[hr][h2][center][color=goldenrod][b]Aquila[/b][/color] Journey Into Night, Track 1 [/center][/h2] [hr] [u][b]Two Months Ago in Boston:[/b][/u] The empty barroom was lit up by the flickering lights of flat screen televisions that had been mounted on the walls in between peeling strips of lead paint. Jones pulled slowly at the fading cigarette held between his cracked lips. He wasn't paying attention to the news as he rested his ancient bones against the countertop. Not really, not completely. He already knew the score. A smile grew beneath his greying beard. Three points for the good guys. He wished Sarah had been there. He would've told her how proud he was. He would've offered her a beer, even if it was only ten o'clock. She'd earned it. [i]"This is Melissa Williams, NBC Boston, bringing you the news that matter. The vigilante known only as the Night Bird has struck again. The bodies of Herman O'Sullivan, close friend to notorious gangster Whitey Bulger, and several of his associates were discovered earlier this morning in Roxbury." "We're live with Mark Thompson, who's on the scene at the Redmont Towers. Mark, What can you tell us?" "Well, Melissa, construction workers arriving to work this morning discovered a grisly scene. Several bodies were found scattered across the construction site. One individual was later identified by the police as Herman O'Sullivan using dental records. According to Deputy Chief John Wilson, BFD, it appears that all five victims fell from approximately the 45th floor of the still incomplete building." "And how does all of this relate to the Night Bird?" "Well, Melissa, BPD, reports that a handwritten note was found tied to O'Sullivan's body." "What did it say?" "You can't fly from justice." "Disturbing. Thanks, Mark." "No problem, Melisa." "O'Sullivan was a decisive figure in the community. Noted for his recent engagement in a number of charitable organizations, his string of successful businesses, and persistent accusations that he maintains ties to organized crime. The 2005 investigation into his finances ultimately resulted in no charges being filed, and the district attorney himself reported that he was satisfied that O'Sullivan was a legitimate businessman." "Boston Police Commissioner William G. Gross has reiterated that vigilantism will not be tolerated in Boston and is asking for anyone with information on the Night Bird to come forward. A reward of $1,000,000 has been offered for any information leading to the arrest of the Night Bird." [/i] [hr] [u][b]Presently, The Hills, Santa Celia:[/b][/u] [url=https://youtu.be/lXWQQYZ8vck?t=68]Bird of Prey[/url] Albert, Al to his friends, sat atop an overturned metal barrel on the rooftop of decrepit three story building that had once been a small tailor's shop. The Hills, crumbling as they were, surrounded him. It was a diverse neighborhood as the civilians, the white ones that is, liked to say. It was the slums, the ghetto, the rarely forgotten but mostly ignored part of town that hadn't been gentrified by a horde of invading hipsters yet. It was a capitalist’s dream, and it was the one place where one could still purchase weed at a reasonable price, where crack was king, and cocaine was reserved for passing through stock brokers and crooked politicians. The streets were covered with trash, and broken glass. Blocks, entire blocks of buildings stood empty, and a sense of resigned decline had settled like a choking fog over the district. Al didn't mind, it was home. And business, business was good. Downtown Santa Celia might be salvageable. With some work, it could even be saved. But, the Hills? The Hills, well, they were fucked. Al knew it. The civilians knew it. All the gangs knew it. And for once, even the cops seemed to know it. They still rolled through the block, sure, but they didn't get out of their cars. Not even the ambulances or fire trucks would go into the Hills without an escort of armed guards. It was the Wild West as far as the Mayor of Santa Celia was concerned. Al liked it that way. He'd never liked it when civilians or cops got hurt, it was bad for business. The game was the game, but there had to be rules. Looking up from his smart phone, Al had just enough time to see Big Mike go flying past him in a flurry of motion. Jim Boy stood up next to him, reaching for his peace. He was slow, too slow Al knew, and Al watched with his mouth agape as a figure dove from the skies, slamming into Jim Boy with a loud smack. As Jim Boy fell, a wet sound rang out. Looking down, Al saw that his head was lolled to one side at an impossible angle. Al screamed. He screamed until he felt the air leaving him as a heavy fist smashed into his stomach, sending an unappetizing mix of half-digested onions rings and cheeseburger onto the rooftop. Al felt his feet leave the ground, and then he realized he was airborne. The pyramid of broken TVs that the gang had accumulated as part of some ritualistic hubris broke his fall. Buried beneath the shattered glass, it seemed to Al that the whole world had stopped in its tracks. Lying in a bed of cheap Chinese plastic, Japanese glass, and torn wiring, Al couldn't hear anything but his own heavy breathing. Slowly, sound returned, and he groaned. He brought a hand to his head and came away with blood. Fumbling for his gun, Al tried to stand, only to collapse under his own weight. He craned his head around, trying to catch a glimpse of his assailant. For the first time in years, Al prayed, he muttered the only prayer he could remember, clutching desperately at the rosary he wore around his neck more out of habit, than outright belief. The same rosary that his Tia had given him almost a decade ago. Great, magnificent wings unfurled in front of him as the figure gracefully landed without so much as a sound. "An angel-" He hoarsely began, gasping painfully with each panicked syllable. "You wish, scumbag," came the furious reply. A woman, the voice was feminine. Measured, and full of anger. Al tried to focus his eyes through the blood. He saw a mask. A tattered mess of clothing. A terrible visage of fury. Recognition dawned on him. His fear grew. He was dealing with a villain, like the monsters he had heard about. The Pale Man, the Skeleton, the cloaked figure who butchered all that crossed his path, and the bright colored girl that followed him...or it. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't know the Skeleton was here. I thought it was fine. I didn't know any better. Just let me go, you can have all my product, just let me go," Al begged, coughing up blood. "Who?" "The Pale Man. The Skeleton. Your boss." "Sorry chump, I'm not with any outfit. I'm strictly an independent contractor." "Wait...you're not with the Skeleton, then why are you here? Why are you doing this?" "I'm justice." "Lady, you're crazy," Al muttered, his eyes wide with fear. "They always say that," the woman said with a low laugh, pulling Al to his feet by the collar of his shirt. "I'll give you a chance, one chance." "Wh-what?" "If you survive the fall, then you are free to go." "No- Wait!" He shouted, trying to grab her arms, trying to grab onto anything. But it was too late. Al sailed through the air, like a jet powered bag of potatoes. Tumbling over the edge of the rooftop, he could only scream. He screamed the entire way down to the ground. Flashes of his life passing in front of his eyes. Regrets, so many regrets. Al hit the pavement hard and light, blinding light enveloped him. He felt his legs shatter as his feet impacted the pavement, bones moving in directions they were not supposed to, buckling upwards in a sickening wave towards his knees. He screamed, he screamed like he had never screamed before. Rolling fitfully on the red pavement, he pushed himself away from Big Mike’s broken form. The large man was breathing, barely, his right side reduced to a mess of bone and blood. Three stories, three fucking stories, she'd thrown them off of a fucking three-story building. Jim Boy lay nearby, his neck still impossibly twisted, his dead eyes staring accusingly at Al. Al didn't care. He was alive. He wept, dragging himself out of the alley, leaving Big Mike behind. He was going to live. He was done. Al was going to retire. He'd had enough. [hr][h2][center]Sir Skeleton and [color=hotpink]Laser Girl[/color] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q5GjVvlmg3o]Pearl's Girl, Track 1[/url] [/center][/h2][hr] [u][b]Elsewhere in Santa Celia:[/b][/u] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XiMrrleH_hI]Play Me[/url] Sir Skeleton looked on with his grim features. A skull ground down to perfectly polished white bone shone malevolently beneath his prodigious top hat. His empty eye sockets, haunting nothingness, all that remained of his eyes, gazed unmoved at the sight in front of him. The fingers and teeth that lay scattered across the floor did not seem to bother him. Laser Girl was not sure how she knew, but she knew he was deeply unhappy with the present situation. She could almost feel the anger; the cold, inhuman anger that emanated from the shrouded figure. With a roll of his visible vertebrae, he turned towards Laser Girl, and she carefully returned his gaze. She had quickly learned to respect and mostly fear her new companion. She'd seen what he could do. The unbidden, unwelcome memories that followed sent a shiver down her spine, and she nervously adjusted the futuristic visor she wore to contain the laser beams she commanded with her eyes. [i][b]You summoned me. What is it?[/b][/i] She heard his deep voice in her mind, it felt strange, foreign, as if someone was whispering in her mind and all around her all at once...but she was getting used to it. Beyond simple gestures, it was how the skeletal figure chose to communicate. He said that he didn't have the necessary organic parts to speak any more. And she believed him. He was nothing more than a walking pile of bones dressed in a three piece suit, and an ancient tattered coat the color of midnight. No skin, no muscles, no organs, just perfectly preserved bones cast in a shade of brilliant white. "Nothing, nothing. Everything's fine," Laser girl replied halfheartedly, feeling suddenly ill. She turned towards the handcuffed figure, who was presently leaking blood onto the carpeted floor. "Well, there's a small problem, boss. A minor hangup, really. He says he doesn't know the password, he says he doesn't know the way in. Boris asked him. Repeatedly. Even used some motivational techniques. But well, he still says he doesn't know." Laser Girl could have sworn she heard a laugh, a deep unsettling laugh echoing through her skull. [b][i]Leave us. I will parley with our friend.[/i][/b] Shrugging her shoulders, Laser Girl practically skipped out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her. The screaming began soon after. She frowned. She wasn't huge on torture. Still, bad guys were bad guys. Doing some good, did not absolve them. No gods, no masters, as Sir Skeleton always said. Pulling her headphones over her ears, she turned up the volume, drowning out the screams, and desperate, mewls for mercy that traveled through the thin walls. She wondered if Sir Skeleton would let her take the night off. She had so many parties to go to. So many old friends to see. The night was young, and she had ecstasy to spare.