From beneath his cap, Clint vigilantly observed the alleyway encounter unfold, his body fully concealed by the all-encompassing shadows that plagued the South Side. His eyes, accustomed to darkness, quickly adapted to the poorly-lit alley and began profiling both individuals. The Walking Woman was fairly thin, a typical trait for the South Side, but she didn’t carry herself like many of the slummers. Her clothes were well kept, and she was quite clean. If Clint had to guess, he would say she was a North Side college girl who went on an “excursion” to the South in search of drugs or danger. He'd seen many of their broken bodies lying on the street. However, even in the face of a total stranger, she didn’t lose her cool composure. Perhaps there was more to the Walking Woman than the eye could see.

The other shadowy figure from the rooftop, the Roof Girl, was the polar opposite of the Walking Woman. She was easily identified as a South Sider by her shabby clothes and thin frame, let alone her skyline activities, but her body language was timid and meek, a fatal flaw that could very well result in death in the South Side. Clint was surprised the young girl even made it to adulthood, although it could hardly be called that, as she was maybe just over 18. The South Side had a strange way of shortening its resident’s childhoods though. A voice cut through the dark, confident and kind, and while he couldn’t see whose mouth moved, Clint was certain from the tone it was Walking Woman speaking. He couldn’t make out what she was saying either, the words garbled by the throb of harsh electronic music emitting from rundown bars on Main Street. With a flash, the Roof Girl closed the gap between the two and extended her arm towards the other. Every muscle in Parker’s body tightened, like a tiger waiting to pounce on its prey. He gripped the police baton tighter, his knuckles cracking and heart pounding.

A scream cried out, but not from the alley. Clint spun around, accidentally knocking over a metal trash can that he’d hid behind, just in time to see a disheveled girl with one heel on run past the entrance to the alley; moments later, another figure dashed by, in their hand a silver blade turned crimson from the luminous lights of a trashy nightclub reading “Seven Sins.” Parker, knowing all too well the possible outcome, dashed out the alley, forgetting the two women behind him; he almost reached the exit before his a sharp pain, all too familiar, stabbed into his left knee, bringing him to a staggered limp. He gave a sharp yelp and a curse, but fought the urge to collapse. The agony was brought on by an old wound, a shattered knee from a motorcycle accident ten years ago. The wound healed, but without proper stretching, a simple run could cause him considerable pain. Clint forgot to stretch today.

Parker hastily lurched around the corner, and quickly wished he hadn’t. Slumped against the brick wall was an emaciated young girl with blood blossoming from several locations on her dirty white shirt, the hilt of a knife jutting from between her ribs. Her lifeless blue eyes stared upwards, directly at a hooded man with a hundred dollar bill clutched greedily in his red-stained hands. The man turned just in time to see Clint standing before him, swinging his left arm to extend his baton with a swift [i]click-click-click[/i]. The two had met before, obviously not under the best circumstances, as the hooded man dropped his money and began stepping away, a stammer caught in his throat. Clint recognized the man from the small tattoo of a cross on his cheek; he gave him a good beating before for threatening prostitutes, but Parker never thought he would be capable of this. He decided to make sure he wouldn’t ever be capable of such atrocities ever again. The man threw a few punches at Clint, landing two solid blows to his jaw and stomach, though he barely reacted. In a blind rage, the vigilante swung the baton at the man’s head, resonating a solid [i]crack[/i] which brought him to his knees as he clutched his bleeding head. Clint kicked the man over and gave him hell. He reached for the knife in the girl. Parker broke his hand with the baton. The man tried to cry out for help. Clint crushed his throat in with his boot. He continued stomping and stomping with his good leg until nothing was left of the man’s head caved in like a rotting pumpkin. He never even thought to simply shoot the man. 

Hands shaking with rage, Clint pulled his scarf down and tossed his hat into the street, running a bloodied hand through his hair. He slowly sank down next to the dead girl, knee still stiff, with his eyes fixed on the single crumpled bill that sat on the sidewalk. He’d given it to her.