Gerry stepped back and considered his stock from the customer side of the bar. The Merchant was a small bar by Hudson City standards; old school décor, lots of dark wood and brass, scents of mahogany and pipe smoke. It was nothing at all like J/T, where Gerry last worked. No, the Merchant wasn’t trendy in any sense of the word and that went doubly for its stock of liquor.

The bustling Friday night traffic in Hudson City did nothing to slow Nemesis and Soldier Boy as they raced towards Lafayette.  The updates were few and far between over the communicators, but it was clear that whatever was happening in Fayettenam, was more than Paladin, Avatar and Heatwave could handle on their own.  The hypercycles slid in and out of traffic, onto and off of the sidewalks and even skimmed over the Stewart River to land on the banks of Crown Point.

Down in Fayettenam
Ya gotta have a bomb
Ya gotta have a gun
If you wanna see the sun
’Cause night comes down
Y’gonna hear th’ sound
Of bucks and nines
Guns and knives
Guns and knives
All’a the time
— from “Fuller,” by Dis Tense

The raven fluttered to a perch atop a rusted out Toyota Camry on blocks, a raucous *CAW* echoing out into the street. It kept one beady eye cocked to watch the sky while the other took in its surroundings.

Bleak. Very bleak.

Whatever they were looking for, it wasn't down here, that was for sure. Nothing here but fear and violence and hopelessness. You could almost smell it, if you knew what to look for.

Violet eyes set in a petite porcelain face glared down at two of her minions.  She'd allowed them to survive to answer her questions, the other three had been terminated with an instantaneous thought.  That was all it took.  One snarl of disdain from her perfect nose and the mental flip of a switch, and any one of her underlings would short circuit and fall dead at her feet.  Those were the lucky ones. 

The unlucky ones returned.  Scrambled remnants of a toy graveyard, life fluids fed to them through wires and tubes, sparked to life without mercy for Lady Cybra to control.  Only their brains were intact, feeding them memories of their past lives and allowing them some capacity to pray for death.

"How."  She commanded.  Her lips were pursed in a grimace of irritation, but the tone of her voice was as smooth as silk.  It emanated from within her and slid from her tongues, one in her mouth where it should have been, and the other tucked unseen behind her chin.  The quality of it resonated richly and was unreal, almost hypnotizing.

 George looked at his cards, looked up across the table, and back at the cards. He bit his lip. Finally he asked, "Does a straight beat a flush?"

Edison tried not to smile. His partner looked like a twenty-something hipster, but sometimes acted a lot younger. Point one: George had blown off his friends, who were going to a club to pretend to listen to droning electronica, to hang out and play cards. Point two: He wanted to play poker, just like his father. Point three: They did this almost every month, and George still couldn't remember how to play.

Avatar followed the faint sound of music through the garage. He'd stuck his head in here months ago when Ophilia gave him the official tour; back then it was a large, sterile space with a few token shelving units and worktables. Now the shelves and work surfaces had multiplied and there was a whiff of oil and Lava in the air.  At the far end of the garage, where the music became recognizable as Pink Floyd, the hoverbikes sat in a neat row, exciting and intimidating under their canvas coverings. 

The sweat soaked and stressed trio that had disarmed the bomb at the Justice Building, were beyond grateful to see Chip Wolfe leaning up against the limo outside.  It was illegally parked, but security assumed that the right palms had been greased and that he was entitled to be there.  Hudson City justice was highly influenced by who paid who what, so often times if you looked like you belonged, not a brow would be raised.  Drop the right name and just about anything could be forgiven.

The Cathedral had a lot of space, and not a lot of people to fill it. The public areas often afforded a great deal of privacy, and Avatar sometimes brought a research project into the cafeteria, where he could spread things out. Tonight he was only taking up half a table, most of that given over to a seemingly random arrangement of colorful, oversized playing cards. There was an open book on the table before him, and another in his lap. A sandwich, half eaten and entirely forgotten, sat forlornly out of reach.

Avatar felt smug.

There was nothing unusual about that, but he was extra smug tonight. Hugging the shadows as he moved from rooftop to rooftop, the chill March wind whipping his cloak around, he felt postively heroic.