[u][b]00:18 March 28th
Lundgrau Intelligence Services North American Headquarters, New York City[/b][/u]

The midnight skies were lit with the flames of dying riots, sounds of sirens in the distance announcing the efforts of the authorities to bring some semblance of order back to the city. Yet his eyes were not on the intermittent flashes of blue and red, nor the dying oranges of fire, it was on the spark of light that flew between and across in a flash. It was obviously [i]her[/i] from the slight touch of magic he could feel in the air about the city, though he had to wade through the lingering cloud of fel-magic from the Elysium. Arcane powers were at work in the world once more, and he was no longer one of the sole practitioners. Yes, it was entirely likely that no one could match his knowledge and skill, but there was little wonder that at least one had more raw power.

That vexed him in a way, but it did not carry the same sting as it may have done millennia ago when he was still young and angry. Now it merely amused him as he watched a child play at being a god, with so much power at her fingertips and no idea how to use it.

There were more important concerns at the moment however, and in the morning he would address his shareholders and the public with an interview. The criminal elements of New York were in disarray after the rampancy of Elysium, already several at the throats of their enemies and blaming them for the epidemic. He could make the call and reign them in, but this sounded more like an opportunity to draw out Superman and test his mettle. Raymond tapped a button on the wall of his personal office, a section sliding up to reveal a private sat-phone tied to an unregistered network. At once it connected to a predetermined number, a voice on the other end confirming their identity via code.

[color=00aeef]"My beloved daughter will be arriving in the city within the coming weeks with a very special guest. Clean up the aftermath of Elysium and move forward on the previously agreed upon plan."[/color]

A moment of silence passed, his instructions confirmed and his agent relaying information on the status of NYC back to him. It was concerning, but not untenable. In fact, it would work well to his advantage to have the police focusing on reorganizing and restoring order after the riots.

[color=00aeef]"Inform Donovan that he has my permission to engage war with the Triad. Xuanwu has been less than cooperative since we granted him land in Queens, and for that his protection is null. You may communicate that fact to the conclave when they meet."[/color]

Once more the confirmations and with that the call ended. Soon his agent would be on the street and ready to observe the Superman in the field. It would give him information he needed on the potential threat, and with the Irish Mafia taking the first move, he would see just how durable he was…

[hr]

[u][b]04:36 March 28th
Farmers Boulevard, Queens[/b][/u]

"Westmeath Spirits, NYC" announced clearly across the side of the box truck the contents within to any prying eye, and sitting outside a liquor store it seemed merely as if it was a fair bit early. Farmers Boulevard Spirits wasn't quite open for business, and wouldn't be for a couple more hours, but still no one gave more than a passing glance at the truck and the driver sitting in the cab smoking a cigarette. Inside however, was not alcohol of any kind. All that occupied the cargo area were two Irishmen tinkering with a large machine and an argument that desperately needed some kind of alcohol to make any kind of sense out of it.

"Look, I'm telling you, she just looks like the type who would keep it nice and neat. Ya can't honestly tell me otherwise." That was Patrick Breen, a surly ginger that had a temper about as short as one thought upon first sight, and multiple armed robbery charges to his name. He was the muscle in this job, that much clear from how he stared at the object taking up much of the internal space of the truck, and how restless his hands were near his gun.

"Yeah? Well yer a fukken numpty. Guarantee you she's a freak in the sack. Bet she could crush a skull between them thighs, and probably would too." Angus Breen, likely the smartest Irishman many would meet, and brilliant with any kind of explosive. He was [i]suspected[/i] of at least a dozen bank robberies over the last decade, all of which saw the use of thermite and high explosive ordnance that had put him at near the top of NYPD's most wanted list. This was why he had been brought along on this job, and why he was the one with the screwdriver that he was gesturing at Patrick's throat.

"Hey, shut the fuck up you wankers and get ready. Triad's coming up. Besides, neither of you have a chance with that Miss Magic or whoever the fuck sparkle-panties wants to call herself." Donovan Breen, the boss and driver. Since getting the call from [i]The Agent[/i] as their contact/supplier was known, he had been itching to get this job underway. They had truthfully been planning something like this for months, watching Triad movements carefully and narrowing down where and when their money would be on any given day. Today had seen a predicted change in their activities, shuffling assets to safe houses to keep them away from the rioters. The dry cleaner down at the end of the street behind the truck was just such a place, and as his younger brothers argued in the back the Chinese were behind the store moving product.

They had to only wait for a few more minutes before one of the Triad enforcers came out of the alley and around the side of the building to light up a smoke. Big Bossman had said that the only condition to starting this war was to make a show of it, and he was damned sure going to show him why the Irish had been the scourge of New York for decades. "Oi! Angus get the fucking thing ready, and open the hatch Patrick!"

---

[u][b]04:45 March 28th
Farmers Boulevard, Queens[/b][/u]

Robert Mao lit up the cigarette in boredom, staring down the street and eying up each vehicle carefully. Xuanwu had been especially paranoid of late, owing largely to the fraying relationship between himself and their patron. It didn't matter much to him personally of course, as he was just muscle and when the chips were down he would disappear and find a job elsewhere. Maybe he would get an honest job when the boss went down, start a restaurant out west and bring his wife along with him. Yeah, that wouldn't be too bad. Wouldn't be Chinese food of course, he ironically couldn't stand it which was something he was teased relentlessly for.

His idle musings were interrupted by the box truck down the street, and just how odd it seemed the more his gaze lingered on it. There was a strangeness to the way it sat low to the ground, as if the cargo was significantly overweight, and it was far too early to be delivering.

Suddenly the back door of the truck opened, though at first all he could see was darkness. Then two men and a box-shaped machine were brightly illuminated by a fire that erupted against the back wall. Everything moved in slow motion as the cigarette dropped from his lips and he watched the projectile scream out from the truck on a trail of burning propellant. The yellow painted warhead streaked past him just inches from his face, shattering the glass storefront with the bow-wave of shock that knocked him off his feet. He had barely seconds to understand what had happened before the high-explosive ordnance detonated in the center of the dry cleaner, masking the shrieking whistle of three more launching from the truck.

Angus laughed in amazement as the Land Mattress launcher he had rigged to the floor of the box truck actually worked, sending 60 lb rockets down the street to pound the Chinese safe house into rubble. It kept firing it's payload as Donovan floored the accelerator to the truck, telling his brothers to hold on tight as they sped off from the devastation before the cops could show up.

[hr]
Tagging those who these events would be most relevant to.

[@Afro Samurai] - Tiger
[@DragonofTheWest] - Superman
[@Blackstripe] - Lady Arcana