[center][b]Oct. 14, 2016 || Weston Apartment Complex, Alleyway || 6:00PM[/b][/center]

Chicago. A city made by the night and shaped by the culture. It was a jungle of cement and steel, bent and twisted by time. Heroes were remembered well, but it was the legends who remained immortal, shaping history in the form of tattooed names on walls and whispers in the backstreets of shady lots. Its heart was the people. Its blood was the streets. It was dark and untamable, with the attitude of a boxer in it for his final fight. No care. No fear. Only a deep, primal hunger burning a wildfire of hardcore passion. The streets were gritty. The system was tainted. Bad ruled over good, and over them all conquered the worse. It had its own people, it's own rules. You either went with it, or get caught in the current and drown. Chicago was harsh. But it was also home.

Blue. Violet. Red. Maybe a hint of yellow, but not too much. Just enough. Gentle curves, swaying hips. Full breasts full out in display alongside beckoning hands. Sexy. Seductive. Deadly beautiful. And, atop it all, grinning wide with her knowing smile, the woman's skull, dark and longing. Death and beauty. Thorns and roses. The Bella Donna. An Italian name. Or maybe French? It was hard to remember. Beautiful, it meant. Poisonous, it was. Small, deadly berries the color of midnight. A harsh truth wrapped in gentle lies.

The Toy King stared up at the woman with the skeletal grin. Posed with class, forever beckoning at the city from within the confines of her cement prison. Or at least until some asshole painted over her. Then the cycle of paint and erase, create and destroy, would start once more, ending when the whole building would be torn down. Hopefully it'd be a while before that happened. The mural had taken a week or so to finish. Between ditching passing cops and screwing over rich assholes, it was a surprise it was even done in the first place.

But there she was. The Bella Donna. Exposed to the city in all her blue, naked glory. The King stared, gloved fingers tapping on the spray can's nozzle as they surveyed their work. Not bad. Not bad at all. After a moment's pause, they tagged it--a black crown with 'TOY' hastily scribbled in the center. The ink bled, mixing and blending before dripping down to dry. 

Then, without another word, the Toy King turned and walked away, returning to the blitz of nrgjt lights and the shadows that flickered between them.

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[center][b]Oct. 14, 2016 || Fuller Park || 6:19PM[/b][/center]

It was the line of police cars that told the Toy King that something was wrong. It was the explosion that confirmed where it was.

The sky was dark, smudges of grey blossoming amongst the stark dark. The moon and stars had disappeared behind their bed of clouds, yet the city remained lit with headlights and streetlamps. The taste of electricity tingled in the air--a herald to the coming storm. The light mist was growing stronger by the minute. Soon it's be a complete downpour, drenching the unfortunate souls who'd dared to go out. 

Toy King perched at the edge of the apartment roof, the ground a mere ten stories below. A perilous fall, but a bland observance to one so used to heights. Their dark eyes followed the flash of red and blues, and the blaring squeal of the sirens. They were close. Dangerously so. It wasn't the cops the King was afraid of. Those were easily avoided if one took the right precautions. Rather, it was what they were driving towards. Something was happening. Something big and bad, and the King wanted nothing to do with it. This wasn't their turf. They did corrupt bosses and lying politicians. Not this. Not terrorists or psycos or whatever the hell was going on over there. This wasn't them. 

Another explosion shook the sky. For a moment, the sky shone a hellish red, fading into remnants of a black cherry horizon. More cops and even a SWAT van were already making their move. The King stared at them, still enough that they seemed to be an out of place gargoyle poised in stone. Then, with a reluctant sigh hissed from behind their black mask, they rose up and stood. This wasn't their turf...but it was still their job.

Navigating their way through the city was easy enough. The secret pathways of close gapped jumps, fire escapes, and wire posts were familiar to the King. The sirens blared far ahead, showing them where to go. The journey was easy enough, save for a minor slip or too. Toy King reached the scene of destruction in good time. The streets were empty while a building burned brightly despite the heavy rain. In the center of it all, Demolition Derby. For a moment, King thought they were an extra helping hand. Another vig to take down whatever the hell was going on. The exploding car was enough to change their mind.

They shouldn't have been this surprised. In fact, they weren't. The King hadn't personally met Derby--they made it a general rule to distance themselves from other vigilantes. Best avoid rivalries or troublesome partners when possible--but any news story mentioning the guy involved a gruesome body count, not always at the villain's choice. Not the most stable person, but this was just going too far.

Toy King shifted their position and narrowed their eyes. The roof was a good lookout spot. It was away from Derby's eyes, and the shadows offered better coverage. It was far from the destruction, unless the idiot was planning on throwing a bomb the King's way, which they doubted. The spot also provided a good bird's eye view of the situation. They saw the madman in al his rambling glory, the quickly spreading flames, and [i]what the hell was that person doing[/i].

There, crouched be hung a mailbox away from Derby's line of sight, was a figure clad in black. A vigilante, by the look of their attire. Clutched tightly in their hand was...a pocketknife? Toy King blinked hard. No, they couldn't be that stupid. It could be a gun, or a grenade, or [i]nope they were definitely that stupid.[/i]

They shook their head and focused back onto Derby. The guy had explosives. The King had spiky pipes. They paused for a moment and stared at their choice of offense. Explosions. Pipes. Explosions. Pipes. Suddenly, the kid's switchblade seemed less funny. At least they could afford to cut someone up. Still, there had to be at least some way of getting to Derby. Their gaze traveled to the satchel. There. The explosives. All of them seemed to be stored in the bag. That gave them several options. One, they could try to run in and separate the two. Lessen his supply. Two, they could try to find a way to blow the bag up. Not the most ideal choice, as it involved too much destruction and death. Separating, however, would require actual confrontation. And considering that running full speed at the bastard wasn't exactly ideal, confrontation was the last thing they wanted. Dammit. There were too many risks. Too much to lose. Which left them with option three. The King headed for the nearest way down, a handy little fire escape nestled within the side of the building. It was time to just go in and hope for the best.