In The Chambers Of The City Council....
Light from the bay window cast shadows about the room, illuminating on the cobwebs and dust particles that swam freely through the air. It was clear that the room had not been used in some time. A central placed dining table covered in a fine layer of dust took up most of the room. Surface laden with a full set of finely cracked china and fake silver utensils. Opposite the table, against the mahogany wood panel wall rested a bookcase spanning the length of the room. Filled to the brim with book after book, each sporting its own signs of wear and tear. Among the most damaged a red leather journal, its spine painted with fine gold filigree. It was this book that Mayor Bourne promptly plucked from the shelf.
The man in question walked a wide arc around the table to the adjoining room, hidden in a place where the light didn't quite touch. He marched in solemn silence to the singular table in that room. A circular monstrosity that takes up nearly all of the available space. He sat at the head, King Arthur and his Court. He lays the journal heavy upon the table, setting his grim gaze to the occupants of the room. Men and Women alike, wearing masks to obscure every aspect of their identity. Not many of them actually needed to obscurity, but most opted for it as a tradition. For years now the masks, simple clay creations stretched tight over skin before molding just right to its wearer, have been an integral part of these meetings.
"So tell me," Bourne booms, his own masks lips pulling into a taut snarl. Emotion reflected over the surface, "Why it is nobody has stopped these broadcasts!?" His anger swept the room into stony silence. After a beat of timid silence an answer comes, from whispering lips. "We tried sir, its just -" "Its just
nothing, we have the best goddamn tech in this forsaken city!" Bourne interrupts, seemingly more interested in causing a scene than discussing anything civilly. The members of the council would be lying had they said their meetings usually went better than this. Bourne was a force to be reckoned with, and this latest slip up was clearly stressing him out.
Bourne's hands slam against the table as he stands once more, crossing quickly to the far wall, where three large monitors hang haphazardly. Yet to be fully installed, or perhaps purposefully hung askew. He flicks on all three, gritting his teeth at the words emblazoned across every single damn one. The strangers are here.
"I want all agents working on this, who ever this message is intended for - no, whoever sent this message is going to be shackled. Do you hear me?!" Barking orders left and right, the Mayor calls the Council to a quick close. With his final words to find out what everything they could. With the extra bodies gone from the room he turns once more, and stares at the monitors listlessly. Turning to his journal from before, he flips through page after page until reaching the final. A page directly in the middle of the book, as if the author had never got the chance to finish.
He scans the page in grim silence, until finally, mercilessly his eyes settle on those damning words.
"The Strangers Are Here."
Welcome To The Den
At the farthest point from the Council Building, in the slums of the City, there lies a place that has been home and haven for many of its wronged citizens. A looming tower, six floors made up of apartments, shops, and most notably a bar. Known as The Den, a place where anyone can go to have sanctuary or safe haven. Guarded by a plethora of wards. Its sprawling visage has been a sign of hope for many of the citizens for years now; Even more so at the founding of the Wicked Six - the Slums resident superheros (or police force if you will.)
Monday nights were rarely packed at the Den, its usual patrons either too tired from the beginning of the week or still hungover from the sunday night parties. Still, workers filed in like flies, buzzing around here and there to serve what little customers they did have. Others filtered down into the basement where their more secretive members liked to stay. All except for Tom, who stood tall and proud against the backdrop of a stage. Microphone in hand, his words garbled and slurred but just barely understandable. It was not unusual for him to be drunk so early, but nonetheless he was.
Many of the patrons in fact were...strangely drunk already. Yet the night had just barely started. It didn't make sense really, not until the workers began to slow down. Foggy brained, feeling sluggish, slumping down into the nearby booths and tables. Some falling to the floor where their heads would clack against the concrete, hard.
Slowly, slowly, and then all at once every single person within the bar collapsed. All except for one little girl, Sonny, neither a patron nor a worker. But a Poltergeist whom had taken up residence there for several millennia. No less than a few seconds later the power shuts down. Curious. Sonny steps through the bars threshold, out into the street. Darkness slowly enveloping the city, building by building. Sonny frowns, watching the pedestrians around her slow to a stop and pass out in much the same way as the bar patrons. Confusion turns to Panic when she notes that even the drivers, though few, have begun to lose control of their cars. Hitting each other, buildings, anything in their way. Sonny turns away, feeling sick at the sound of one car crunching over a fallen pedestrian.
She returns to the bar.
