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[B]Lost Haven - Streets at Night.[/b]

Jack sat at the bar. Jack ordered a neat whiskey. Jack was having some issues. The last bust felt off, and not just because there were only two people there. Calling them druglords would be too much of a compliment to their success. They were gang bangers, pushing drugs on children without a care in the world, he shouldn't have been so heavy handed, but his temper got to him. He forked over a crumpled note and took the drink. In truth? He hated the taste of alcohol, and the smoke of cigars, ever since he became a divine being it didn't do anything to him anymore, the drink tasted awful and he never had enough cash to get him buzzed, so being drunk was out of the question, and the cigars never poisoned his lungs enough to accept the smoke, so he had to fight the urge to cough like a bitch every single time he lit one up. Another refusal to get used to the times, he lit one up anyway, though the barkeep quickly tapped on the 'No Smoking' sign, so he stubbed it out again with an apologetic smile. Things had changed a lot.

It took a lot to get used to the heightened senses, the extraordinary endurance and physical prowess, he felt like all of the time he had spent in his 'past' body was weighed down, choked and always gasping for breath in comparison. He hated it. He felt like a stranger in his own skin. [color=654321]"Some second chance."[/color] He slammed the whiskey. It didn't even go down smooth, it just went down. He watched the person next to him drunkenly make love to his tonic and gin. [color=654321]"Lucky bastard."[/color] He thought to himself, and shot the hammered man a short smile before leaving. He hoped he wouldn't have to arrest him for being drunk and disorderly later, it'd just be insult to injury then.

He stepped outside, and lit up the cigar again, looking up into the sky. He heard the sound of sirens in the distance, gunfire too, even at night the city didn't sleep. He was too far away to do anything about it, he figured. He looked back down at his boots, coughing from the smoke into a curled fist. He still remembered everything about that day. The station had bad coffee, and he was still going through the paperwork on the Watts case. A man who stole his weight in gold bullion, and was pulled over for a broken headlight. There was smoke in the air and he'd barely woken up when the call came out, an allout crossfire in a warehouse, an all-American crimelord and his gang had robbed a bank, cars were already on the scene and multiple officers had gone down, they were armed to the teeth. They left the desk-jockeys to their jobs and slid on the vests, slapped the uniforms on their chest and got in their cars.

It was a nice day to be out in the car. Sunny day, but not humid, the breeze went through his 85 Cadillac nice and he was well on his way. It would've been nice if the siren wasn't so loud, and the gunfire wasn't matching it. They arrived on the scene but it was a shitshow. He saw two people leading claret out of them, and both of them were uniformed. He hopped out, and ducked behind one of the cars, where two other people were taking snap-shots off. [color=0072bc]"Eight people inside. One injured, all with automatic weapons."[/color] Came the quick sitrep. He nodded direly and took a peek. A peek, that was it. He felt both the bullets go in and stay there. He heard the gurgling and choking as well, his hands were covered in blood already. He couldn't believe it was him.

He looked at the death-stick and breathed in some of the air instead. [color=654321]"Nothing better to do."[/color] He ditched it onto the floor and made strides toward the sounds of the sirens. He tucked his badge into his front pocket and adjusted the holster at his side. If anyone asked? He was on patrol.