[b]Early evening, Los Angeles, CA[/b]

The "apartment" Zoé occupied was mostly empty space, really. A huge open area two stories tall, in a converted warehouse. Partition walls divided the whole building into quarters, each several hundred square feet, but as far as she was aware, she was the only person living there, and she owned two of the four spaces. One, the one she wasn't usually in, held most of her equipment, including her carbon fibre suits, welding area, scrap metal, isolated crime computer, and others. That quarter of the building was [i]heavily[/i] reinforced, guarded by expertly built security systems that she had paid almost excruciatingly well for. Cameras, laser tripwires, alarms, explosive charges, blast doors, and more made sure that no one was about to 'accidentally' stumble across her villain identity and live to tell the tale. It also contains what she affectionately called her gym, another open area with fireproofed walls and simulated security systems, most of it covered in scorch marks and bits of formerly molten metal. 

In contrast, her actual living space consisted of well worn couches, armchairs, and a coffee table, surrounding a 56" plasma television and a bunch of games and consoles. Spaced around that in various areas were her writing desk, three easels with paintings in various stages of completion, a rack of painting and other art supplies, her cello resting on a stand, and in the corner, a small area with plumbing where her kitchen and bathroom were. Next to those was another little spot, divided off by old surgical curtains, that held her bed and a few other personal effects. Hanging from most of the wallspace were completed paintings awaiting buyers. While she liked the finer things in life, she was well aware that she had to maintain an image of almost-but-not-quite poverty in order to keep suspicion off of her.

The building was situated just south of the Lower Westside, in the shadier docks areas where less questions tended to be asked, which suited the Frenchwoman's attitude just fine. 'Evgeniya Dunayevsky' liked her privacy, and less nosy neighbours, the better. And with several drug rings operating inside her 'safety' perimeter now under her thumb for a sort of Robin Hood protection racket, she had enough to pay her bills without working, which allowed her to do only the jobs that amused her or paid [i]extremely[/i] well. The outside was just a tad rusty, with peeling paint in patches, and looked almost [i]too[/i] stereo-typically run down. All in all, she thought it would be obvious to the right people it was a supervillain lair, almost a challenge to whatever geniuses might be working with the authorities. So far no one had taken her up on it.

Waking up from her afternoon alcohol-induced nap, Zoé sat up out of her bed to the ringing of a cell phone, lifting her brown waves of too-long hair out of her face and squinting at her 'night stand', which was a milk crate.  Four phones sat on the crate, set up in a specific order. The first was for Evgeniya, and had contacts for restaurants, galleries, concert venues, her agent, and all the other myriad phone numbers one built up living a normal life. The second was her mercenary number. Not a whole lot of people had a direct knowledge of the number itself, but several brokers knew it, and it also had an attached email address. This was for getting her real work. It had been disappointingly quiet the past few weeks. The third phone was very specifically not listed, and had a vast array of extra security measures programmed into and attached to it, and was the only way to contact Wraith. Two people in the [i]world[/i] knew that number, and they only called it in emergencies. The fourth was listed under her real name, and was linked by false GPS traces and telephone providers to Genoa. It only existed in case her sister needed something, as she was the only family member Zoé gave a shit about and was still alive.

It was the second phone which was ringing. She grumbled under her breath, swung her bare legs out of the bed, and picked it up, asuming a near flawless Russian accent as she did so. "Da? Who is calling?"

"Forge, it's Sophia. Need your help right [i]now[/i]!" Zoé knew that name. It belonged to a vampire, which was a concept that no longer surprised her like it had earlier in her life. After all, she threw fire. Listening closely, she could hear gunfire and screams in the background.

"Emergencies and hazard pay are expensive, Sophie. Can you afford?"

"Damn it, you can name your price later, but the club is under attack, and-"

"And?"

"Just get over here!" The call ended. Zoé stared at the screen as it flashed for a minute before displaying the clock, which read at 19:02. [i]Merde,[/i] she thought, [i]things must be [b]terrible[/b] if the club is being shot up.[/i] However, she was not inclined to rush on anyone's account but her own, so she took the time to stretch before she actually got out of bed. Wearing nothing but a loose T-shirt and some underwear, she crossed through the surgical curtains and over to her kitchen, grumbling the whole way in French.

"Shit-tastic way to start the day. They can be under emergency all they want, I am not going [i]anywhere[/i] until after I have had breakfas-" She stared at her cupboard. Nothing but a few stale crackers and an empty box of cereal. In the corner she spotted a pair of dusty tea packets. The fridge yielded a single apple suitable for eating. "Damn, Zoé," she muttered, "You have [i]got[/i] to go shopping later." Sighing wistfully at the thought of waffles, she tossed the apple on the counter and stepp back three paces. Eyeing the distance between herself and her belongings carefully, she stripped out of her clothes and tossed them as far as she could. Satisfied nothing would be damaging except the concrete floor, she flipped her mental 'switch' and let her power start flowing. A second later and the air around her skin shimmered from heat. Three more and it [i]glowed[/i], searing and vaporizing any dirt that might have built up on her skin and hair. She held it for a full minute before letting everything cool off again, then walked over to the counter,  bit into the apple enough to hold it in her mouth, and wandered off to get dressed in her 'work clothes'.

[b]7:36 pm local, Club Morte[/b]

Zoé stared around as she slipped through the wall at the back of the club, having avoided the emergency crew working the scene. Even with the weird vision being invisible gave her, she could see the marks of ash piles where Sophia and the other undead might have been. Bullet holes riddled [i]everything[/i], and there were almost literal piles of bodies being sorted though. Blood splashed the walls, floors, and every conceivable surface. Obviously, it had been a busy night.

For her part, the villainess wasn't particularly sad or angry about the killing. Even to her warped morals, vampires were not exactly people one could rely on. The club patrons were probably a bunch of drugged up sycophants and hedonists, and while she was herself all for enjoying herself, mindless dancing and drinking weren't exactly her forte. No, it was the loss of [i]revenue[/i], or at least potential jobs, that frustrated her. Sophia had sent several lucrative opportunities to her in the past, and she had been very generous in bonuses for well-done work. She hadn't been a friend, but as a business contact, she had been valuable. The loss was going to effect Zoé's lifestyle, and [i]that[/i] was unforgivable.

Turning away from the crime scene and walking back through the wall and alleyways that had gotten her there, she moved several blocks and found a hidden nook to shift back into the physical world, then sat back with her head against the rough brick and pulled out her phone. Once the signal came back, it immediately buzzed, notifying her that she had a new message. It was from her contact with the Syndicate, someone she had never met and didn't even know their name. But again, jobs had been given from this number, and they hadn't fucked her over yet. She entered her passcode and looked through the message, containing a link to a video on a private server, along with the message: [i]You need to see this. Call after[/i]. Zoé snorted in derision. Call after, indeed. Still, curiosity had its way, and she pressed her thumb to the screen to follow the link.

Several minutes later, she still sat against the wall, staring at the now idle device. [i]What the fuck,[/i] she thought. [i]Who the blazes thinks this was a good idea?[/i] But then she thought of the club. Surely that had been one of these so-called Hounds' 'known threats'. How many other job sources had been hit? Did they know to look through the computers of these targets? She was mildly offended she hadn't been targeted, but consoled herself with the thought that even if they knew about Wraith [i]or[/i] Forge, her security was too tight to allow them to find her or her operations.

She got herself up, ghosted into invisibility, and made her way back to her car, still several blocks away. Driving back to her home, however, a thought struck her. Not only had these [i]bâtards[/i] hit her sources of income, but they were a direct threat to [i]her[/i], as a metahuman. And even worse, they posed a threat to Émile, and that, above all else, meant that they must die. Grimacing, she gunned the accelerator, racing down the highway back to the docks so she could plan for a way to find and [i]hurt[/i] the fuckers.