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It was honestly relatively quiet in the last bit of darkness before the twilight, a fact that Grim was both frustrated and thankful for. He felt bone-tired despite having pulled longer ‘shifts’ than this before, and it was obvious why. It was a complete clusterfuck of a night, from the very moment he stepped foot into that ceramics factory. The burning, the layer after layer of conspiracy, the fucking fact that he invited a known crazy person into his apartment hideout!

That was the guilt.

Because Grim [i]did[/i] feel guilty. His hands were full with those tagged survivors, trying to make sure they [i]stayed[/i] survivors rather than being condemned to that pile of corpses. It didn’t mean that he didn’t feel responsible for not having kept an eye on Wraith, no matter the man’s regenerative abilities. Grim would do better.

He had to do better.

Right now was not the time for self improvement, however. Right now was the time for dragging his ass home, shedding this thrice bedamned costume, and then proceeding to make further bad decisions by mixing sleeping pills and alcohol in an effort to suppress any dreams that were going to haunt him. Not for the first time, really. Maybe he could think up some new dog jokes for when he caught up with that rabbit mask.

Of course, nothing ever works out the way Grim wants to. It was just edging into twilight when a siren caught his ear, and he hesitated, leg half in the next shadow step as he tilted his head to listen. It was tempting to ignore it, but … fuck, that wasn’t why he started this shit in the first place. With a long suffering sigh he withdrew and changed direction.

Another siren joined the first, then another, and soon it was a chorus of them across the city. That was concerning. The dog themed hero stalked across the rooftops, taking the vantage point to-

“Ooo, my first masked freak of the night!”

The sentence obviously stopped Grim short, and he turned to see … something different, that’s for sure. A scrawny, stick-thin man with a sort of jetpack that looked bigger than him, twisting and rolling in the air like a crackhead mosquito. It was honestly impressive that he could even keep his lunch down. Grim grimaced beneath the mask, but outwardly put his hands on his hips and puffed his chest out.

“A freak? I’ll have you know-” And then Grim’s conversation was cut short as the jetpack exploded, engulfing it and the man in a fireball that plummeted to the ground, slamming off the edge of the building and then clanging onto a dumpster below.

Grim stayed there, hands on his hips, bewildered.

When he edged his way down the man was almost definitely dead. The sight of charred metal and burning flesh brought up some unpleasant memories, and Grim nearly gagged - thank god for this mask right now, seriously. However of note was that, on a foot sticking up at an awkward angle, there was a metal band wrapped around the ankle. A very familiar one.

“I should’ve just become a Doctor like Mom wanted.”