Lexa lost attention in the man as he followed her command and walked outside. Her brow furrowed again as she looked back down at her phone. A new headline popped up on the screen. [i]Superhuman Havoc Downtown[/i]. The timestamp was from two minutes ago. Cursing to herself, Lexa dropped the phone and pushed herself up. She didn't have time to go back to her apartment and grab her gear. Stupid, she was so [i]stupid[/i] for leaving it at home today. She'd just have to make do.

[color=crimson]"Tyrell, you're in charge,"[/color] she announced to the audience as she hurried to the back room. A large, dark hand raised up above their heads in a thumbs up sign as the door swung shut.

Her coworkers were good, trusting people – no one locked their employee lockers. And Emma sure had a thing for black. In a matter of minutes, Trick stood in the little bookstore's back room, in a pair of her own black jeans, a fitted black hoodie, and a long black scarf intricately wrapped to hide her crimson hair and the bottom half of her face. 

She needed a weapon. Trick went to the supply closet and pulled out the mop. Shoving off the head, she brought the wooden pole down hard against her lifted knee, splitting it in two. She'd pay for a new one. Spinning the two makeshift weapons in her hands to test her grip, she looked out the window. And then she was gone in a pop.

[hr]
Trick darted through the city, rushing towards the commotion with the help of her teleportation. Her eyes narrowed at what she saw: the man from last night, Black Jack, and one of those numbered bastards who'd been popping up in the city. A group of police officers, determined but clearly terrified at the threat, were aiming their guns at the two.

The Number raised his hands and a pressure wave erupted forth. Black Jack was thrown back, as were the cops. And their cruisers. Eyes widening, Trick sprang into action. In an instant she appeared beside a man thrown in the path of a flying car. In the next, both she and the man were gone, reappearing a short distance to the side. 

Trick dropped the cop without ceremony, and was gone again. A muffled pop was the only warning the man with outstretched palms had before he felt jagged, splintering wood pressed hard against his spine. When the cops and other wary onlookers finally processed the scene, their eyes widened. It was Trick, their nighttime guardian (menace?). She was dressed oddly, and didn't have her katana, but there was no doubt it was her. In the daylight.

Trick glared at Black Jack over the man's shoulder, amber eyes flashing in the sun, but her voice was directed at the Number.

[color=crimson]"I'm getting sick of you poker deck jackasses tearing up my city. One chance. Stand. Down."[/color]