[b]Undisclosed Garage, 5:30 pm[/b]

The smell of motor grease permeated the small office. A crowded room, inside there was a man. Sitting behind a desk. Less of a desk, more of a folding table. Less of an office, more of a closet. Less of my employer, more just a man. Because I had just been fired. Terminated. Pink slipped. Bada bing. Bada boom. There were other garages, sure. But the environment here was what made it special. The run down building had been sitting here since '65. The man running it, my employer, was an Italian immigrant. Somehow had retained the accent after 50 odd years. His business had been slower lately. It was just him and I at this garage, and he couldn't afford to keep paying me. Nobody owns a muscle car anymore. We were the main purveyors of muscle car parts, until the trend fell flat. I suppose this was inevitable, but yet somehow I believed it would last. It had been 8 years since the Recession. Maybe old Pietro would hold out.

I walked home, to begin my second job. Crap apartment. No job. I guess vigilantism is all I have until my medicine career takes off. Or he gets a brand deal. [i]"Buy a Sting figure, with real almost causing fires via 9 volt action!"[/i]. The musician would sue for sure. But I had a job to do. Rummaging through my 'vigilante box', hidden behind 3 locks, I pull out the mask. It's time.

[b]Fuller Park, 6:30[/b]

Sting wasn't all that good at parkour. He had decided to leave the generator off tonight. With those godforsaken Iconoclasts roaming about, stealth was of the utmost importance. Slinking from alleyway to alleyway, he decided to move towards the explosions rocking the neighborhood. Shithole. Whatever. Deviating from his normal route, he noticed the neighborhood. He didn't come over here all that often, but when he did it was considerably dangerous. But he had friends here. So if they died...well, he would probably off himself. Maybe an exaggeration. Maybe not. Mental unbalance was common in the business, as evidenced by the nutcase shucking molotovs at local businesses. As the explosions grew closer, he noticed something in the alleyway. Dear lord.

The trucker vigilante. What was his name? Big Rig, was it? There was his truck. Sitting there. Alliances weren't something he usually looked for, but Sting had been a mechanic. Maybe they could tag team. Fix up his truck. Who knows. Then again, Big Rig might had been doing vigilante work as a cover for drug smuggling. Distract the cops, hide the coke in the back, bada bing. Bada boom. It was for the best to investigate. Who knew. Cleaning up the city one step at a time, yes? Sting figured it was no use to hide himself, and knocked on the door. Hopefully he didn't get his head blown off by that damn shotgun.