[center][img]http://i61.tinypic.com/1hqfcl.png[/img][/center] Styx sat on the precipice of the bell tower, kicking her legs lazily about. Where in this concrete jungle did they hide their Librarium? Certainly humans read. There were lights everywhere! If they followed that accursed book of lies, they certainly could stand to write other nonsense. Looking around, she hoped the fires weren't burning anything important. Like a morgue. Or a cemetery. Walking straight down the Cathedral's spire-like bell tower, Styx thought more about cemeteries. About graves. Mark-stones in which a date of birth and death are labelled with the assumption that anyone would care or perhaps a reminder that we all inevitably burn our rope. Then, below this date, a quote that both fails to encapsulate the rotting corpses spirit before death and subsequently fails to attract the attention of anyone. So all graves, forgotten, cast aside, eventually overgrown with foliage and Earth, were of as little use to those inside as to those who visited them. Styx arrived in the Cathedral's graveyard out of a morbid curiosity. There wasn't any real substantial form of honoring the dead in hell, it was excessively difficult to die there. So the fact there were bodies beneath her feet and not in the stomach of some hungry sloth demon or thrown into the spawning pools was novel, to say the least. Moving between the graves, she stopped beneath one particularly large and ornate statue. It depicted James Hearsley, famed philanthropist and Olympic athlete. His family had spared no expense on this grave, every detail in his chiseled jaw painstakingly crafted and caring hands holstered carelessly in loose pockets. Pocket square tucked tight, his smile could kill. Styx exploded the upper half with blasts of hellfire. She hated philanthropists almost as much as she hated the kind who made statues of themselves to celebrate how great they were. She humphed loudly, and throw another ball of fire at the base with a crumbling, hissing crash following soon after. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wandering off from the graveyard, merging with shadow and re-emerging on the other end of the gate. Styx looked left and right. This part of town seemed less active, maybe something to due with the invasion. Through a alley she could see a small fire, inside of a barrel by appearances. Odd. She moved towards this light, ending up in the filthiest, grimiest alley in New Haven. Where garbage wasn't stacked, there were cats, and where there weren't cats, there was garbage, and where there wasn't garbage or cats there was the vagrant. He was curled up against the wall across from the barrel fire on top of a cardboard bed. This didn't stop Styx from shaking the mans shoulders until he awoke. She needed directions towards the closest Librarium now, before the entire city was burnt to the ground! The filthy flea ridden man groaned awoke, only to see something that was accurately out of this world looming over him. Naturally he yelled aloud, scaring off several of the cats who hadn't naturally of their own accord fled at the sight of a honest to goodness demonic presence. “Get away Satan, I didn't mean to kill those kids in the war!” he shouted. Styx spoke in surprisingly fluid english, though her voice smelled and somehow sounded of brimstone, “I am not the Prince of Darkness. Tell me where your Librarium is.” Now that the bum thought of it, she looked younger than he'd imagine the devil to be. Maybe she was one of those metahumans who was half goat or something. “Woh, sorry you scared me. The Library? Ha! It ain't open this time o' day, specially not to the likes of Ol Bum Joleson, but if yer look in the Museum of Supers gift section, ought to be a book or two I bet. It's up near where the fires are goin' on I think. What do I get for tellin' ya?” Styx left the alley, climbing up the wall. “A sense of pride for doing good work. Then nothing.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Traveling back through another mirror, Styx arrived in a apartment a few blocks away from the Museum of Supers that had seen better days. Two bodies, broiled to a crisp and hugging tightly in their bed smoked the room. In the living room, the balcony window had been smashed open and there was a clear reptilian foot trail that lead to the couples bedroom. A photo of a child lay cracked on the floor. An optimist would be thankful for the lack of blood. Looking outside from the balcony, Styx noticed a few things that were troubling. There was far more floodlights, the police having realized some of these demons couldn't teleport within light, and she couldn't simply do a few shifts to reach the other end of the street. Shattering the lights would just inform them something was off. It seemed there were some hastily assembled car barricades set up. Judging from the piles of ash and human corpses, demons had headed this way. The force here seemed far more capable of actually taking on demons and given her stature, Styx didn't feel like her odds were great. At the least she could reach the roof. Walking to the front door, she found a aluminum baseball bat lying near the door. Home protection of a sort, though to her it looked like a club. Lifting it, she slowly opened the door and peered down the hallway. One way, she saw a long trail of blood. The other, she saw where the trail of blood went, a corpse being devoured by a humanoid demon. There she saw a lesser demon, humanoid, hoofed, but little more than 5'10 in height. The lights were knocked out, a clear sign it wasn't a human in an elaborate costume. She very carefully and very deliberately tiptoed to the stairwell, before barreling through the door and slamming the door behind her, jamming the bat into the doors bar handle in the hopes it might slow the demons advances. By the time she'd reached the roof, the deafeningly loud crashes had finally ended in one final satisfying crunch. There was no way the humans could have not heard that. As if in answer, a helicopter flew down like Archangel Azrael, flashing its floodlights on Styx. Damn! Focusing her influence on the helicopter light, the glass suddenly shattered and burnt out. Styx ran across the roof, noticing that far out in the distance she could see the winged guardians of the damned wreaking havoc in the night sky, fire raging through neighborhoods, and what seemed to be not demons, not angels, but something else, fighting back. Something else that controlled the weather, another something else that could fly and throw entire vehicles, a something else that could assume the properties of ice. Were these humans? She pried open a roof vent and crawled inside, the helicopter passing overhead. Peaking her head out, and finally removing herself, she wondered. Just what was she seeing?