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[b][i]New York, New York
Later that night…[/i][/b]

“She went that way!” one of the men who had been chasing her cried out. 

Bobbi Jay had been minding hanging out with her friends near Bow Bridge in Central Park when the men arrived. At first, she thought it was the police stopping to give them a hard time like they always did at this time of night. Officer Bates had been an especially insufferable prick as of late, and it was just like him to rush up on them with the four wheeler on which he had recently been using to patrol the park. However, she soon realized that it wasn’t just one four wheeler that was approaching, but several. When the vehicles came to a stop before them, Bobbi counted four of the four wheelers. However, these were odd vehicles, slightly elongated with enough room to carry at least two men each. 

As the men disembarked the vehicles, she noticed that they were not in fact, police. The men were adorned in head to toe black body armor, and the man who seemingly took the lead was holding some sort of device that looked somewhat like an EMF detector, the meter that electricians use to find electromagnetic fields. The men wasted no time, they rushed toward Bobbi and her group of friends with guns drawn. 
She ran before she heard the first gunshot.

As she ran, her body began to change. Her bones and muscles twisted and reformed, her body was soon covered in a thick red fur, and she began to take on a decidedly more canine appearance. When she had first turned, the metamorphosis was excruciating. However, after over a decade of changes, it has become like second nature to her. Although it still was a painful experience, it no longer slowed her down.  
She bounded across the park and made her way out into the city at 74th Street. With her keen senses, she knew that the men were close behind her. As she raced down an alleyway away from the street, she thought that she had escaped, but suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her hind quarters. From that point, she found it difficult to continue running. Her legs became heavy and her breath labored. Finally, she came to a stop in the middle of the dirty alley. Much to her surprise, when she looked down at her very human leg, she found a large needle of some sort sticking out of her thigh. 

[i]Some kind of tranquilizer…[/i] she thought to herself, whatever the concoction was made it impossible for her to maintain her wolf form, and she found herself laying naked in the grimy alley unable to move, waiting for her pursuers to finally catch up to her.
She did not have long to wait. Moments after she came to rest in the middle of the alley, the sounds of heavy boots striking the pavement rang in her ears, and she became well aware that they had surrounded her. 

“Well, isn’t this a shame?” One of the men said as he stood over her. He then raised his pistol for her to see and leveled it at her. “These here,” he said indicating the bullets that were loaded into the gun’s chamber, “were made especially for your kind.” He finished before firing two shots straight into her skull.

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[b][i]Derby Street, Salem, MA[/i][/b]



Christian May was a bit of a local celebrity. He owned several businesses in the Salem area, among them a “magic shop” called Casters, which was full of novelties like crystal wands and herbs, “spells” for everything from love and wealth to protection. His good friend Lorna set up shop in the corner of the store and read tarot cards for the tourists who flooded the downtown area each October. During the housing crisis, he and Lorna went around with local news crews “blessing” houses which had been foreclosed upon in order to prevent negative forces from afflicting the new homeowners once they had taken over the properties. On Halloween, May led a Wicca prayer circle. The spectacle involved a number of local witches leading tourists in a prayer ritual all while trying to be loud enough to drown out the evangelical idiots who walked around the circle with bullhorns and signs condemning the entire lot to the eternal torment of hellfire and brimstone. 
His antics and perpetual self aggrandizing eventually paid off, as he was named “The Official Warlock of Salem” The recognition that came with that distinction was a boon for business. Casters saw traffic to the store more than quadruple within six months. In fact, he was so successful that he was able to buy his biggest rival’s store, Raven Feathers right out from under her. However, more importantly he was able to realize his dream and open a bar called The Black Mirror, which catered to real witches and warlocks, and others who were involved in the dark arts. 

On any given night, you could find Christian behind the bar serving the best libations in the city to a number of his faithful regulars, along with any tourist who thought that they had merely entered an establishment that was keeping with a theme that had proven profitable. While it was true that Christian was motivated by money more than anything else, it was also true that The Black Mirror and her regulars gave him a sense of purpose that he had never felt before in his entire life. 

“Away from the harvest the seasons have turned, the nights have grown colder and fires we’ve burned…” Christian sang the old Wicca hymn, which he always enjoyed because of the fact that it shared its tune with the Christmas carol Away in a Manger, which always seemed to rile up the crazy Christians who overheard his joyful renditions of the song.  As he sang, the doors of The Black Mirror blew open and several armed men in black body armor rushed into the bar, immediately firing on the bar’s patrons. Then, the gunfire stopped as suddenly as it started.

Christian sat cradling himself on the floor behind the bar, unable to breathe, unable to think. He had never been more afraid of anything in his life. After a few moments of quiet, Christian slowly brought himself to his feet, and immediately wished that he hadn’t. As he looked around the bar, he saw that nobody had survived the onslaught. Not even Peter, his best regular, and husband had been spared. Then he looked over to the culprits. About a dozen men all in black body armor with their weapons trained on him, yet they didn’t open fire. Instead they stood around a thirteenth man, who in stark contrast wore white armor and a mask in the fashion of the Death’s Head.
The man in white raised his hand palm forward, and all Christian could see was a blinding white light as he was sent crashing into the rows of liquor behind him. Before he could react, a powerful pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him up onto the bar top. No sooner had he come crashing down on the surface, sending what glasses and mugs remained scattering all over the floor, than the man in white pierced his portly stomach with a nine inch blade. 

“Who…who are you?” Christian weakly cried as he gazed into his attacker’s masked eyes.

“I’m the Revelator. And this is your end.” He said as he pulled out a small device, the very same type of device that had been used to burn Pixy Stix just hours prior. Then he turned away from the bar and motioned for his men to take their leave. As The Revelator left The Black Mirror, her could hear Christian May’s screams as his body was engulfed in flame.