[b]SOMEWHERE IN CHICAGO
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2016
6:10 PM[/b]

“. . .in other news, Chicagoans, you'd better bring an umbrella if you plan on going out tonight. We're looking at moderate to heavy rain lasting well into the morning, with possible lightning and south-southwest wind gusts up to 20 MPH. Expect reduced visibility, so be careful out there on the roads. Renee?”

“Thanks, Chuck.” The news anchor grinned into the camera, her photogenic face filling the screen on one of the monitors in the cramped space. Men and women worked at desks and tables, keeping an eye on other monitors or speaking into headsets with low, urgent voices. All were dressed in gray and black fatigues. Urban camouflage, perfect for Chicago at night. Especially in the rain. Outside, the last of the sun slipped below the horizon. Seated in the center of the room, by himself at a desk, a man was not busy with an assigned task. Instead he hunched forwards, feeling his age in his back as he painstakingly cleaned an old but well-used Smith and Wesson Model 15 revolver. 

“In other news, the anti-vigilante group known as The Iconoclasts has announced intentions to operate here in the city of Chicago,” the smiling anchor went on. The older man briefly looked up from assembling his revolver, motioned for one of his subordinates to turn up the volume before looking back down at his task.

“Responsible for the deaths of a total of 37 vigilantes, including twelve in Memphis last week, the origin or motivations of this group remains unknown. We spoke with the head of the CPD Vigilante Task Force, Vaughn Czarny.”

The image shifted to a thirtyish, well-built man in a cheap suit. A subtitle identified him as Lieutenant Vaughn Czarny, VTF Leader. “The Police Department is still the law in Chicago,” Czarny said flatly in his Polish Downtown accent. “Vigilantes still are not welcome in this city. However, neither are murderers.”

The image shifted back to the newsroom as the man inspected his handiwork. Satisfied, he began to slowly load .38 rounds into his revolver. “Any civilians who see a vigilante are urged to avoid them and immediately dial 911. Anyone with information on any vigilantes or The Iconoclasts are urged to contact the VTF at the direct number listed below,” the anchor said. With that, the attention shifted to sports- the Bears had played the Jaguars earlier today. Interest lost, the older man focused entirely on his handgun. Satisfied by his work, he slipped the revolver into the holster on his belt. He stood, slowly. All the talking and movement in the room suddenly died, as the men and women in fatigues stopped what they were doing and looked expectantly at their leader.

He cleared his throat delicately. “Begin,” he said simply, and sat back down in his chair without another word.

The activity resumed and doubled, messages sent to all over the city. A song began to play over the encrypted radio net: [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzh_Fe08oNI]No More Heroes[/url], by The Stranglers. Music to pump them up.

All over Chicago, weapons were checked one last time, face-concealing welding helmets put on over heads, cars started. Dozens of drones rose into the misty air, their tiny but powerful motors struggling against the rain. Vehicles of every shape and sized moved out on patrol, ready to respond at the first sighting.

The Iconoclasts were on the move.

[b]FULLER PARK
6:26 PM[/b]

They called Fuller Park the worst neighborhood in all of Chicago. The corner liquor store exploding probably would not change any minds on that point.

“This city is diseased! A cancer eats away at it!” the man raved as he pulled yet another bomb from out of the satchel hanging at his hip. Aside from the cloth mask, he was dressed like something from a bygone era- a brown tweed seat and an old-fashioned derby hat. That hat, and his proclivity for explosives, were why they called him Demolition Derby. Even vigilante fanboys admitted that he did far more harm than good. 

“Neighborhoods like this are the worst tumors!” he yelled in the middle of the empty street, rainwater running off the brim of his hat. Onlookers had wisely decided to flee from the madman, who now seemed to be giving his speech to empty air. “Cradles of filth and pestilence, breeding grounds for crime and poverty! Bastions of filthy immigrants! These neighborhoods must be destroyed!” With that, Demolition Derby hurled a block of plastic explosive into the window of a rusting abandoned car with his free hand- his left tightly clutched something small. 

Seconds later, the timer ran down and the car exploded in a fireball, showering shrapnel all over the street. “Come for me, Iconoclasts!” the bomber ranted, fishing in his bag for more explosives. “If I am fated to die by your hands, so be it! But I will see my work begun first! Chicago shall be cleansed by fire!”

Luckily, no one had been killed yet. But if Demolition Derby was left unchecked it was only a matter of time.