Grease groaned as he was abruptly awoken, a siren jolting him out of his deep sleep. His eyes fluttered open, as he tried to figure out where he was. A quick glance showed him that he was on his couch, a beer in his hands, and a glazed look in his eyes. He looked down at his laptop in front of him. Multiple tabs were open, showing a few hotels, as well as a couple of peoples Facebook pages. 

Grease tried to take in what he had been doing last night. He sat up, rubbing his temples. Then he remembered what he was doing. He had gotten some info about Syndicate members. The Facebook pages were targets, not friends. Grease smiled, taking a sharpie, and writing one of the names on his arm, before getting up.

"Now, what the hell is with the sire-"

He said. A quick glance out his window showed him all that he needed to know. He walked over to the window, awestruck. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to think of something he could do.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit... I didn't sign up for this."

He muttered, looking out at the twister. He noticed soon that the cyclones movement was less than natural- it had to be man-made somehow, whether it was a conduit or a machine. Looks like all of those episodes of storm chasers really did pay off.

Finally, deciding on a plan of action, he flung open his apartments window. The wind whipped through the room, blowing around a few loose papers. Grease went over to a chair, where his black leather jacket was draped. He pulled it on as swiftly as he could, as well as slapping his hat onto his head.

"Let's have some fun..."

He said, leaping out of the window, relying on his conduit strength to save him from breaking a leg. He thudded onto the pavement of the street below, causing a few cars to swerve, honking at him all of the way. As Grease touched the pavement, he felt strength flow through him. He took a moment, drinking in power from the asphalt, before dashing as quickly as he could in the direction of the tornado.

Buildings blurred into the background, becoming little more than grey smudges in the background as Grease sped up. Cars honked as Grease wove through the traffic, all going the opposite direction as him. As he ran, Grease laughed, wondering how everyone else survived without being able to go this fast.

Nearing the twister, Grease skidded to a stop. He had trouble keeping his feet planted on the asphalt, the vicious gust tearing away at him with claws of cold cutting wind. He looked around, not surprised to see some do-gooder conduits, attempting to help, most of them futilely. 

Grease looked down at the name on his arm. Jen Darude. Last night, Grease had met with a man, someone who he had paid for information on the Syndicate members. Jen was supposedly working with the Syndicate. At least, that's what the shady man had told him. An extensive search told Grease that Jen was a conduit, someone who used sand, and worked at a nearby Starbucks. Well, everything was nearby to Grease. All Grease could do was hope that she had shown up to help with the tornado.

None of the nearby conduits seemed to be using sand, though. Electricity, concrete, rubber, but no sand. Grease laid a hand on the asphalt, in an attempt to raise up a pillar from which he could leap onto a building, for a better view. However, much to his surprise, his pillar rose only a short distance, thanks to the twister ripping away his building material. 

Grease sighed, knowing that he only had one way up, and it wasn't an easy way. Mustering his strength, he fired a glob of thick, sticky tar at the wall of a nearby building, coating the side with liquid asphalt. Taking a deep breath, Grease ran at it, using the enhanced speed asphalt gave him to boost up the side. His momentum sent him flying up the side of the building, his arms flailing wildly, until they caught upon the ledge of the building, allowing him to pull himself up.

He kneeled at the top of the building, looking down at the tornado. "This might be more of a problem than I thought..." He said, gazing upon the sheer destruction caused by it. Prioritizing his schedule, Grease decided that not dying took priority over finding his target. He backed up, indecisive as to whether or not he ought to run for his life, or wait it all out.