Paragon Vanguard

"Police won't do nuthin'," Jonny "Jonny Boy" Boyer said, before taking a long swig of his beer. The river was quiet, and there wasn't much going on around Independence Port. The city lights reflected and sparkled off the water like stars in the sky. "I want to see," she said, scratching a sore on her arm. She was a junky, just like him, but neither had scored that night. "Don't, don't go. You don't want to see it. She is still there, dead and bloated, right by the water." "Why didn't you say anything Jonny?" Jonny just looked out at the water. "Jonny, did you do it, did you...." she began. She wouldn't judge him, though it was out of character for Jonny Boy. He actually would help people, when he could. He helped her score all the time, and didn't ask for nothing back. "I didn't kill her," he said low, and turned his eyes to her. "I saw who did." Lee just looked at him. He was scared. It didn't make sense to her. Jonny Boy dealt with the gangsters and the cults and really bad people time to time. He worked small jobs for them, sold stash when needed. He saw alot of things. They knew he wasn't a rat. "I was taking a crap in the trees. I heard them coming, but I knew I was hidden. No one could see me where I was. I saw the back of his head, and they were talking like they knew one another. He was accusing her......of something. I couldn't make it out. She was crying, and begging, and saying how they were friends and asking how could he do this. He just pointed the shotgun at her. She cried, and screamed, and begged. He let her go on for a bit, then said something about vengeance. He pulled the trigger. Cold, uncaring, just pulled the trigger." Lee Latis had seen plenty of violence as well. She never saw anything like that. It was usually gang members fighting, but not executions. Not this. "Who was it," she asked, but wasn't sure she wanted to know. "This aint a game, Lee, this guy, he will kill me if he knows I saw. He will kill you if he thinks you know." "So you did see who it was," she said, more than ask. Jonny nodded. "Who?" "I should have helped her. Why am I such a loser Lee. I should have helped her. She was crying, and begging, and I did nothing. I should have helped her." "Jonny, what could you do. You don't pack." "It wouldn't matter if I did. It wouldn't help." Lee and Jonny just sat, looking out at the river, drinking their beer. Lee would look to her left now and again, in the general direction that Jonny said he saw the body. It was about a half mile down the river, but Jonny said it was still there. It happened two days before. Jonny did not follow Lee's gaze. He knew it was still there, dead and bloated and covered with insects and worms. He considered burying her, while he was high. With a clearer head he knew it was better to not. He knew it was best to keep away, to keep his mouth shut. He should not have said anything to Lee, but Lee wouldn't talk. He was sure she would not talk. Still, he would not tell her who's face he saw. No, he would not tell anyone. Ever.

Detective David smoked his cigarette on the top of the precinct, it was one of the few quiet places in the port area of Paragon City. He pondered the killings, and could not fathom how these dirt bag gangsters could have anything to do with a priest and a reporter, both of whom were considered good people. Neither being corrupt. Nothing pointing to ties with the underworld of drugs and killing and prostitution and murder. They weren't witnesses to anything. "Detective," the man said, making David turn around quickly, almost dropping his cigarette out of his mouth. "Awe man, don't do that," he said, throwing the cigarette down on the roof top and crushing it out. "Those are bad for you anyway," the masked man said. "Crime Fighter, as I live and breath, I was wondering how long before you showed up. It's been a while," the detective said, offering his hand in friendship. Crime Fighter shook it, and nodded. "I know you aren't here to just say hi, and I know you want answers, and I know I don't have any," the detective said, rolling his eyes as he said it. "Do you have any answers?" "No, I don't. I can't wrap my brain around this. I mean sure, the gang killings, they happen. Father Wilder, Yvette? That don't make much sense." Detective David tapped the edge of his nose, and nodded. "Now you are all caught up," he said, pointing his finger at the masked man. "I don't feel very caught up. I asked around," he began. "And got nothing," the detective finished. "And got nothing," Crime Fighter repeated. "So look, it means we are looking at this from the wrong angle. Carl, Detective Castile, is one of the best detective we got, and he is leading this case. I can't say I don't want to solve it myself, that would be a huge feather in my cap, but I know my place. This is one that needs an expert, and he is probably the best we got." Crime Fighter nodded to that. "Just he's not getting anywhere either, it seems. Don't get me wrong, you can never tell with Carl. He may have it wrapped up in his mind and about to let it all loose to the rest of us, but he won't talk until he knows. It's his way." "What do you think is going on," the masked man asked. "I know you don't know, but what do you think?" "My first thought is a vigilante, plenty of them to go around here. I just don't see the connection with the priest and the reporter." "That house that burned down last night. Was that part of it?" "We don't know yet. We have to wait for the autopsy. It was Fatty Mac's house, and two bodies were pulled from it. They were a bit charred so it was hard to tell right away." Crime Fighter nodded. "Hey, at least this clown is going back after gangsters. Maybe he will leave the good citizens alone now," the detective said, but there was no smile on his face. "Thank you," the masked hero said, and with a leap, was gone over the side of the building. Detective David looked over the side but already knew what he would see. Nothing. The man was gone. Just like that.

(Warning Graphic) "Fatty" Mac was only a little drunk, and the snuff took care of that. He was able to secure a deal with the trolls on 3rd st, that was what counted. In the end, that is always what counted. He worked for The Family, and it seemed to him, sometimes, they hardly knew his name. He wasn't made. He wasn't Italian. Sure, there was some Italian in there somewhere, but not enough to make him Family material. No, he was not Family, but he did okay. They let him work. They let him make a living. They let him live well. Hell, they let him live. Fatty dropped the key to his front door, and bent down to pick it up. Maybe he was still a little drunk. Or maybe he was just tired. He wasn't young anymore, and 54 years on Earth did not make long nights easier. The door opened, and Fatty entered. He put the package down. It had enough cash in it to last him a year, but it wasn't his cash. Part of it, a small part, would go to him, but he would pay his dues for breathing The Family air. It was mixed in with the port air and the warehouse air. Fatty lived in the Independence Port area of Paragon City, like most of the gangsters. No, he was not made, but he was a gangster. He kind of liked that. He liked that they came to him for dirty jobs, jobs they did not want to get pinned to, but someone independent like him, well, they would pay him well and not have to face any consequences if the job went sour. It never went sour. Not really, not something he could not get himself out of. Fatty Mac was making himself a sandwich when he heard the sounds. Surely he was hearing wrong! They were moans, and sounds almost as if someone was having sex. Not his wife. She would not dare. She knew he would kill her if she dared. He could have his side women, but she would not dare. Fatty made his way up the stairs. The sounds came louder as he got closer to the door. Francis MacDuff could not speak, and could not scream. All she could do was make noises. There was something metal in her mouth, she knew that. It had a weird taste to it. She tried to spit it out, but she could not. She tried to move, so she could remove it, but she could not. She was tied to something. No, not just something, she was sitting in a chair, tied to the chair. Her eyes were covered, and someone was sitting in front of her. She could smell his cologne. She could hear his breathing. "Easy," he said low, and that made her want to scream more. Still, she could not. Fatty had his .38 revolver in hand as he slowly opened the door to his room. Whoever chose to disrespect him would pay for it with their lives. His wife would pay for it with her life. He was not thinking. He was not as calculating as usual. This was over the top. This was too much to take in. Her noises made him more and more mad. That made it even stranger when the door swung fully open and he saw the back of his wife's head. He saw she was sitting in a chair, her back to him, and facing their bed. There was a man with a skull mask on, and he had something in her mouth. He could not make out what, but he had it pushed in hard enough to have her head back, her neck slightly bending over the back of the chair. Fatty may have fired if he was not so confused. He was a good aim, he could hit targets in motion. No, he wasn't the best, but he was a good aim. Just, he could not tell what he was looking at, and everything was in slow motion. Her head seemed to explode, red and white and hair and other gore flying toward him. Fatty felt the bone entering his body, and the led, and the heat. He felt it. The man slowly walked past the gore on the floor, and stepped over the woman's body, that was still tied to the overturned chair. She was not innocent, she knew what her husband did. She knew what he was. He did not care about her, not at all. She was not a danger to anyone, not now, and probably never was. No, his target was still breathing. Heavy, gasping, but breathing. He looked down at the man's eyes, and those eyes were wide with shock. With fear. "I will have vengeance," he said, before the fire poured from the modified weapon, spilling over Fatty, and setting him ablaze. Fatty did not have much breath left in him, but what was left, screamed. He heard the screams even as he left the house. An average house, on an average block, in an average section of Independence Port. Fatty was there when they died. Fatty was there when his family was murdered. Fatty Mac would burn forever more in hell.

Bloodlette The Vampire She felt like she had been dancing all night, in a dreamy state. She was intoxicated but did not drink that much. She was used to far more, as she tried to hit the clubs every weekend. Well, every weekend unless she had to work. Being a nurse, she had responsibilities to the people of Founders Falls. Not tonight though, she danced. She clubbed. She enjoyed herself, and she had a handsome man dancing with her that made her feel as if she was the only woman in the club. His eyes did not wander, they stayed on her. His smile making her smile. How did she get so tipsy? Mary was not one to just sleep with anyone, but she knew, if he wanted, she would be going home with him. It wasn't even a question. She had no resistance. She was sure he knew that too. His lips touched hers, his hand caressed her body, gently, not groping, but smoothly his left hand ran down her side to her hip. His left hand gently stroked her cheek, then pushed her dark black hair away from her face. "You are beautiful," he whispered in her ear. Mary did not feel beautiful, not next to someone as striking as he was. His skin was pale, his lips cool and red. His eyes were dark, and his hair was a blood red. "I am Mary," she said. "I am Jerrin," the handsome man provided. "Can we leave," she asked, and she knew whatever he said she would do. He had, something, she wasn't sure what, but something that made her his. She would not say no. She could not say no, not now. "If that is what you wish," Jerrin said, touching his forehead to hers. Their noses slightly rubbed, making her giggle a bit. Why was she so dunk, so willing? Mary invited him in, and he stepped in, almost careful, almost as if he was waiting for something to happen. "Do you want a...." she started, but his lips found hers, cold, but nice. She meant to say a drink, but she could not, as his tongue brushed her lips, then her own tongue. "I do not," he finally said, those handsome eyes seldom taken off of hers, not for too long. He did observe the apartment she lived in. It was a nice apartment, and she was happy to bring friends, family, and lovers, to it. It was high priced, as was everything in Founders Fall. She could hear the water from the Red River. A cool breeze blew in from an open window, with the chill of Fall cooling her skin, but not her passion. When did she open the window? "If you wish a drink, please, indulge," he offered. She made herself a rum and coke, and let the ice jingle a bit as she did so. She then watched him, as he looked through her records. Yes, albums, that she got from her dad who got them from his dad. They were from the 70's, and 80's, and some more recent, as the vinyl seemed to make a small come back, at least for a bit. "You like classics," he asked, and she nodded through the daze. His eyes again met her, and she drank her drink down. She drank it quickly, maybe too quickly. She didn't usually drink rum, that was for one of her friends that would visit time to time. Jerrin had his hands around her, from behind her. She did not see him move across the room, and she knew she really was drunk now. "I like the taste of rum," Jerrin offered, his lips caressing her neck. Her body stiffening, as she pushed herself against him now. "My bedroom is over here," she said, but feared that she could not make herself move. He picked her up gently into his arms. God he was strong. He brought her to her room. "Are you sure," he asked, and she nodded, meeting his lips again. She felt like she was still dancing. He did everything she wished. Kissing her. Biting her. Making love to her. Then everything seemed to explode in ecstasy around her. Then there was nothing. She fell, into a darkness. She wasn't scared, she simply fell, until there was nothing. Jerrin wiped the blood from his lips, but could not resist lapping it up from his hand. He was warm now, her blood having sustained him. He could feel his face flush. He would now feel the shame of killing, of feeding, of being what he was. Rum, mixed with blood, was his favorite. The alcohol warming him as much as the blood, and the taste of the mixture was wonderful. Shame. He would not allow her to rise, and be cursed as he was. Shame. He drank her empty, leaving her completely dead, never to be undead. Jerrin's eyes flowed over her body. She was now as pale as he was. As cold as he had been, as if it was a trade. She looked as if she was now sleeping, a slight smile still on her face. Drinking her blood connected them in ways she would never have connected with another, and he allowed her to feel the greatest pleasures of the flesh that she could, even though most of it was in her mind, in their mingling of life. Of blood. The vampire did not look at her again. He dressed, his clothes were new but resembled his era of the 1700's. He dressed, and left through the open window. No mortal eyes would see him. None would see his shame.

(Anyone can feel free to add their own here if they wish. I would love to read others.) The Wolf of Talos Bobby was at the bar, motioning for the dumb waitress to bring him another. No, that wasn't right. She was not dumb, she was just too busy talking to one of those Warrior bums. Gang members and supes, that who the girls seemed to like. Guy like Bobby Satch had a hard time getting their attention, at least the pretty ones. "Cindy, another," he said, motioning her away from, as far as he could tell, the non paying gang member, over to him, who always paid and always tipped well. "I'm coming Bobby," she said, before saying something low to the 80's movie reject. Those Warriors dressed in jeans and shirts with the sleeves cut off. They reminded Bobby of the movie by the same name. The guy just looked to Bobby a moment, deciding the man was not a threat before tending to his own drink. "Why do you let those guys in here," Bobby asked Cindy, nodding to the gangster. Bobby was a fairly large guy himself, and wasn't afraid of normal folks. At 6'3, 235 lbs, he could hold his own in a fight. "They pay, and they pay well Bobby, just not in the same way you do," she said, a smile on her face. "Don't let him bother you," she added, pouring another draft beer for him. "He don't," Bobby said, taking his beer and heading back to his table and his two friends. The bar had cleared out, even the Warrior guy, with only Cindy and Bobby left. Bobby was about to head out, and Cindy was about to close shop. His friends had went home only a few minutes before, but Bobby stayed, in hopes to get Cindy to go home with him. She had before, so it was not outside of reason. "No Bobby, not tonight, I gotta bring my momma to the doctor in the morning. Maybe some other time," Cindy said, despite his attempts and coaxing. "Or your meeting up with that Warrior guy," Bobby said, only slightly drunk. "Bobby," Cindy said, teasing him with a slight kiss on the cheek. "That isn't true, momma really does need to...." she began, when someone walked in, making the bell over the door ring. "I am about to close, but I can get you one for the road," Cindy said, patting Bobby on the arm and heading over to the stranger. "Just a beer," the man said, his head down with a hat on his head. His voice was rough, and almost growly. Almost angry. "Sure thing bud, then I have to close up," Cindy smiled and went to get the man his beer. Bobby was sure he was not getting lucky with Cindy, and headed to the door. "Don't leave," the man said, grabbing Bobby by the arm. Bobby was not sure how the man moved so fast across the room. "Stay awhile," he said, in that same growly voice. Bobby tried to pull away, the man was smaller than he was, a good 3 inches or so shorter, but he could not manage to break the man's grip. "Let go of me, unless you want trouble," Bobby said. "No trouble," Cindy said from across the room, not really looking to the two men as she got the beer. "I just want to close up and be done with it." "I want to eat," the man said, looking to Bobby. Bobby was sure the man the man grew a few inches, because they were now eye to eye. "I am so hungry." Bobby was shoved toward the bar, and away from the door, as the man began to change. Bobby wanted to scream when he looked up from where he fell, but heard Cindy doing a good job for the both of them. He had heard the rumors, even he and Cindy had talked about how silly it was. The Wolf of Talos Island is what they called it, and it had killed a few people of late. It was a werewolf. The creature, now completely busted from the clothes it was wearing, stood 7 inches tall, and had no semblance of a man. It's fur was dark brown, matted, and hanging long. It's hands, as they were still hands, were large, and each finger ended in a long nail. It's face was a mix of man and wolf, with a long snout, and very human eyes. It roared, and Cindy stopped screaming. Both felt fear. Both knew the danger. Neither could move now, though they wanted to run. "So hungry," Bobby was sure it said, but it was so guttural, and animal like, it barely sounded human. Bobby finally was able to scream, he and Cindy screaming together, as the pain shot through him. The slurping sounds filled his ears between screams. The Wolf of Talos Island fed, and fed well. A half hour later, not that far away, a Warrior gang member heard the chilling howl of what sounded like a wolf. He brought his eyes up to the full moon shining over the wharf, and shook his head in disbelief.

They all had ideas. They all knew how to handle it. They all wanted to be kept informed. They all wanted their hands out of it, so no blame can come there way. This was why they did not want to be a part of the investigation. Well, not until it was over and the bad guy was caught and they would expect Carl to tell the media that they were kept informed and well involved. They wanted nothing to do with this. "She was shot here, detective," the officer said. Carl wasn't sure what his name was. He had spoken to him before, a nice enough man. "She crawled over here, it seems," the officer continued. Carl let him say it, but Carl knew exactly how it played out. She crawled there, and bled out. She didn't die from the initial shot, he let her bleed out, right there. "Thank you officer," Carl said. The officer nodded, and went into the other room. They knew to let the detectives alone, especially legends like Detective Carl Castil. He had been a detective, probably longer than the officer was an officer. He solved so many crimes in his time, but this one was different. "Hello detective," the man said, looking into the open window of the apartment. Of course, this was a 6th floor apartment. "Crime Fighter," the detective said, a sigh escaping his lips. "Yeah, I knew her," he said, and Carl could hear the sadness in the man's voice. "Not that well, but well enough to know she was a good person." Carl agreed. She was a good person. "Who is doing this, detective," the masked man asked, and Carl could hear the anger now in the man's voice. It didn't ring as something the man felt often. "That is the question," Carl said. "THAT is the question." "I am offering my help," the masked man said, but Carl was already shaking his head. "This is police business, and if you are wanting to help officially, you would have to come by way of Vanguard, however, this is not something they seem to care about." "It's not something they can, as they are keeping aliens from taking over the world," Crime Fighter said, a bit defensively. Carl was impressed that the man did not enter the apartment, knowing to keep the integrity of the crime scene. "We all have our duty, and this is mine, not yours." "What can you tell me," the hero asked, this time his voice was not quite as friendly. Carl looked over to him, and was about to say nothing, then changed his mind. "You really want to know what I think?" Crime Fighter said nothing. "I think he has a list, of people. I can't say why he has a list, just that he has a list. Not of people that did him wrong, not directly, but people who did wrong. May be that it's personal, but not necessarily. It seems so many are out to help the criminals, and so few out to help the victim. Everyone wants to see someone redeemed, but not punished. That's the hard part, seeing someone punished. Seeing justice." "You sound like you agree," Crime Fighter said, and Carl could hear the frown on the man's lips. "It isn't about agreeing or disagreeing, it's about trying to understand. If you want to help, you have to understand why someone does this. Why they would commit the crimes they commit. Why do they think the way they think. I liked Yvette, Crime Fighter, I thought highly of her. But there was a reason why someone wanted her dead. You want to fight crime, understand the criminal." "Thank you Detective Castil, I will be in touch," the hero said, and was gone. Carl looked at the window a moment, then back at the crime scene. He had work to do, and began doing it.

Yvette had entered her apartment, feeling a little woozy. Tipsy, if you will. Her friends talked her into going to the club, or clubs, as it turned out. Dancing was not her thing, but they insisted and her she really did not have the energy to tell them no. That wasn't true, she didn't want to say no. They had fun. No, she did not dance, not even when that cute college boy wanted her to. He was very insistent, but her friends got rid of him for her. She heard the sound, it was a strange, loud sound. Well, it was Paragon City, and loud sounds weren't that abnormal. Her home was nice, and quiet, but it was too quiet sometimes. She felt she was ready to settle down. There was one problem, she hadn't met anyone to settle down with. She was a reporter, and she was, as the cliche goes, married to the job. That Crime Fighter guy was nice, and well built. He had nice lips and a nice chin, the only parts of his face that she could see. The people in Major Flander's Fried Chicken really thought highly of him. He was not in the news all the time, like some of the other supes in the city. It was one of the reasons why she did an article on him. That loud noise bugged her though. She was just lying down, and was pretty sure she dosed off. That sound though, woke her up. Or at least she thought she was awake, but she could not open her eyes. She read about that, it was a sleep disorder, where you were awake, but your body was not. She never experienced it before, but that was what it had to be. Yvette thought of her mother, and her childhood. She had a good childhood, and a strong momma. Even at 62 her mother was still the strongest woman she knew. No, the strongest person she knew. There was pain now, though maybe she hurt all along and just didn't realize it. Maybe it had to do with the sleep paralysis, yeah, sleep paralysis, that was what it was called. She moaned, but the moan was far off, dreamy, like the pain. She heard herself moan. She vowed not to drink again, no matter how much her friends insisted she needed time to just let go. Letting go was always seemed to come with a headache. Yvette thought of her father. She didn't really remember him that much. She knew he died in a car accident. A drunk driver hit him in Skyway, they said he never knew what hit him. She still had memories of him though, broken up and sometimes hard to know if it was actual memories or memories her mind just created to fill gaps. That did happen. She knew that. Strange that she was thinking of these things now. Now, she no longer hurt. She no longer felt paralyzed either. She was able to open her eyes. No, one eye. She saw a skull, of some sort, but she was not scared. She was past scared. She didn't feel fear now. She just felt nothing. She was falling back to sleep, though it was more than sleep. She felt it was more than sleep. That strange skull stayed in her mind, as she fell into the blackness. He looked at her, as she gasped her last breath. She would not burn. It could cause a fire, and this was an apartment building with other, innocent, lives here. She was not innocent. She wrote the article, calling for leniency. Forgiveness. She could have written that article any other time and he would not have cared. No, it came out only days after his family was buried. She had to have been writing it while he was at the funeral. While he was burying his wife, his kids. His twins, his girl. His wife. She wrote it as the city was outraged at the killings, but she was not outraged. She was not angry. She wanted leniency. The sirens sounded in the distance, as Grey's Anatomy played on the television. She did not want justice. She got what she wanted. No justice, so then there was only vengeance. There was Final Vengeance.

Protest, as he suspected would happen, was happening. Some were religious, and demanding answers as to why a priest was murdered and why no one was in custody, after only one day. Others were peace seekers, wanting to know why this was happening in a city of heroes, where people in their onesies were allowed to run amuck but can't solve such a heinous crimes. Then you had the gun ban activists, who were a staple to any crime that was committed by a gun. That would eventually call out of the pro 2nd amendment activists. Carl was watching this from the 2nd floor of the small precinct. Others were talking in the background, but Carl was lost in thought. Many of these cared so much, but did so little when it came down to it. They were literally protesting outside of the office of the ones that were trying to solve the very problem that they were protesting. "Carl, do you want to add anything to this," his lieutenant asked. Carl didn't say anything at first, prompting his supervisor to clear his throat. The big wigs were there, the decision makers that made decisions that effected all of them, but insured they made them in a way that they could not be held responsible for the decisions they made. Carl cleared his own throat, before looking to the Captains and the majors and the chiefs. "We are in the middle of an active investigation, each of you, having the experience you have, knows what that means," he said, and they nodded. The "experience" that they have. He almost choked on that. Some had very little experience in anything remotely looking like a police investigation, but what they did have was daddies with deep pockets and their hands in the unions and the politics. "What we think, and we are about as sure as we can be at this point in the investigation, is that this either ties in with the Independence Port killings, the mobsters, or we have someone copying those murders. The media was kind enough to explain and describe those murders so well that it is just as likely a copy cat killing as the same person, at this point." This brought murmurs from some of the higher ups that were involved in letting the media know exactly what was happening. Of course they would not officially say that they were the leaks. No, while leaking the information helped get them in with the media, it would not make them look good to their fellow officers. Officially, their stance was that it was an open investigation and needed to be treated as such, which meant need to know information only. "Do you suspect this priest had ties to The Family?" Captain Morris asked. He was from the Founder's Falls precinct, and Carl actually liked him. "No, I do not. However, I can't rule it out yet. I am getting with the investigating detectives from your precinct and will be working closely with them, but at this point it's hard to say," Carl offered. "I want you to lead this, even in Founder's Falls Carl. I will be letting my guys know that they will be expected to work closely with you," the captain offered, with a nod. Crime Fighter watched the activists from atop the "Crey Biotech" sign, where he easily balanced himself. No one noticed him, they were too focused on the front door of the precinct. They would yell and shout at any officer that was foolish enough to exit through the front. Barricades were put up, but they were merely there to give the protestors a line not to cross, less they would be dispersed. Crime Fighter knew the priest that was murdered, and considered going to the meeting happening inside with the Paragon Police white shirts. He saw when Detective David and Detective Hutchinson entered together, waving and smiling at the crowd as if the protestors were there for them. Most of the crowd actually waved back at them. They were good detectives, the hero supposed, but they loved the spotlight as well. Crime Fighter considered Davids a friend. For this reason, he decided to wait, and speak with the detective later. If Davids could pass on information, he would. The way Davids operated, even if he could not pass on information to heroes, he still would, if he felt they could help. It was a mess, and it would become even messier as this went on, if the murders were not stopped. With so many other things going on, on a much larger scale, heroes were kept busy. The Rikti, the portal problems, the supposed "god" waking up in Astoria, heroes of all kind had their hands full. That didn't even count the villains from the Rogue Islands. Mathew Hart, as Crime Fighter, had been dedicating himself to the threat of the alien race called The Rikti. While these serial murders seemed small scale, they got the attention of the public, and with the murder of the priest, it seemed everyone was in danger, not just the gangs. It needed to be solved, and quickly, or this could potentially become a big problem. With the police and city agencies spread thin already, it was a big problem Paragon City did not need. Others would have to tend to the Rikti and their ship for now, Crime Fighter would have to go back to his local neighborhood roots. Friendly neighborhood Crime Fighter, Mathew thought, then shook his head. No, that was Spider Man. Mathew saw one of the protestors pointing up at him. He had been spotted, and he did not wish to become a point of focus for their chants. He quickly leaped away, putting distance between himself and the police station at a fairly quick pace. He already saw what he wanted to see. He would be talking to Detective Davids soon enough. ------------------------------------------------------- Mathew Hart: Crime Fighter Age: 24 Marital Status: single Legal Status: Upstanding Citizen Affiliation: Vanguard Powers: Increased Str, Increased Reflexes, faster than normal healing* Abilities: Trained in Mixed Martial Arts, trained in the art of Ninjitsu *while Mathew Hart (Crime Fighter) does possess higher than human str and reflexes, it is not by a great amount. He can heal faster than normal, but not at the rate of those with extremely heightened healing factors. It takes days to heal wounds that would take weeks for normal people.

"And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers." He knew, better than most, that killing the priest was going to bring the city into a furious frenzy. The man was loved by people, people who did not know the whole truth of the man. No, he was not a criminal in the eyes of the law, but he was a criminal when it came to justice. How many times did the priest testify and ask for mercy, for those that deserved no mercy? He knew that the man was only doing what he felt was right. What he felt was wanted by his God. He knew the man would continue to speak for the most wicked, the ones that deserved to die in prison, or die by court order. And, the courts would continue to listen to him. Take his views into account, after all, the priest was a good man. The priest saw to the homeless. He saw about the down trodden. He understood how the young, abused child of poverty, could turn into a criminal. He would never testify for their benefit again. He read it written on a wall in a toilet stall. "If I cannot have justice, I will have vengeance." He didn't know who wrote it, or why they wrote it. It was in another state, across the country, that he saw it. It could not have been a coincidence that he saw that on the anniversary of the death of his wife and 3 kids. Across the country, in another state, as if it was written just for him. Written in cursive, over the toilet in a dirty stall. That was when the seed was planted, though he didn't know it then. He dreamed of it, over and over. He dreamed of seeing his family killed, though he was not actually there when it happened, and a flier falling from the sky with that written on it. "If I cannot have justice, I will have vengeance," he said, a sigh escaping his lips. "Hey, tape that off," Carl called, pointing to a side door. "I don't want anyone getting in here." "Hey Carl," Yvette said, a smile on her face as she approached him. "How did you get in the church, and why are you bothering me?" the detective asked, but he knew the how and he knew the why, and he knew he would not fuss at her for long. He liked her. She was 20 years younger than him, and while not Hollywood pretty, she was pretty in her own right. The kind of pretty that real men liked. The kind of personality that old men wished their daughters had. "Can I get a scoop," she asked, brushing back her dark hair. She didn't have to, it was more her flirty way of talking to men. It was a harmless thing, but she knew it was flirty none the less. "No one says scoop anymore, Yvette," the detective said. Carl was in his 40's, but in excellent shape. Excellent shape considering he was a detective. The long hours at a desk going over reports and typing reports and correcting reports did not insure a healthy life style. However, he ran 3 times a week, and went to the gym when he could. Usually once or twice a week, but it was enough to keep him in fairly good shape. His time in the military built his muscles up, and it didn't take near as much to keep them up now. Yvette's eyes focused on Carl's mustache, before she grinned at him. She always picked on him, telling him no one wears a mustache like his anymore. It was what people called a "pornstache", as it seemed all of the men who worked adult movies in the 70's wore that style. "Don't say it," Carl said, knowing what she was thinking. "Yes, I will give you a scoop, but only because you are an actual reporter. Not like those talking heads that don't even care that a good man was gunned down, and burned." Yvette looked around, and saw that the fire was contained to the confessional box. "We haven't done an autopsy yet, so I have no official cause of death, but preliminaries show he was shot, then burned. I am not sure what kind of propellant was used, but it looks chemical, and definitely not natural. In other words, we have a murder." Yvette nodded, and walked closer to the confessional. She held her hand over his nose and mouth, as the burnt smell was terrible. "The body is gone, so you can take some pictures if you wish," Carl said. "Are you the lead investigator on this?" Yvette asked. "Yeah, lucky me. People are already calling the precinct and insisting someone be arrested pronto. He was well loved," Carl said, shaking his head. "I may be able to help with that," Yvette said, taking some pictures with her cellphone. "I can report that you are doing a thorough job and want people to be patient, so that the people responsible will see justice." Yvette smiled, and was already thinking of how to word the report, before realizing he said nothing. She looked to him, wondering why the silence. "I hope we can find out who did it. It was done late last night, no witnesses. Nothing. You write what you want, and I will do everything I can. This isn't exactly the part of town where people put up cameras. Or if they do, the cameras don't last more than a night. This is Mook and Family territory, and the least witnesses the better." Yvette nodded to that. 'Any suspects?" "You, me, everyone," he said. Yvette frowned at that. It was a shame to think that this priest, who people believed a good man, would be murdered and no one charged. "I do have a scoop for you, but you have to sit on it for a bit," Carl finally said, giving her his stern look of I am serious. Yvette nodded. "We have seen this before. Gang members have been killed in this way, with no one taking credit for it. If it was gang on gang crime, they like to insure everyone knows who did it. Street cred and all. It just wasn't that concerning, as the people getting killed weren't exactly the best of folks. Not like Father Wilder. It may be one of the gangs, maybe he saw something. Maybe they confessed something to him and then got scared. It's always dangerous dealing with them, even if you have great intentions. With that said, I don't think so. He spoke for them. He went to court for them, and helped get them shorter sentences. He thought he was doing good, but they just used him. He was an asset to them. So if they didn't kill him, then who? Maybe the family of someone who's murderer he helped walk. We will be looking into that aspect, but that's just an angle, of many. It could still be a gang member that did this. As I said, at this time, if could be you. It could be me. Who knows?" "I have an alibi, I was in my apartment alone watching reruns of Grey's Anatomy and Friends," Yvette said, causing Carl to chuckle.

The food was wonderful. Her afternoon was wonderful. Yvette had enjoyed the time she spent with the masked hero. The reporter sipped some wine, as she listened to the cassette play back the interview. This was not going to be a first page story, and no network was going to pick it up. Crime Fighter was just a hero in a city of heroes, though he said many times he was no more a hero than anyone else that cared, and less than the first responders that put their lives on the line without a fancy costume and super powers. Still, nothing juicy, nothing not said by others. Even though she felt he was more sincere about it than most, it still was not a top story. It would find it's way on Life in the City or some such mid page social column. The Paragon City newspapers were huge, rivaling those of New York even. No, it was not so much the interview that kept her thinking of him. She found she liked him. Which was weird, since she had no idea who he even was. Truth be told, she could only assume he was being honest. No, not really assume. It was apparent he was genuine. He was honest. The hero had lifted his mask so he could eat, only really showing his mouth, chin and part of his jawline. So why did she find him attractive. It was like during that pandemic, when people with pretty eyes were assumed attractive, even though you could not see the rest of their face that was hiding behind a medical mask. Well, it was actually opposite of that, but still the same concept. She was attracted to him. Maybe that was it? She wasn't attracted to his looks, she was attracted to him. His suit fit snug, so she could tell he was built like a runner or a swimmer. Still, that wasn't it. It was the conversation. It was the stuff before the interview, and the two hours of just talking to him after the interview. "I put my personal number on the back of my card," she said aloud, to no one, before making an embarrassed sigh. She was alone in her apartment, in her living room. She was alone with her glass of wine and ER reruns that she wasn't really watching, but it was playing and lighting up the dark room. Putting her personal cellphone number on her business felt right at the time, even if it were bolder than she usually was. Now, it just felt embarrassing. The man protected his identity. He did say he was single, but would not elaborate further about family. Of course he may have just said that, to protect his wife and 12 kids. Still, he would not be willing to break confidentiality just for her. A small time reporter who may or may not have a pretty smile, but not much else going for her. Clearly he was younger than her. She was 38, who was she kidding? He was in his 20's, maybe late 20's, maybe older. Who could tell with these masked heroes? Who could tell? "Yvette, you are an idiot," she said, again, to no one. At about the same time Yvette was feeling embarrassed, excited, hopeful and crazy all at once, across town Father Wilder was in the small chapel that he looked after. He said "looked after", because not many came to it. People liked bigger and flashier churches. Huge cathedrals. He was offered to see over a bigger flock time to time, but this was where he wanted to be. Where he felt he was called to be. This was the rougher side of Paragon City, with the Port only a few blocks away. Family members and small time gangs littered the streets at night. Family members and small time gang members needed a place to go, a confession box outside of the eyes of the upstanding citizen, to tell their sins. The homeless needed someone willing to help, if he could, or send them where they could be helped. No, Father Wilder was not looking for a bigger church. He was exactly where he felt he was called to be. "So you see, Father, I am a sinner," the man said, in a gruff voice. "We all have sinned and fallen short," the priest said. He tried to not sound like this was something he said a dozen times a night, but in truth it was. Still, it was true. "Yes, but I don't regret a thing I did. How can I be saved, if I don't regret it," the man asked, and the priest could here him moving around nervously on the other side. Father Wilder could have seen who the man was, as the lattice blocked the petitioner's view, but not his. Still, he gave them their privacy. Sometimes he knew them by their voices, sometimes by their sins, but he tried to give them their dignity, and leave the confession between them and God. "Well, it is hard to find absolution if you are saying you are not willing to give up the sin. Sin is something that eats at us, all of us, and it demands we release it and hand it over to God. To release it, of course, you have to let it go." "Father, I am not really here for me. I will have my reward, I know that. It won't be pleasant either. However, is there anything you wish to get off of your chest," the man asked, and the priest could here him moving about. "If there is, now is the time to do it." "I don't understand," Father Wilder said, now looking into the booth. The man had on some kind of mask, but it was too dark to make out what was imprinted on it. The man sighed, and pointed something at him through the lattice. "I forgive you, Father," he heard the man say, in a nervous voice. Then he heard a loud noise. He smelled smoke, as he lay on the floor, though he was not sure how he ended up on the floor. He couldn't breath, but it didn't hurt. Not really. He couldn't move. Had he been shot? Then there was a new smell, it was something chemical. Then fire. The fire hurt. Hurt his face, hurt his arms, his body, his legs. It hurt. He tried to scream, but blood simply filled his mouth. And he hurt in silence. In choking, painful, silence. Then nothing.

Yvette Flemming grew up in Atlas Park, her parents wealthy enough keep her in the better schools. She was biracial, her mother African American, her father "European white", as she always told people. Therefor, she was "All American mutt". She was also a reporter, though not many would know her name offhand. She specialized in super powered stories, and would sell her work to the highest bidder. Mostly newspapers and online media, but sometimes her articles were picked up by television. Which news channel picked up her article usually depended on which one thought her reporting fit their ideology. She was okay with that, though that was why she would never be associated with any major company. "I am an independent, rare, almost extinct, but independent none the less," she would tell people, flashing her pretty smile. Her smile was her best feature, and she could light up a room when she decided to exhibit it. She wasn't fat, but she wasn't skinny enough to shine in front of a camera. It was okay with her, she never wanted that style of reporting. She wanted the nitty gritty, the old ways, when a reporter didn't care where the story took them, they simply wrote the truth. She met him on the South East side of Atlas, at a hole in the wall restaurant called Major Flanders Fried Chicken. Ironically it was located right next to a health store. She wasn't that use to this side of town, not that there was anything wrong with it. It was a quieter side, with less happening here than most of this part of the city, or the city as a whole for that matter. Yvette no longer lived in Atlas Park dsitrict, her parents having moved out of Rhode Island and settling in Florida years ago. Instead she lived in an apartment on Peregrine Island. It was quiet as well, until the festivities of Halloween came about. She saw him walk into the establishment, and saw the smiles of the workers as he did so. They liked him, and there was no telling how he helped them out in the past. He was wearing a mask and a costume, but even with no part of his body showing, especially not his face, one could tell he was smiling. His body language was gentle, and kind, as he gave a hello and small wave to the kitchen staff. "Crime Fighter," the cook called out. "You been good Stan," the hero asked, and Stan just waved it off as if to say as good as can be. He had a young voice, but not childish. She would have put him in his early 20's, maybe mid. He slid into the booth across from Yvette, his fingers nervously drumming the table. "Did you find the place okay," he asked, as if this was just a normal meeting. Yvette supposed, in a City of Heroes, this probably was fairly normal. "I did," she said, smiling at the tilt of his head. It was funny, when you could not read someone's face, you could tell their intent from other movements. He seemed kind enough, and genuine. "I am very glad you decided to meet with me," Yvette said, pulling out a small recorder. Sure she could have recorded the conversation on her phone, but there was something about the small recorder with it's small cassette tape that made her feel more like an old time reporter. Crime Fighter put his hand over the recorder, not allowing her to turn it on. "We have to order first," he said. "The food here is the best in Atlas Park." She nodded, and put her recorder up. She would remember this part well enough to be accurate. "Everyone says 'the best', so now your reputation for picking the restaurant is on the line," she grinned, and he nodded back with a slight chuckle. "I accept that challenge," he said, as the waitress approached them.

Just make a SHORT list of things a person "should know", and let new members just grow naturally. I knew some things about police work, before becoming a police officer. Then I learned alot more about the job and the people, even some I grew up knowing. Don't bombard, and don't be rigid if you are looking to expand, of course that depends on established community and what you all want out of it. I like Triumphant's idea very much.

Absolutely not a fan of AI writing. Not in any sense. You do not have to be good at something for me to enjoy it, you simply have to be genuine. RP and Creative Writing is not meant to be perfect, its meant to be yours. I don't see how one can take any pride in something that someone else or something else wrote, even in part. To be honest, until now, I did not know that was even a thing in this community. Very disappointing. With that said, not hating on anyone. I know there are always reasons, even exceptions. It's just my 2 cents, which is not worth a dime. 🙂

If they didn't create the toon, and background, chances are they will stop at some point, with no real investment in the toon itself. If its someone mad at your or dislikes you and did it to be malicious, then people will see that. Either way, it really doesn't matter. I have seen toons very similar to my own, but I guess I don't think about it that much, and never in the sense that they are maliciously copying me. Just play, and don't let others get in the way of it.

"What happened to her," Tom whispered, very scared, but very happy that Chad followed him. He felt like such a coward, but the.....the thing that consumed that woman was horrible. Tom watched Chad who was looking around the small building they ran into, just to get off the street. Chad did not answer at first, and Tom assumed it was because he was angry that he ran without looking back. He ran hard and long, and did not look back until Chad grabbed him, and made him stop running wild. He did not check on Chad. Did not check on the woman. "I am sorry, it was very coward the way I ran, but that...." he could not finish. "I know. It was disgusting, and scary, and it's ok." Chad, in truth, was not even thinking of Tom at this point. He was insuring there were no nasties in this small warehouse they hid in. "Too many rooms, it's not really secure," Chad said, but he was not really talking to Tom. "I have been here too long," the woman had screamed. "It's starting," she had said. This concerned Chad very much. Why did she say it that way, and exactly how long was too long? Chad looked over to Tom, who was mumbling something of an apology, but he didn't have time nor the desire to get into Tom's fear. He was going to ask Tom what he thought the woman meant, but Tom was well on his way to a nervous breakdown. If Tom broke, Tom was on his own. Chad would leave him. That meant Chad would be on his own as well. No, he could not discuss this with Tom, not yet. Not while Tom was trying to process the demonic thing that consumed the woman. Chad could not stop wondering, how long was "too long".