but had no time to stop and regain his wind, as shouts were drifting out the window floors above.

He was down to the ground level and out of sight by the time any of the Levani noticed the open window.

The man known as Doc Anima sighed with relief as the plain white van he was driving slipped through the gates of the more then reasonably sized house, which could have been a small mansion and into the open mouth of the building's garage. His hands shook slightly, as the engine stopped it mechanical purr and died. The trip from the under levels of the city (which he had to sneak into anyways) had been overly long and stressful. With all the droid patrols in the streets during the night, he had been forced to lead the small caravan through a maze of alleyways and sidestreets, knowing full well that if his permits where scanned too often, they would be discovered to be falsified. he didn't want to be arrested again or have the droids demand to search the remaining two vans. They would know just who he was, when they found a German Shepard and a Spotted Hyena driving or the equipment he was moving or the Smilodon and German Shepard in t he back of his van.

Alexander opened the door and slide out, as the second of his vans pulled in to the left side of his transport. He stretched his long fingers, as there was a soft squeal of tires and the revving of an engine. The third van came speeding in, the brakes pressing uselessly on the wheels, as it smashed into the expensive looking Lamborghini Gallardo (which looked like it had a good layer of dust on it). The supposedly mad scientist sighed, as a driver side door of the third van popped open and a Hyena gracefully jumped out.

The massive beast walked around and looked at the damage she had inflicted. There was a dent in the driver side door from the first impact of the van, followed by a huge scrape to the bumper. The window of that door was spiderwebed with a thousand cracks. What made it worst was the support beam on the other side of the sports car. The expensive little thing had been crushed against it by the van, which was mostly unharmed, save for a couple of dings in the bumper.

"This isn't good" said Alice, in her deep, rumbling voice that was strangely feminine.

"Why'd you do that" asked Alex in a tired voice, walking over to inspect the damage for himself.

"There were some droids at the end of the street" the big Hyena answered.

"Did they see you?"

"No"

"Alright" said Doc Anima, "Jack, Everett, Courtney, you three start unloading the stuff. Me and Alice will go find our employer and find out where we're setting up shop."

There was a chorus of "Yes Dad", as the doors on the back of the vans opened by themselves and ramps started to descend. Ramps spurted from the bumpers, allowing the altered animals to walk into the transports and grab the thick metal/fiber cords attached to the strange looking tubes and carts in the back of the vans. Alex and Alice headed for a door at the back of the garage.

Dixie sat in her robe, the silken patterns being blow gently by the breeze that wafted in from the open window. Her hair was put back in ornate sticks, and she sat contently in her living room with a cup of espresso. Sure, she was due to have company, but Dixie didn’t see why she needed to get ready yet, he wasn’t due to be there for the next few hours and Dixie was sort of enjoying the down time. She’d sit down, watch the latest celebrity news, plan her latest crime, and finish her espresso as she fed a traitorous colleague to the shark she was raising in the outdoor pool. Sure, it was only one shark, but Dixie was working on a tighter budget than usual.

The mental reviews of her plans were soon shattered by a rather large crashing sound from the front of the house. Dixie jumped a bit, spilling espresso onto the Aztec patterned coffee table top as she let out a small ‘meep’ of surprise. Cursing under her breath Dixie stomped over to the kitchen, leaving her drink on the counter as she grabbed a handful of paper towels. Hastily she wiped up the mess her drink had made, noting that the table would probably be sticky since she hadn’t had the time to clean it properly.

Stomping down to the garage area Dixie grumbled various obscenities under breath. If it was another “hero” looking for a fight she was going to feed them to her pool shark too. Or maybe she’d just go the route of Buffalo Bill and wear their skin as her very own homemade hero suit. Throwing upon the door to her garage Dixie scowled, beginning a rant.

“We are not a free enough race for you latex wearing bimbos to be coming into my house in the middle of—“ Dixie stopped mid sentence, eyes going over the disaster that was her garage. Her eyes went from Doc Anima, to his hyena, to the mess that was made of her unused car. “What in the name of Wera Vang’s ghost is this shit!?” Dixie cursed, her hands going through the front part of her hair which caused strands to fall out of her updo. Worriedly she charged over to her ruined vehicle, moving as if to touch the wreckage but pulling her hands back before she could touch anything.

“I know that as a villain you have to make an entrance Doc.” Dixie began, her eyes closed as her finger messaged the space between her eyebrows. “But for the love of god, can you not ruin my belongings in the process?” The last bit came out as a growl before she turned around, glass breaking under the thick soles of her Uck slippers. Dixie’s left eye twitched violently for a moment, causing her contact to pop out slightly. Snarling she popped the lens back in before walking over to the Doctor.
“But really where are my—“ She stopped again, looking back at the car in a defeated manner. “My car? Really? Why the car? Why!? I don’t drive it so that it doesn’t get ruined and now look at it!” She ranted again, throwing an arm up in its direction. “I mean—No, forget it.” The designer took in a deep breath of her air. “I’m calm. I’m zen. Come inside, let me show you around.” Dixie began. “You’re going to be making me something better than a Lamborghini anyway.”

As soon as the human woman had appeared, ranting and making a general ruckus about the car, Alice wished she was anywhere else in the world. Not that she really cared about the damage to the car or what this woman thought about her, Hell's Teeth, she could care less. It was the simple fact that her father, that man that created her and who was also her boss, was going to get in trouble about it. Indeed, she could feel her fur bristle, as the female human placed the blame on Alex and demanded why he had wrecked the car. The only reason she didn't let the bitch suffer a scalding tongue lashing about being rude, was the hand that her father laid in her shoulder.

"Well" said Doc Anima, his face relaxing somewhat now that the ranting of his new employer was over, "We thought that a wrecked car would go over better then a house swarming with Levani security droids."

Alex couldn't help but wonder for the hundredth time, why he was taking this job. There were of course a list of reasons he was working for the spoiled, rich villainess. The top one was that the world had changed since he had been sent to jail. Nearly all of his contacts and suppliers had either been arrested, killed or disappeared. All of his funds had been seized after his capture or the bank had been abandoned while the alien scourge had concentrated the human population in the various walled cities. He had fondly thanked every deity he could remember that they hadn't found his lab and that his experiments and children had been safe. However he needed new contacts to supply him with materials and he needed the money to pay them, which is the only reason he had wormed his way into the city to meet with Dixie Cassata in the first place. it was the only reason he had spend the better part of the night and early morning avoiding patrols through three layers of city.

"You don't need to show us around Ma'am" he continued, "Just show us where you want us to show up and we'll get started on your order."

(Melody Wiesse, 2nd district, Ma's Place)

It was quiet here, in the early morning. Melody sipped her hot chocolate, letting the small breakfast settle and warm her to the core. Ma's Place remained her favorite restaurant by far, for more than just the food--though the food was fantastic--so she would often make the trek from her home on the west side of 4th district just to catch the sun rising over that empty balcony. It was nice, somehow; looking down, she could see the street without being in the rush of traffic or walking through the slush. Right on the rim, she would always see the sun but never feel the rain. The atmosphere was homely and small-town, but Ma made homemade food rivaling any 5th district eatery. The restaurant had the best of both sides in most ever aspect, she'd found, and it gave her a great place to think.

Leaving her dirty tray on the counter along with 200 credits, Melody left at 8; the wiry old owner was normally very adamant about customers cleaning trays themselves, but she found early on that the prospect of wads of cash every morning melted Ma's iron will faster than butter. It kept her restaurant in business, too; as far as Melody was concerned, Ma may as well work for that sizable and necessary tip.

Down on ground level, Melody knew she would have to check in on business in the 5th district; though with the sun shining down on her, however faintly, she didn't have the heart to leave it just yet. Walking southwest along the edge of the ceiling above, she was about to take a public elevator down when a man had caught her eye. Dirty clothes, hunched posture, and a very cunning face; his eyes were frantic with an odd sort of ecstasy. The wrong sort, Melody had decided; she watched as he, with a wide smile, led two Levani droids deeper in to the maze of 2nd district. As much as she hated the Levani, spies and snitches were worse; business could wait until she dealt with the traitorous filth that had wandered so conveniently into her path. Trailing them for a few blocks, they weren't hard to follow. Before she could think of a good way to dispose of the three, however, the group had made it to their apparent destination. The man talked excitedly and pointed across the road into a grocery store. Melody didn't catch many of the words, but she'd gleaned enough to figure out what this was: the scum had found a Super.

Everyone knew the Levani's policy on Supers, even before their takeover. Of course heroes had been exempt before, but the general concept stayed the same even so. Those with power would be taken in for testing, incarcerated or killed; none could exist outside of the Levani's knowledge. People with powers went out of their way to hide them as the Levani had ways of discovering the unwary, but rarely were they ever turned in by humans--the exception being those just desperate enough for the reward. The man grew more excited as a girl in a black trenchcoat walked out of the grocery store, and the Levani droids moved quickly on their target with the beggar just behind. No use in being discreet now, Melody thought with a frown; sliding her pipe out from under her jacket, she quickly began to play a fast but eerie tune that echoed down the street. A swirling mist quickly surrounded her, until Melody--now in a black mask with a long beak and pied clothing--eventually floated back into focus; sewer lids shook and scratching noises could be heard from below.

Seconds later, the sidewalk was covered in rats; seconds after that, the streets were clear, along with the droids and the homeless man. Melody, mask-less once more, now stood behind the girl; softly, in a bored tone, she simply said, "You should really be more careful, dear."

(Ophelia Evans, Second district, in front of Ed's Grocery)

Ophelia had frozen as soon as she saw the droids and a homeless man who she knew lived in the shadow of her apartment building. She understood that she was in for trouble, in a big way, but she wasn't quite sure what to do now that it had come to this. The young woman felt the first shades of panic begin to cloud her mind, and clamped down on the feeling viciously before it could manifest as anything dangerous. Stop. You must not panic, must not feel. Remain calm. There is no proof.

She was not so foolish as to use her powers in front of others, especially not those who might benefit from the information. This man had to be acting on nothing but a hunch. Perhaps she could talk her way out of it... yes, surely that was the best way to handle the situation without things getting messy. And painful.

Her train of thought was interrupted when she caught a melody on the air. Is that... a flute? But why would someone be playing a flute here, of all places? It was so absurd it was almost laughable. Happy music, in the second district of a Levani-controlled Shy'cago. Perhaps it was because the situation seemed so unreal, but she barely reacted as the rats came. She felt some of the little creatures running over her shoes, though none of them bit her, and she remained still even as they left, taking the drones and the homeless man with them.

Ophelia did not move again until the voice sounded from behind her. She started, and darted forward, wrenching her bandaged hands out of her pockets and holding them in front of her, as if at the ready, even while turning to face the... woman, she supposed from the voice. Unfortunately, the unadulterated surprise caused a nearby the bulb in a nearby streetlamp to shatter, sending shards of glass flying in all directions. The young artist's fingers curled against her palms, nails biting painfully into already-burned skin, and she lowered her arms, forcing her breathing to steady. She sensed no immediate hostility from the woman, after all, and the she could swear that just a moment ago... but perhaps not. There was no need to get defensive... yet. Best to try and control herself, rein in the heat that she could feel even now building in her arms, ready to manifest in external flame.

"You..." she trailed off and shook her head. That wasn't what she wanted to say. "Who are you?"

(Richard LeRoy, Second District, Alley by Ed's Grocery)

Richard was scouting right now. For the past few months, he had been keeping tabs of former allies and the other villains, with the hope of gaining their aid. Pulling out his notepad, he quickly ran over the list. As of yet, there didn't seem to be many supers that had been around. Still, Richard had decided to follow the lead of the pyrokinetic that he got shortly before the arrival. An interesting lead, he thought. Dangerous, but interesting.

A small group of men passed by the alley, followed by a Levani droid. Richard pressed himself against the wall, making sure he wasn't noticed, and sighed in relief when they passed. A pity he was only doing reconnaissance; he missed the days of skewering with the twin spikes and the consumption. Oh, the glorious consumption, the sustenance of his magnificent power. Today, however, was not a day for feasting upon the scum of the lower districts. Suddenly, a quick, but mystical tune played. Shrugging it off, he smoothed his suit jacket, and was almost ready to make his entrance, when the sewer lids rattled, and rats poured out of them. He stayed back, somewhat appalled and disgusted that another super had made it here before him.

Rats? What is this, the Pied Piper or something?

He waited behind the alley, until he heard one voice say, "You should really be more careful, dear."

That's odd. He had never heard that voice before. Probably a super that was under the radar.

Someone else replied, "You... Who are you?"

Richard recognized the voice. He had heard it several times before; after all, she was his target. Richard would wait here for now, until this conversation played out.

(Joseph "Cocoon" Orson, 2nd District, Random Street)

Fortress. Fortress was one of those good-hearted types with an overloaded sense of justice, unafraid of putting his own life on the line for the sake of others. Lucky for him then, that he had been born with the uncanny ability of being too large and too resistant for harm to bring down. It was just the excuse someone like him, young and willing to change the world, needed to go out in colourful attire and defend the general population, uncaring for the Levani that would undoubtedly hunt him down. After killing off the heroes they weren't going to simply let them reappear again, surely.

It was approaching night and those fortunate enough to have a decent home were returning to them. Sitting on one of the many benches that littered the streets was an elderly male with white, withered hair and a wrinkled face whose eyes were following a younger man striding along on the other side of the road. The old bench occupier knew the lad, not through any form of relationship, but from following him for the last few days. He was a thin boy with tough arms and a pale face who looked no older than eighteen. By no means was he well dressed, probably because of his past, which was as good an explanation as any for his recent activities. The boy as a mugger. A thief. Every evening he would leave home and wonder the streets for a while, searching like a hungry bird of prey for any bystander that looked feeble enough to not put up a fight. He had spotted the man on the bench, but had deemed him just large enough to maybe beat the light from him, especially with the wooden cane he was leaning on, to be not worth the attention. His usual targets were usually women of an age that suggested death could be just around the corner. So far he hadn't encountered any problems.

The elderly male had been following him closely each night for about a week, and knew where he was headed. The was a certain alleyway that had proved to be perfect for the occasional mugging, and plus, it was nearby. All the lad would have to do was wait for someone making their way home to pass by. Then he would take out that pocket knife of his and a short while later leave a little richer. The watcher rose from the bench as the boy withdrew into the shadows of the graffiti covered alley and, leaning on his cane, stopped close enough to see what was going on, but far away enough to not become a curious observer, or a threat. The lad had also come to a halt and was leaning against a brick wall, drawing from a pocket a single cigarette. Undoubtedly this was his chosen terrain for the night. The older of the two reached for a makeshift radio within his jacket and held it close to his lips.

“Fortress,” he said with a scratchy, alcohol effected tone into the plastic speaker. “He's here, where I told you he would be.”

“Thank you,” came the answer only a moment later. It was the voice of the young Fortress, who would soon appear to save the day, no doubt. “You're doing a great service to our community. Thank you for the tip off. Your actions today will save-”

The elder cut of the connection before Fortress could finish his unnecessary praise. Ever since he had saved a little shop from an armed robbery he considered himself a hero. He even had his own uniform to protect his identity, and no question about it, he was beginning to make a local name for himself in the second district. He was becoming one of the saviours that once was before the Levani's arrival. If he was to be defeated then his enemy would steal that gathering fame, converting it into relished infamy.

The man continued to watch for no more than a few minutes before a woman older than he innocently entered the alleyway. She passed the waiting lad by without a second look, unaware of the sudden blink of reflecting steel that appeared momentarily as the thief took hold of his weapon. Fortress lived nearby, and if the older male's rough calculations were correct then he would either be arriving or already watching. He was already watching. No sooner had the mugger started his vicious threat, an enormous shape came charging from the end of the alleyway, emerging to reveal a third male. He stood much taller than six feet, with a physique the many steroid fiends would kill for. His attire was completely black and hugged his figure tightly coupled with a hood of the same colour that cast a menacing shadow over his face. More than a hero he would appear to be a villain, but he was supposed to be threatening, and his actions were those of one most noble. The woman stumbled aside with a grasp of fright and the thief stepped backwards as the giant approached. He didn't flee, though. As a massive fist drove forwards towards his face he lunged at the hero's gut with his knife. The result was not a pretty one. As the fist collided blood burst from his nose as his jaw could be heard crunching and snapping as a result of the sheer force. The blow had stopped his strike with ease. The knife never came close to the target, and as the teenager crumbled in pain he dropped his weapon and began to weep, as he attempted to crawl away.

“That's it. You better run,” Fortress announced proudly. He then turned to the frightened lady and bent down to her height. “You have nothing to fear. I shall accompany you to your residence and make sure that none of the vile villainy of this place brings you harm.”

As he spoke, however, the man who had limited himself to simply observing approached, walking as if age had never been an issue. He was carrying his cane in one hand, no longer using it for it's intended purpose. As he drew closer his appearance began to flicker, and like a television screen that suddenly loses signal the exterior of an aging man vanished, revealing the black, sophisticated armour that pertained to the villain known as Cocoon. Fortress' vision fell upon him just as the illusion disappeared, and in his eyes Joseph Orson saw recognition.

“Cocoon?” he said to himself as he stood up to full height. Momentarily he turned to the women at his side before returning hi view to the villain. “Go home. I will take care of him.” She escaped.

The wooden cane Cocoon wielded also began to flicker, and in an instant it became the dark sheath of his main weapon; Cocoon's deadly sword. The blade was almost as famous as he was in Shy'cago, and he was making no effort to hide either his infamous identity or the rumours of his dangerous disposition. With his free hand he withdrew the gleaming blade from it's protective case and drove the razor tip through the thief that had been dragging himself across the road. Life left him in a single gasp, and as Cocoon pulled the weapon free from the lifeless flesh he assumed an offensive position, making his intentions clear to the hero.

“He did not need to die, you creature,” Fortress spat in disgust. “Why?”

Cocoon used to enjoy the engaging conversation that would take place before a face off. He would try and instill fear into his opponent as the other commented on his vile ways, but that was no longer interesting. It was a waste of time, in fact, and all that mattered were his objectives. Not idle chat. He had ended the mugger's life simply for the sake of seeming more, in a single word, evil. The more evil he seemed the further his name would reach. Any publicity was good publicity, and for Cocoon, bad was publicity was good publicity.

Not wishing to spend more time than necessary Cocoon began to charge his body, or what could be called his body, with electricity. It took moments, and what Fortress saw was The Cocoon Suit begin to crackle with static blue. Then he vanished, reappearing in the blink of an eye behind Fortress, back to back, leaving a blurred trail of his sudden movement behind him. It was all Fortress saw of Cocoon before the blade split through his back and emerged from the front of his torso. It was unexpected. Normally cutting edge's were barely able to open gashes in his skin, but this blade had traversed him entirely with little effort. Honestly, Cocoon was prepared for such an enemy. His sword had been charged with bio-electricity also, heated to such a point that it slipped through organs like a knife through butter. On top of that, the electricity coursing through the steel would also be wonderfully conducted through the large portion of fluids in the human body. Joseph silently sheathed his weapon once more and turned around as the Fortress collapsed, his body twitching violently as voltage surged through him. His eyes were wide open in shock, and Cocoon realized that, like most of his opponents, no matter how tough they were, the pure shock that jolted his mind would leave him brain-dead if he survived. As unlikely as that was, however, Cocoon didn't want to take any chances. Once again he poured energy into his sword and in a flash cut through the hero's vulnerable neck. The head rolled aside along with the hood that had been severed, and Cocoon grasped it by the hair. It was the face of a boy no older than sixteen who had foolishly chosen to fight the corruption that lurked in the Levani controlled city. The younger they were the better. The death of someone still not an adult made even more of an impact. It would bring him the attention he desired.

Still holding the head, Cocoon sheathed his weapon once again in the casing that he strapped to his back and grabbed Fortress' corpse by the leg. Even as he dragged the body out into the open road it continued to jolt, still doing so as he he dropped it. Triumphantly, Cocoon ascended his arm with the severed head above him. Without a doubt some sort of Levani form of vigilance would capture the sight, along with those in the surrounding buildings that had heard the commotion, but that wasn't the villain's main intention. Fortress hadn't been an important target. Only a necessary one. The boy had been the apprentice of a much larger hero, someone most of the city and the world knew. His death would undoubtedly bring that attention to Cocoon, and if he was able to slay the defender of justice, well... he would be one step closer to becoming the ultimate villain.

(Melody Wiesse, 2nd District, In front of Ed's Grocery)

"You... Who are you?"

Smiling, she replied, "Oh, I'm unimportant, really... Though if you must know, I go by Melody these days." She glanced up at the broken light bulb, then to the girl's arms. Are those... bandages? she mused. "It seems we're having control issues," she said, eyebrow raised. Melody remembered, albeit vaguely, what that had been like, ages ago. Inexperience coupled with dangerously unstable power, yes... Good times. She'd been driven out of more than her share of villages, towns, and countries for that; though these days you didn't just get chased away for making that sort of... Trouble? Chaos? Fun, that's the word. She thought with the slightest smirk, though it faded quick as it'd come. No use in reminiscing, of course; it's been a long time since having unstable powers without a mentor or ability to train has meant anything but a future in acting as a tool or ending up dead.

Standing straight, Melody clasped her hands behind her back with a sigh; after glancing around, she murmured, "Please, do walk with me," though while her tone was sincere, it didn't sound like a request. Something about memories of the old days--and not having many clear ones of them left--gave her the urge to help this kid out, if only for a little while. "Do you have the contacts you need and a back-up place to stay? Any mentors or affiliations? You seem rather... new, to the business, you see. I could leave, if you like, but..." Her eyebrow remained raised in appraisal. "The Levani will be looking for you, now."

(Ophelia Evans, Second District, in front of Ed's Grocery)

Ophelia's face took on the stony cast characteristic of one who worked very hard to prevent any trace of emotion from escaping into the wider world. Indeed, this was precisely what she was doing, except for her, the stakes were higher than mere dignity. This woman, whoever she was, could not have been more correct about either the control issues or the relative inexperience she possessed when it came to her powers.

The traces of amusement she felt from the woman might once have been irritating, but as it was, Ophelia knew well that she probably would be something of a joke to anyone who knew what they were doing. "Contacts? Back-ups?" she echoed as she fell in step with the one who called herself Melody. she had not missed the reference to "these days," but she had no idea what it meant or even how to go about finding out, so she simply tucked the little tidbit of information away in the back of her mind.

"I... do not have any of those things." Frankly, she knew she should not be speaking to the woman out in the open like this, but her situation and Melody's general attitude made it clear that she was not in control of this situation any longer. Besides, what did she have to lose? The Levani would be looking for her, and they would find her. It mattered little if Melody was a spy or something else, for should she prove to be so, Ophelia was only hastening the inevitable by following her. If she wasn't... well, maybe it wouldn't come to capture after all.

Seizing on that thought, she shook her head, tousled hair growing a bit more disheveled with the motion. "Please... I will not ask you to leave. I have very little understanding of... this," she said vaguely, gesturing backwards in the direction of the street light. "I'm just... I only ever wished to be an artist, but it seems I am not quite so lucky." She'd become quite good at laying low, and even suppressing her powers for the most part, but apparently she was not as good as she had thought, if the Levani had been able to find her with only the aid of a homeless man who had never seen her start a fire.

Ophelia watched the cracked lines in the sidewalk pass under her feet as she walked. Keep your head down and yourself inconspicuous. That had been her plan, insofar as she'd ever had one. It had worked for six months without interruption. How was it that it had all chosen this moment to fall apart?

Looking back up at the woman beside her, she realized with some trepidation that she had failed to introduce herself. Six months, and a lifetime of manners had already escaped her. You didn't really give out your name too freely down here. "Ophelia," she said belatedly, and then there was a pause. "My mother liked literature," she added, answering the most common follow-up question before it could be asked.

(Soren "Nightstalker" Hawkins, Third District, Abandoned Warehouse)

The trip from the Fifth down to the Third district was uneventful. Having found a suitable place for a quick-change, Soren was now casually dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt deep blue in color, and a leather aviator's jacket, easily passable for a denizen of Three or Four, and thus not really all that out of place in Five either.

He checked the pocketwatch again, which along with about five knives of varying sizes, had survived the clothing transition, and found that he still had plenty of time before he was expected at his regular place of employment, a District Four bar by the name of Hole in the Wall. It wasn't, actually, a hole in the wall, but one of those places that the upper-middle-class liked to go to when they wished to feel as though they were either letting loose or slumming, and it saved them the bodily hazard of a trip to the actual slums.

He didn't really care for any of his customers, regular or otherwise, but the job provided a decent cover. The Nightstalker was estimated at one of the wealthiest men in Shy'cago, why would he need a job? Plus, the people that showed up to the Wall at night easily accepted the whole 'slightly-luminous red eyes' thing as some sort of fetish, and so that, too, was not an issue as it might be were he to work somewhere slightly less absurd.

Presently, he arrived in front of a building on the far west side of Third. To an untrained eye, it looked like any number of abandoned warehouses, including those that surrounded it, but it was in fact his personal residence and a great deal more. Not particularly trusting of electronic locks (he'd cracked a few too many to believe them effective security) he had opted instead for a simple hidden entrance, with an old-school trap mechanism that would activate if one didn't know exactly where to step. The entrance itself was on the roof, the traps laid in certain tiles. Soren navigated them by muscle memory alone, slipping into the building and heading to the ground level, where he kept his workshop.

Soren was something of a tinkerer in his spare time, and though he had yet to invent anything reliable enough to trust in the field, several schematics for devices lay in meticulously-ordered piles over the top of a solid wooden workbench and table. For the moment, however, he passed these and instead headed for a large console system that he had constructed out of stolen Levani plans and some old-fashioned ingenuity. It wasn't anything too spectacular, but it got the job done, and it was now going to play host to some of the best information a thief could ask for.

The device whirred to life at the press of a button, and several layers of (mostly unnecessary) encryption later, he had entered a password and was setting about making several backup copies of the triangular device's information. His computers ran on a network of his own creation, and on their own generator; his whole warehouse did. Soren was a bit paranoid about outside interference, having once met someone who was very, very good with technology. As he had suspected, the original memory unit was compatible with some of his hardware, and a small smirk crossed his face as a three-dimensional map of the Second district materialized on a horizontal screen to his left. The maps appeared to be accurate based on his limited knowledge of the area, but he noticed a few zones were filled in with color, including a district to the south.

What's this? he mused internally, zooming in on the area. There was a building at the center called "Ed's Grocery," but nothing about the are seemed particularly extraordinary. Black brows furrowed over burgundy eyes, and the smirk dissolved into a pensive frown. Typing a few digits into the keyboard, he squinted at the data sheet that popped up on his normal monitor. Soren's knowledge of the Levani language was limited, but he did know a few of the words that popped up, and one of them was the aliens' word for a person with superpowers. Had the Levani developed a method for detecting the usage of such abilities?

Switching the view to Third, he zeroed in on his own location, which was the same as the rest of the map, not colored like the other one. So they couldn't detect powers in use, then. Perhaps these were simply locations of suspected Supers? Or those who had been reckless enough to use powers in range of a droid, perhaps? Switching back over, it was evident that the area outlined was too large for them to know precisely who they were after, but there was apparently a Super in the vicinity.

Interesting... a few more flicks through maps indicated that there was a second color, and the data sheet contained the word for "termination," so he assumed that these locations marked Supers that had been located and dealt with, so to speak.

The Nightstalker took a seat and reclined backwards, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. As the sort of person who usually did nothing he wasn't paid richly to do, he was not inclined to altruistically seek out anyone with this information. However, he did still have a concept of honor, and he found the Levani's methods in most cases to be completely without it, most notably in the instance when they had eliminated most of the world's superheroes, including the most recent Silver Guardian, a man Soren had a fair amount of personal... history with, if you could call a few adversarial encounters a history. He wasn't the sort that got a lot of hero-ing types after him, mostly because he kept people out of his work for the most part, excepting the occasional hit. And heroes in their vainglory generally looked right past those, since he had a tendency to take contracts only on the dregs of society: crime lords, dealers, the occasional supervillain... people they were too busy being morally pretentious to take out themselves.

Still... Soren rubbed st the stubble on his chin absently. There was no guarantee that the supers the Levani were after now were of that sort. Indeed, it was likely they were not, given the selective slaughter of the world's sentinels. He switched the map to First. It looked like there was at least one here, too. He might as well start at the bottom and work his way up. Who knew? It might even prove a challenge.

It looked like the Nightstalker had one more outing to make today.

(Dixie Cassata, 5th District, Large pretentious looking house)

“I’d think a crashing sound in a generally quiet residence would attract their attention otherwise. I’m not a loud woman you know.” Dixie kept from hissing the statement, making it sound more like a flippant observation. “Things aren’t what they used to be, you invite a lot of folks to your house for a party and their convinced you’re supporting what may as well be the human genocide.” Dixie breathed darkly, her smile gone as she strained her lip muscles not to scowl.

"Just show us where you want us to show up and we'll get started on your order."

“That’s what I meant by show you around.” Dixie began, catching a glimpse of her rather frazzled self in the mirror. Ever conscious of her appearance she took the hair sticks down and shook out her hair. “I’ll show you how to get in, and how to get out. Where you’ll be working should have whatever you need to work with, and if it doesn’t I’ll supply it. If we don’t have the cash for it. . .” Dixie pondered on the idea for a moment before flicking her wrist dismissively. “I’ll rob a bank or something like I did back in the day.”

For Dixie, back in the day was only a few years ago, barely even a decade. It was sad to think things weren’t quite like how they used to be. Back before the Levani the worst she had to worry about was a fat lip from some spandex wearing has been and a few days in jail. Things were different now, one wrong move and she’d be pushing up daisies. It really wasn’t a pleasant thought, seeing as Dixie wasn’t ready to die just yet. No, she had better things to do.
Making a right, Dixie walked down a hallway that lead her into the kitchen. From the kitchen Dixie lead the doctor to her dining room, and from there walked down another hallway and into her home theatre.

“You know.” She began, walking into the room and flicking on the light switch. “Whenever you think secret passage ways, you think ‘oh, a book self turning around’ or something to that affect. It’s predictable, I don’t like predictable.” She mused, picking out a DVD from a “Pretty Woman” box, making sure Doc watched as she did so. “Sit down in that chair.” She muttered as she placed the DVD in the player and taking a seat next to the chair she’d pointed at.

“Now, it’s going to ask you a few questions, they’re irreverent, at least the first three are.” She pushed through the questions. “And then the fourth question, is B. It always changes, and it’s always B. Always. And the fifth question is always six. Always. That’s all you really have to remember, and don’t screw it up.” She looked over at the Doctor. “And after that, this happens.”

The screen in front of her lifted, revealing black curtains behind them, and those opened up to reveal a door. Dixie stood up, and from the pockets of her robe procured a small card key. “You’ll need a copy of this.” She mumbled, swiping it which caused the door to open. “Come on.” And in to the elevator behind the doors she stepped, pressing the button with an upwards arrow as opposed to the one with a downwards arrow. Either way, the elevator began to move down.

“So that’s it really. I’ve been told I went a bit far with it, but I still don’t feel like I’ve really done much you know? Maybe I’m excessive, but I’d rather blow my money on good security than a lab behind a bookcase.”

(Soren "Nightstalker" Hawkins, 1st District, Alleyway)

Soren made a final adjustment to his mask before dropping to the ground. Here, at least, it would not be so hard to avoid the Levani. The aliens rarely bothered to made their presence known down here. No, his main problem would be the Super him- or herself. If they were hostile to contact, he wouldn't bother to stick around, but there were certain powers that were more difficult to avoid than others, and he had no idea what abilities this person possessed. They were on the Levani's radar, at any rate.

The young man hated running blind into situations, but there was little choice. In totus res, veneratio. His damn honor forced him to do what he could to give these people fair warning. Luckily he wasn't obligated any further than that. For a moment, he wondered who his father had been, that he'd had something engraved in Latin, of all things, on a watch. Probably some pretentious businessman or something. And the Nightstalker was a fool for binding himself to it.

Ah well. Some things simply could not change. He was rounding a corner, glad of the superior vision that made everything plain as day even in this zone, where the electric light didn't pervade too much, to say nothing of the nonexistent illumination from the sun.

In fact, it was only his eyes that saved him from tripping over the homeless man. "Apologies," he murmured, and, noticing that the alley was a dead end, turned to exit the same way he had come in. Wait. There was something... off here. The man appeared to have just finished downing a bottle of booze, all in one go, if the comparative freshness of the brown paper bag was to go by. The smell was strong enough that it was probably something pretty potent too. Yet... to Soren's vision, the man did not look like an alcoholic (at least not someone who'd been so for years), or even a lifelong bum. That lifestyle aged people prematurely; he'd seen enough of such folk down here in his childhood to know that. This man was hardly wrinkled, despite his gray hair.

Could it be...? Perhaps, but that did not solve the problem of how to approach the matter at hand. Rather than try to think of something more eloquent, Soren fell back on one of his better-known traits: cold bluntness. "I suspect," he said out loud, looking the bum straight in the face, "that the Levani will be here eventually."

There. His obligations were taken care of, at least in this district. He wondered briefly if the homeless man would say anything, but ultimately decided that it did not matter. He expected no thanks, and no reciprocity. Honor didn't work like that, unfortunately. Without another word, he turned to leave, bracing himself for attack, just in case.

(Alexander Ross, 5th district, secret lab hidden (not behind the bookcase) beneath the large pretentious looking house)


“I guess the classics aren’t for everyone” commented Doc Anima, as the elevator, which was large enough to function as a cargo lift, started downwards. In the back of his mind, he half wondered how far this thing would go and how much space he would have in an underground lab. After all, the city districts were stacked one on top of the other. He half wondered if they were going to some building in the forth district and if they were, why the hell did his rich, upper crust employer have him come to her fifth district home, instead of just ending towards the forth district lab? It would have been much easier for both of them and he could have placed a phone call to her when they were done setting up.

However, the elevator didn’t go that deep. Soon enough the chime announced that they had reached the second of the two floors it traveled between and the door slide open. Before Alexander’s eyes was a largish room. One could probably paint a full sized basketball count on the floor and mark off some room for one set of bleachers. There were reasonably clean counters lining the walls, only slightly speckled with dust. Lights came to life in the ceiling, those painfully artificial white florescent ones, that he really wasn’t fond of. The middle was open, with plenty of room for the tubes, generator and vat he had brought.

“A lovely setup Ms. Dixie” said the so-called mad scientist, “Utilitarian but workable. Its not home but I’ve worked in uncountable places worse.”

Up above them, the good Doctor’s remaining assistants were waiting in the home theater, having followed the scent trail of their father and sister. The two Shepherds were having sneezing fits, as the heavily perfumed air tickled their nose, driving the canines mad, as they could not cover their noses. Jack was having a similar problem, save it was that his eyes were watering, rather then sneezing.

(Melody Wiesse, 2nd District, Down the street from Ed's Grocery)

"An artist, hm? And Ophelia, such a pretty name. Mmm.. But we've no time for chatting; time to disappear." Taking a sharp turn around the next corner, she led Ophelia down an alley to an old grate. "You'll find this trick generally only works in the two lower districts, as the Levani have technically wired up the water and electrical level of each district to catch any unwanted visitors; though oddly enough, down here they've been having a real problem with rodents gnawing through the wiring," she said with the slightest smirk. Moving the grate and making her way down a ladder, she continued, "You never get used to the smell and the lighting's dreadful, of course, but it's quick and it gets the job done. I will admit, I do also enjoy being able to walk somewhere without any need to be subtle..." Behind her, one could hear as a trail of rats gathered and circled expectantly, waiting as she took a small electric lantern from her bag. The light flickered on, revealing the damp dark to be a stained grayish-white hall lined with pipes, wiring and debris; and, of course, the horde. After walking a bit, several different pathways and directions faded into view between the knots of infrastructure and moving shadows.

"There are a few cameras around that are still active, so we'll weave around a bit," she commented in the gloom; ahead, the eyes of rats gleamed then disappeared, blinking in and out as the pack would run forward, turn to wait, then run ahead again, leading the way. As they walked, Melody began to whistle a similar haunting tune, which echoed down the halls, eventually stopping to say, "I've told them to guide you, should you need to use these service halls again without me, but they'll only steer you away from cameras. They wouldn't understand you or know where to go... but it's something, yes? Ah; here we are."

They had finally arrived at what was plainly an elevator door. "This is still one of my favorite ideas... An elevator that spans the five districts, each floor with a discreet entrance. It's built into the sides of other buildings, and took a lot of time and work, but you can't beat that sort of easy, secretive transportation." Reaching up, she touched a part of the top right corner three times and an LCD screen came up. "Mhm... It appears only that Nightstalker fellow has successfully used it so far, and it's been a while since. It's funny, really; I set up a rudimentary security system and a carefully hidden surveillance system because I knew others would eventually discover this little tool. Better to make it easy for them to get so long as you know exactly what's going on than risk a valuable tool to pipe dreams of an uncrackable defense," she paused to type in a four digit password, then entered the lift. "Simple is enough to keep lazy ones out and the clever ones overconfident, though I did hide a "if you figured out how to get in, fine, just don't trash it so I won't have to kill you for it" message in the coding just in case."

"This is also in a roundabout way why, despite my relative wealth, I choose to live more in the First District than anywhere else. My technical house is in the 4th, though it's mostly for show... Until I find out whether or not the Lev caught our identities, we'd best lay low." The elevator had made it to the bottom floor; surprisingly, they walked out into a drug store, behind a line of vendor machines. The door closed behind them and a broom closet raised slowly back up as the elevator departed upward. Nodding to a gruff man behind the counter, Melody said, "Joe, this is Ophelia. She's a friend of mine." After he gave a silent nod of understanding, she walked to the door, holding it open for Ophelia. Gesturing outside, she said, "And here we are; ever been to no man's land?"

(Ophelia Evans, 1st district, Sewer/No Man's Land)

Ophelia wasn't terribly excited with the prospect of entering what appeared to be a sewer grate, but in all honesty, she didn't really have an alternative. The pyrokinetic woman decided that it was probably to her advantage at this point that she was neither claustrophobic or afraid of rats. That would have been... unfortunate.

Contrary to her expectations, the tunnel they were now in was only slightly dank, and though it smelled of things she'd rather not consider, at least she wasn't knee-deep in it. Well, perhaps she was, but only in the metaphorical sense, which was a small comfort anyway. Ophelia chose to trail behind Melody without saying much, only murmuring a slightly-surprised "thank you" when the woman explained that the rats would be around to guide her past the cameras down here should she need it in the future. While the offer struck her as unexpectedly generous, she doubted she was dealing with an altruistic sort, and made a mental note to herself never to trust the rats completely, just in case.

When they reached the elevator, she watched as the LCD screen lit up, showing the image of a man dressed solely in black, who appeared to have broken into the elevator shaft. Nightstalker... oddly enough, that particular criminal was better-known in the fifth district than anywhere else. Before the Levani came, he'd been something of a scourge on the wealthy, what with his tendency to steal their valuables out from under their noses. Being raised in that part of town, she'd been exposed to the quiet uproar that this tended to cause, and more than once she'd actually known someone he'd robbed. Apparently, nobody knew where he resided, and he'd been largely inactive (to her knowledge) since the invasion, but here he was on the monitor.

She followed Melody into the elevator and listened as the other woman explained her living situation. It seemed that the Nightstalker was not the only one who felt the need to keep himself as clandestine as possible. The real wonder here was that she'd survived for so long living on nothing but the assumption that nobody cared enough to report her to the Levani.

She nodded at the man named "Joe" before stepping out into what her host referred to as No Man's Land, shaking her head in the negative. "I've been down here a few times, but never to this part of the district." If she had to guess, she'd place them at the southeast end. Nobody was immediately visible, but even the artificial light was poor here, and there was no way they'd be getting sun anytime soon. It was even colder than it had been above, and Ophelia resisted the temptation to cross her arms in an attempt to keep warm. She had no idea what she'd be encountering down here; it seemed prudent to keep her hands as free as possible.

The area, in addition to being dark, didn't smell much better than the subterrain from which they had just emerged, not that it was any less underground. The buildings in the immediate vicinity were clearly falling apart, and the air was humid and stagnant, moving thickly through her lungs. It was clear that neither the Levani or anyone else much cared about maintaining things down here, and she wondered how the occupants could stand it. Perhaps all it took was custom. The artist fervently hoped she would never be here long enough to become accustomed to it.

Deciding that she would not proceed until she knew what she was getting into, she turned back to Melody. "Excuse what might be an obvious question, but... why help me at all? You risked Levani discovery to do it, and you clearly care enough about your own safety to have some place to hide." Her powers of empathy were a little out-of-focus since she herself was in a good deal of confusion, and so all she'd been able to pick up was amusement and the occasional twinge of something else, as though this were one large, high-stakes game for the musically-inclined Super. But to Ophelia at least, such a perspective made little sense, and she wondered what was really going on.

(Melody Wiesse, 1st District, No Man's Land [Extremely poor section of 1st district; still badly torn up by the Levani Takeover])

"Excuse what might be an obvious question, but... why help me at all? You risked Levani discovery to do it, and you clearly care enough about your own safety to have some place to hide."

Melody smiled. She's quick; I may need to reconsider my stance on proteges... "Well, I dislike talking too much about myself, though I'd say you deserve a thorough explanation after I've dragged you along to the worst pit of town. Unfortunately, that's a rather tough question; frankly, because I couldn't quite say myself. I can answer that in part, in that I hate traitors--I would have disposed of that wretch and the droids regardless of whether it would have helped you, just on principle, you see..."

Again taking out her small lantern, Melody glanced out at the debris and broken buildings, leaning on the twisted frame of broken streetlight as she spoke. In every dark orifice, hole and corner, the gleam of small eyes never seemed to go away; soft scrabbling, scratching and squeaking creating a constant white noise. "And you're right to suggest that I enjoy my privacy, if not my safety; of course, living so long with rats as my only constant companion, I seem to be slowly growing their traits and tendencies," she said with a small laugh, "I would be uncomfortable without a... hiding hole, of sorts." Her tone turned more serious and pensive, "Retirement has been... very dull, though, over all. I miss the old thrills and tricks I used to pull; just a feeling of living in general..." Growing light again, she said with a smile, "I can't tell you how fun it was let loose, just with that small stunt. It's a wonderful feeling, to find you're not at all out of practice."

Melody turned to face Ophelia again, as her mind floated into focus, out from the depths of distant memories. "But to truly answer your question, you could say that I've been experimenting. I'm ready to really start living again, but I don't know what path I'd enjoy most, this day and age. Hey, I could even be a hero, " she said with an amused chuckle. "Helping you felt right, so I did; stopping the Levani definitely feels right, anyway. But hiding away, and not taking part in the world just because I can... Well, that's simply doesn't feel right at all any more. You take steps, you learn; that's what I intend to do--you're new to this too, perhaps we could learn together. Regardless, I've made you my responsibility for the moment, and I strongly dislike those who can't keep so small a promise. I have a place for you to stay for now, and I'll show you how to make that Levani warrant disappear. I'm willing to help you with more of the basics of being a super, too; I'm not trying to control you, though, so this is up to you." Melody stopped leaning, standing up in preparation to continue walking. Looking back, she said simply, "You are satisfied with this?"

(Ophelia Evans, 1st District, No Man's Land)

"You are satisfied with this?" The tone of the question came off as almost flippant, but Ophelia knew that there would be much in her answer that determined where she would go from here.

There were so many ways to answer. Was she satisfied with the amount of explanation she had received? Perhaps; it was more than she would have given in the same situation. Then again, Melody had little to fear from Ophelia, as the latter certainly wasn't going to go telling the Levani, even if doing so would not have meant her own imprisonment as well. Additionally, the woman had spoken of retirement, of living with naught but rats for years, but both of these as though they were inconsequential in terms of time. something didn't make sense there, but it did seem to be running on some sort of internal consistency. Empathetically, Melody had felt much like an old person in the midst of reminiscence there for a moment, but something was not quite the same.

Either way, it was not the answer that bothered her. It was the possibilities now laid out before her. Ophelia glanced down at her hands, still bandaged, but beginning to sting once again as the ointment lost effect. This, she could no longer pretend to be satisfied with. She had been living in constant fear of herself for more than a year now- something had to give. The artist had initially suspected that she was but a ticking bomb, one that would eventually lose control entirely and consume herself in her own flames. That might still be true, but if there was even a chance that this was not so...

But ultimately, the question had been asking something else. Was she, Ophelia Evans, ready to step into a world she had avoided until now? One where her power would not only be utilized, but on a regular basis? One where she was just as likely to die as to live?

"Yes," she replied simply, almost startled at how easily the monosyllable had formed. "And thank you. I do not wish to consider what would have happened had you not been there." She tried for a smile; the effort was strained, but genuine enough. Perhaps there was a chance left after all, that she might be able to come to terms with herself. She'd take it, even if it turned out to be little better than a snowball's chance in Hell.

(Crazie Crawford, 1st District, Alleyway)

"Crawford. Craaawwwwford." While the disembodied voice was undeniably male it had a noticeable feminine lilt to it. "You certainly shouldn't have gone & done that, my boy." It continued in its singsong tone which was at odds with its scolding. "Don't you know poppin peoples melons attracts the wrong kind of attention?"

"Huh?" Benjamin, bleary eyed, turned toward the direction of the voice, which came from the mouth of the alley. Between the personal alcoholic haze and the more palpable haze which clogged the air of the 1st district he could hardly make out which of the silhouettes was the one speaking. A look of recognition spread across the drunken man's face, eyes crinkling in delight as if seeing an old friend.

"You're not thinking big enough, robbing peasants for their booze? Haven't we out grown such things?" The figure continued in its drawling falsetto.

"This nectar is my solace." the drunk frowned at the shadowy figure "Scarcely can I tie my shoes without another arising to burden my basket."

"Your shoes are trash bags, they don't have laces, Crawford." Taking another step forward the voice continued its song "Doooooooooooon't you go blaming this on me, we'd be much better off if you listened to me more often."

A surge of pain flared in the left side of his head, Benjamin's fuzzy vision darkened for a moment. Another painful throb caused the drunken man to clamp his lilac eyes shut tightly, gritting his teeth. In the depths of his skull he could feel the crackling tingle of the synapses firing wildly, connections forming and his power growing even as he sat there.

"It should be us ruling the world. The Levani are nothing compared to us, Crawford..." the voice let out a chuckle, full of disdain "Instead, look at you. Wasting away in a pile of garbage like a scared child."

~~~~~~~~

The alcohol had done exactly what it was supposed to. Crawford was passed out like a baby by the time the strange man half tripped over him, sending the empty bottle skidding across the pavement. With a remarkable sense of balance the unexpected visitor gingerly hop-stepped over Crawford simultaneously murmuring an apology.

So surprised was the crazed man that he didn't react at first, he just sat there as the man noticed the dead end and turned to leave as if he didn't find what he expected in the alley. The hesitation of the man caused Benjamin to flinch, his muscles tensing bracing for an attack which his fragmented mind could only assume would come. Due in no small part to his level of intoxication, Benjamin didn't even notice the red tint of the man's eyes as they studied his face.

"I suspect" the man said in a firm voice "that the Levani will be here eventually."

Mention of the hostile force he had spent decades evading sent Crawford's unsuspecting mind reeling. There seemed to be no immediate threat from the man, but his words hung heavy with implications. It was clear, even through the bums drunken haze that the man had come here with purpose, nobody ended up in the first district at a dead end alleyway by chance. "Or maybe they're already here."

In the blink of an eye Crawford was back on his feet, a move which defied both his age and his level of intoxication, purple eyes wide and hand gripped into fists. The man had already turned and taken a few more steps away, with each one lessening the terror which gripped at Benjamin's stomach and caused his heart to rise in his throat. The attack that the other man expected came only in the form of a halfhearted bull-rush. Crawford, taking the advice of the voice from earlier decided it was best not to kill another human tonight, instead charging the man over as he sprinted out and away from the dead end alleyway. The shove was forceful, easily enough to knock any normal man down. But it scarcely knocked him off balance, once again with near feline agility he caught himself before he was outright flattened.

"Stop!" Something in the depths of Benjamin's mind fired, another burst of pain causing him to grip his head, stumble and fall to one knee. From this vantage point it was clear the man wasn't making any pursuit, he was simply standing there with a faintly confused look on his face. "Perhaps rightfully so, considering he's dealing with you, Crawford." The falsetto mocked.

Scrambling back to his feet the crazed man eyed his visitor. Still unsure if the man he was dealing with wasn't just another conjuration of his mind. His mouth moved as if to speak but then shut tightly again, swallowing back a lump in his throat.

"Who is it that comes to me from the darkness?" Crawford asked finally, his insanity curling his words into riddles. "And why has the darkness sent me this messenger?"

(Soren Hawkins, 1st District, Alleyway)

The rush had come at about the time he'd expected, but not nearly at the force, and so Soren allowed it to connect, displacing himself nimbly so as not to lose his balance. Well, that was... interesting. This man could have tried to hit him harder, but he seemed...desperate somehow, as though he were not entirely in control of himself. Then again, the Nightstalker mused internally, few people with that much alcohol in their systems would be. Still... unless he missed his guess, there was something else at work here.

It was with the slightest look of puzzlement on his face that he watched the man go, apparently intent on leaving without launching another attack. which was fine, really. Soren wasn't the kind who particularly cared for fighting, though he was skilled at it. There was simply nothing in it for him; no particular rush, no sensation of true challenge, though this was not to say he won them all.

No more than a few paces from the young man, the bum appeared to trip or stumble, causing him to fall to one knee, clasping his head in cracked and dirty hands as though it might explode. Then again... if this man was actually a Super, there was no way to tell that it didn't feel like it would. More unconventional abilities tended to have... unfortunate drawbacks. After a moment, the man looked up, regarding Soren with eyes of a most uncanny violet.

"Who is it that comes to me from the darkness? And why has the darkness sent me this messenger?" The voice was unsteady, though given the state of him, this could hardly be considered a surprise.

Comes from the darkness? Yes, I suppose that might be true, in a sense... The words were on the surface illogical, but Soren could not bring himself to dismiss them as mere ranting. He might have simply chosen to walk away without another word, but he did not see the harm in answering. Perhaps it might calm the man down a bit, make him less unpredictable. That was a unilaterally good thing as far as the Nightstalker was concerned. It would allow him to file the man away in a mental categorization and wash his hands of the association.

"I am here on no prerogative but my own," he answered the second question first. "And in this guise, I am Nightstalker. I suspect that we have a few things in common, you and I." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Perhaps it is inconsequential, but if you have reason to flee the Levani, you may wish to find... space elsewhere." Curious, he waited, just to see what this strange man would do. People only interested Soren as far as they were puzzles, things to be figured out. His ethics demanded a certain level of respect to each, but only the intriguing ones held his attention. This man, who for all the world seemed like most other homeless in this forsaken district, was different, both to his sight and otherwise, that much he could tell. maybe it would be worth it to wait a bit, just to see if his hypothesis held water or not...

(Crazie Crawford, 1st District, Alleyway)

One of the massive overhead lights flickered, giving Crawford his first glimpse of the crimson tinge of the man's eyes. The red orbs studied him as if he was an elaborate math equation or a chessboard; his voice displayed the same calculated temper. "I am here on no prerogative but my own," the man replied.

Benjamin soaked up the steady calm that the man exuded like a sponge. His heartbeat lowered, his mind less frantic, able to interpret and respond with more lucidity. Much like the calm, the intense curiosity Soren gave off had been absorbed by the bum, who now scanned the red-eyed stranger quizzically with almost child-like wonder.

“Ah, you dodge my question like a matador the bull. A prerogative of ones own is still a deck held close to the chest. We trust only those who lay down their cards.”

"And in this guise, I am Nightstalker. I suspect that we have a few things in common, you and I."

Benjamin's broken mind churned trying to process the new information. "HE'S A SUPER!" a shrill voice screamed. Despite his undivided focus, or perhaps because of it, Crawford tensed at the voices unexpected intrusion, driving his eyes shut and his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his rounded nose. As the dull thudding pain subsided Crawford spoke again, “On contrary, your face is naked here. It is in the light when you hide those eyes that you wear a mask, dark one.”

"Perhaps it is inconsequential, but if you have reason to flee the Levani, you may wish to find... space elsewhere." Again the man paused, dissecting Crawford under a mental microscope. Benjamin returned the gesture, many opinions making themselves known as the fractured man tried to assess Nightstalker. Bits and pieces surfaced, but only in echoes and whispers, try as he might Crawford could bring to mind nothing other than the man was a thief of great renown.

“I no longer fear those that came from the sky.” Benjamin muttered softly, rubbing at his eye with the back of his grubby sleeve. “Even those most mighty are afraid of that which hides in the land of no men.” With a knowing twinkle in his eye and a toothy grin on his lips the bum tapped the end of his alcohol flushed nose “This metal shell hides secrets darker than you or I, shadow stalker.”

(Melody Wiesse, 1st District, No Man's Land)

"...Yes."
Fear. It was strange seeing it; it gave her pause, as Melody had to go far back in order to really remember what being young and inexperienced was like. She's taking at least twice the risk I've taken on, as I've at least played the game before... And yet, her choice is made; you can see it in her eyes, she thought. Melody's respect for Ophelia grew ever so slightly, and she smiled softly to herself as they walked on.

"And thank you. I do not wish to consider what would have happened had you not been there."
"It was really more of a coinci-" but she caught herself short, rethinking her response; true, from the standpoint of an immortal meddler, saving Ophelia was really a fluke, as her only intentions were to disposed of some traitorous scum. But if Ophelia could show such initiative with everything at stake, surely she must also follow through; the sidelines struck Melody more and more as an unacceptable place to be. "Sorry; you're welcome, though really it was no trouble."

The white noise of rodent activity shifted slightly, now, as a chatter of noise rose from an alley ahead and to their right. Melody closed her eyes, then murmured, "The rats see people ahead," Interesting... It's not often that Crawford stops to chat with someone. And... That's the one that's used my elevator. Opening her eyes again, Melody said, "It's not often I have visitors around this part of town, as gangs generally know to stay away, though Crawford... Or Crazie, as he's known down here, I generally leave him to his own devices. And Nightstalker is there, too; oddly enough, they seem to be just talking? It's too strange for me, I've half a mind to make an appearance or at least watch the show... And we're almost on top of them, now." She still had to turn to Ophelia for her opinion, though; running into two Supers of their caliber would perhaps be unwise at this point. At the very least for the poor girl's nerves, Melody thought as the image of a streetlight bulb bursting passed her mind.