[center][img]https://imgur.com/ti71KeK.jpg[/img][/center]

[color=0072bc]“What the hell kind of name is ‘The Hounds of Humanity’?”[/color]

The murmurs of the recently bankrupt mercenary garnered an immediate plea for silence by an older woman sitting at the front desk of the Lost Haven Public Library, the even tone of her hush displaying the experience she had quieting people for decades.  

[color=0072bc]“Oh, shit.  Sorry!” [/color] Trent replied in a shouting whisper, offering a wave of apology before hunkering back down behind the public access computer currently loaded with numerous tabs of news articles over the past two years.  When Trent went on his semi-retirement, he made a very concerted effort to sever all ties with the current events of the world.  He wanted to spend all his earnings in peace, free from any world-spanning threats or crisis or assassination requests that he could.  However, now finding himself broke and hilariously uninformed, Trent found himself busily trying to get himself up-to-date on what has happened while he was away.   Of course catching up on current events is a much more difficult task when the mercenary found himself with barely enough cash for an uber and no access to a smartphone.  After spending what was most of a week flying to Lost Haven, the energy-wielder found himself at quite the disadvantage in terms of info gathering.  He has lost touch with his old handler, Warden, around the same time he began his “retirement”.  With no contacts, no network and no budget, the man found himself hunched over a public computer jotting notes down on a notepad among what true bookworms still remain in the 21st century.

And what he found in his research?  The Hounds of Humanity.  Apparently right after his retirement, an anti-metahuman group made a massive statement across the nation, enacting countless crimes against those of the amplified persuasion and even firing a doomsday weapon down on major cities.  Of course with these attacks came their defenders and trolls among the internet, branding their misguided physiology on every forum they could access.  Social Media sites were plastered with countless hashtags, posts, and photos of people who associated or agreed with these anti-metahuman degenerates.

And among those statements became some wild declarations.  Lists of countless superhumans that the Hounds declared they were responsible for cutting out of the gene pool.

Among those names?  A curious figure by the name of War-Pulse.

[color=0072bc]“Of course!”[/color]  All at once Trent’s hands slammed against the table, his body jolting from his seat with such momentum that the chair went tumbling away. [color=0072bc]“[i]That’s[/i] why nobody came looking for me, everyone thought these Hound guys killed me!  I mean, it’s a little insulting that people thought I got killed by some hate group, but stil--” [/color]

“Excuse me, sir!”  The librarian interjected, her unblinking glare now fixated on the man she spent half a day shushing like an impetuous child. “This is your FIFTH outburst today within the course of THREE hours! If you cannot be quiet in the library I will have to ask you to leave at once!”

[color=0072bc]"Alright, fine, whatever.”[/color]  Trent responded, waiving the librarian’s threat off as he begrudgingly rose to his feet, strolling his way towards the great library’s doors in his familiar cavalier swagger. [color=0072bc]“This place smells like mothballs and dust anyway.”[/color]

He ran a hand through his hair as he met the cool but somewhat stagnant air of the city, calmly lumbering down the concrete stairs before sinking back into the masses on the street.  His hands found their way into his pockets as he lazily ambled through the crowd, his gaze drifting to where where the skyscrapers meet the skies above.  The world thinks the infamous War-Pulse is dead?  The man who helped stop D-Day?  The merc who blew a chunk out of Lost Haven’s harbor?  The renegade Iron Knight came down to recruit to help fight Pax Metahumana?  It is a wonder the news never reached him out on his vacation.  

But Trent found himself relatively comfortable with the idea that the world forgot about him.  Apparently his career of fighting, violence, and mayhem had become little more than a footnote after a few years of laying low in islands most people never heard of.  It gave him a bit of freedom to roam around the city now without anyone attempting to shoot him, praise him, or call the police.

However, that brought up a far larger wrench in his current predicament.  What was he to do now?  Finding work would be extremely hard if everyone thinks he kicked the bucket.  Without Warden keeping jobs flowing through him, promoting that he was working again was going to be a bigger burden than he was originally hoping for.  It was not like he could just make a post on craigslist that he was a metahuman-for-hire and hope he could get some decent money.  He may have found himself in a bit of a rough spot, but he still had some standards.

His train of thought was interrupted however by the sound of his stomach making a horrible rumbling noise.  He stopped in place, rubbing a hand over his abdomen with a concerned grimace over his face.  Normally consuming food was not necessary for him, being able to harness the pure potential energy in his body meant there really was no need to consume food regularly.  He consisted basically off of whatever energy he could sap from other sources, even this very morning he had jammed his hand into a backup generator of a Wal-Mart and sapped the thing dry, hoping someone would notice before they needed the generator.

And yet, the body still had its cravings, and right now the smell of the mid-day food carts and cafe’s had clearly piqued the more human aspects of the mercenary’s physiology.  He fumbled around in his pocket for his wallet, knowing full well he only had enough on him for something small, but perhaps grabbing something quick would allow the unemployed meta to come up with a plan to advertise his business again.

And luckily, Trent knew just the place.  He had wandered back towards the seedier parts between Little Sicily and Little Ulster, as his previous knowledge of the city reminded him that there was a greasy little convenience store by the name of Grab N’ Go on a little known street corner.  One would think a place like this would be a commercial chain store connected to Gas Stations around the country, but as far as Trent was aware, this was the only one in existence.

That did not mean it was unique in any way, but with “War-Pulse”’s current budget, a gas station-quality hot dog would hit the spot.

He slipped through the building’s to the sound of the latest pop song barely brodcasted across the flimsy isles through muffled speakers in the roof while the supposed “Janitor” cleaned the isles with the familiar yellow bucket.   The woman at the counter, a slightly greying figure in her 40s, offered a short nod in acknowledgement as Trent leaned on the counter, offering her a smarmy sneer through his newly groomed beard.

[color=0072bc]“Hey there pretty lady, mind getting me the greasiest wiener you got rolling on that barely clean roller of yours and one of them super-sugary slushies?  Berry blue please.”[/color]

The woman offered a small grunt, procedung to place a large plastic cup under the swirling clear clyniders, the disgustingly colored blue sludge plopping into the container while she pulled the hot dog bun and condiments from under the counter,  slathering the meat in a mixture of red and yellow.  Her motions were quick and efficient, the actions of someone who has prepared many hot dogs over the course of many years, though with no love or passion, the actions of a drone.  She settled the hot dog and slushie in front of Trent with a indifferent frown, stating in a monotone murmur. “That will be $4.72.”

[color=0072bc]“Thanks hun, you’re an angel and don’t let anyone tell you any different.”[/color]  The merc said, placing the money on the table with one hand and giving her a finger gun motion with the other, with a small huff as the only response.  He swept up both pieces of food and slipped out the automatic doors, plopping himself on the bench outside to enjoy what barely constituted as a meal.

But before he could really sink his teeth into the sausage, the lone car squealing to a stop in the convenience store parking lot caught the eye of the mercenary.  A little odd for it to come at such a quick pace, and even odder to see three men donning hoods and facemasks storming into the building.  They did not even give him a glance as steel flashed from their pockets, the sounds of clacking metal ringing in their hands as they barged into the building.

And then the single warning shot rang out from the doors, vibrating the windows as the man screamed in fear.

“CASH REGISTER, NOW!”  The supposed ringleader said, cocking his gun and pointing it over the counter at the terrified cashier.  The other gunmen were pointed at the storekeeper, dropping his broom in fear at the sudden onset of firearms pointed in his direction.  The panicked cashier fumbled at the register, her panicked eyes flitting between the masked gunman and inputting keys. Eventually, after a tense few seconds the sound of a register popping audibly rang throughout the violent silence.

The ringleader removed a duffle bag from his shoulder, tossing it to the cashier with his gun still trained on her. “Now put [b]all[/b] the money in the--”

But his demand was cut short by a hot dog smacking him in the side of the head, an audible smack echoing through the store as the meat wobbled through the air and flopped to the floor.  The man turned on his heel, rage flashing through his eyes.

“ALRIGHT, WHO THE FU--”

Again, his shouting was cut off, this time with a slushie colliding with the bridge of his nose and exploding onto him, sending the gunman stumbling backward.  He coughed and sputtered as he attempted to wipe the blue sludge from his face, catching his footing after bracing himself on one of the store shelves while he wiped surgery ice from his eyes. 

And when he finally was able to clear his face, he found himself facing the shit-eating grin of Trent standing in the automatic doorway, much to the disbelief of him and his compatriots.

[color=0072bc]“Sorry, I thought shouting wouldn’t have got your attention.”[/color]  Trent began with a shrug, placing a hand on his hip as he spoke.  He gestured to the bewildered cashier. [color=0072bc]“Of course, that cost me my meal, so can I get a replacement once this whole shindig is finished?”[/color]

“Who the fuck do you think you are, you piece of shit!?”  The man said, regaining his composure and focusing his gun on the cocky man before him.

[color=0072bc]"Well before I answer that, let me just ask...” [/color] Trent responded, casually advancing on the man to his confusion,  [color=0072bc]“A Convenience Store robbery?  Really?  You guys live in a city where the most FAMOUS superheroes live and this is where you decide to hold your grand ‘heist’?  God, you guys have to be the stupidest buncha crooks this side of Maine!”[/color]

“Oh, yeah?” one of the other robbers blurted out, twisting his shotgun to point at the oncoming figure  “Ain’t no superhero’s here now to save your sorry ass!”

And to punctuate his response, a blast from his firearm rang out through the store, the cashier screaming and holding her mouth, for a moment believing Trent had met his end as the automatic doors behind him shattered from the shells.  And yet, he still stood, his shirt and coat sporting rips and tears from the firearm discharge, the ominous sound of flattened bits of metal clanging against the floor.

“Oh...oh fuck..oh no..”  the man stammered, cocking his shotgun and flimsily moving back.

[color=0072bc]“Oh, don’t worry.” [/color] War-Pulse growled, the air around him crackling and humming as he took another step forward, a cruel smile creeping along face as he brought his hands together, cracking his knuckles. [color=0072bc]“I think I’ll be more than enough to deal with this.”  [/color]