[color=thistle][center][h2]Sable Smoak[/h2][/center][/color]
Sable Smoak, leader of the Reformists, was sitting in her office. Reclining in her chair, she blew out a plume of smoke, a cigarette resting in her weathered fingers. Though perhaps it would be more accurate to say she sighed it out. She held the paper she'd been reading up in front of her face, her mouth flattened into a displeased line. 

[i]And it is with great pleasure and humility that I welcome Mayor Joseph Martinez…[/i]

She snorted. The only thing that would give her pleasure would be walking into his house for just an hour, so she could watch him cough and gag away the smoke for the next month. But he was the only official willing to support them openly, and such… friendship required reciprocation, usually in the form of bullshit speeches, smiles, and handshaking. Sable lifted her cigarette and pressed the tip into his name, twirling it a little as orange embers fanned out around it, eating away at the ink and paper. The corner of her lips quirked up. She was pulled out of her petty enjoyment though when the phone rang. Pulling the smoke down to the paper to smother the embers, she looked down at the caller ID and rolled her eyes. Speak of the pompous devil.

[color=thistle]"What,"[/color] she said into the phone, her gravelly voice no doubt even harsher over the phone.

"I-its… the… the LA," Mayor Martinez stammered, and Sable made a face.

[color=thistle]"Out with it boy, you ain't askin' me to prom."[/color] Sable pursed her lips in what might've been a smile. The mayor hated when she called him that.

There was a moment of silence before the mayor answered. "The LA Center for Humans has been attacked, and sources all but confirm it was the Underground Movement," he finally managed. Sable froze. Then she turned to her computer – surprisingly current for a woman of her age – and pulled up the local news.

Sable cursed, using language that no doubt made the mayor blush.

[color=thistle]"We ain't your super powered police dogs,"[/color] she said when she finally finished watching the footage. But even as she said it, she knew that wasn't true, and so did he. As the self-appointed ambassadors for Metas all over the world, the mayor, and more importantly, the [i]public[/i] held them responsible any time the Underground decided to play.

"Deal with it, Smoak!" The line went dead.

Sable slammed the receiver down before lifting it again, pressing a sequence of numbers.

[color=thistle]"I want everyone available down at the LA Center for Pea-Brains and Racists,"[/color] she bit into the phone, more and more smoke filling the room. The person on the other end was confused, and rightfully so. The group wasn't exactly subtle with its beliefs – that all Metas should be eradicated immediately. But apparently the other person's response had been the wrong one. [color=thistle]"Was that a question I heard?"[/color] the Reformist leader all but shouted. She pinched her eyes shut and brought her cigarette hand to her temple. 

[color=thistle]"Just make sure no more end up dead,"[/color] she said at a more reasonable volume. [color=thistle]"And someone better tell me how the [i]hell[/i] we didn't know jack shit about this until now!"[/color] Then she slammed the phone down.

[color=aquamarine][center][h2]Aya[/h2][/center][/color]
Aya was walking back towards her apartment after a day of work. Today had been one of her longer days, and all she wanted to do was to unlock her door that didn't open unless you yanked at least three times, walk up the creaking stairs, and collapse into her flat, uncomfortable bed. At this point she was seriously considering just buying a futon and throwing some pillows on it. It couldn't have been any worse than the sorry excuse for a mattress she had now.

Sighing, Aya gathered herself up as she turned the corner. This block was her least favorite part of the walk home – right past one of LA's more vocal anti-Meta groups. Of course, no one knew she was a Meta. And if she had it her way, no one ever [i]would[/i]. But still, walking past that building made her hair stand on end, and her stomach migrate to her throat. Unfortunately, this was the quickest way home, and the next best route took her right through a notoriously violent ghetto. Aya supposed she'd rather be uncomfortable than mugged.

But something seemed off today. The sounds of the city were more frantic, more alarmed than they normally were. People normally talked or shouted, but Aya was certain she heard screaming. Her eyes widened when she realized the screaming was coming from further down the street, from the very building she dreaded to pass every day. People were clamoring like ants, some running away, others frozen in place with their phones out, no doubt recording whatever spectacle was on display. Aya's heart pounded in her chest to turn around and take her chances with the ghetto, but her feet drove forward, speeding up until she was sprinting to the scene. 

Aya skidded to a stop when she reached a clump of people standing on the sidewalk, gawking at the building. It wasn't until she pushed her way to the front, chest panting – whether from fear or exhaustion, she couldn't tell – that she finally understood.

The grand double doors of the building were held wide open, blood seeping from the carpet to the asphalt as it crossed the threshold. The corner of the back pews could be seen, stained crimson. A sickening lump was resting just within her field of vision, covered in light blue cotton that had once been an immaculate shirt. Just to the side of it on the floor, resting in a growing pool of blood was its head.

Aya smothered a scream, clamping her shaking hand over her mouth. But her heart stopped when a figure strolled through the door, wearing a splattered trench coat. She knew that figure. Everyone in LA knew it.

[i]Edge[/i]. The leader of the Underground Movement. 

Aya stood frozen, paralyzed by fear as he made his way out of the building.