“Dead? Lady NightRaven asked, searching the crime scene.

“Well, technically we haven’t found a body,” detective Sanchez explained, “At least, not hers. A few days ago, a high ranking member of The Executives was killed. Cleaver to the back of the head, and in broad daylight even. Yesterday, we found a man dead in a dumpster, and when we searched his home we found ties to the Cult of Brass.”

“You’re worried that a gang war is escalating,” the vampire commented.

“We haven’t found any ties to any gangs we’ve heard of,” Sanches said, “But I can tell you for certain that this house wasn’t for living in. I think it was a safehouse, but I can’t say whose.”

“What makes you say that?” the vampire asked.

“The fridge is empty, the closets are empty, the garage is empty,” the detective listed off, “Unless whoever whacked her took the time to empty her entire house, she didn’t actually live here.”

“Who alerted you?” She-Wolf asked, combing her fingers through the carpet.

“Neighbors say they saw people breaking into the back of the house,” Sanchez answered, “A young couple said that one of the people was really big. The husband guessed seven to eight feet tall. It’s not a lot to go on, but I think this is the Cult of Brass capitalizing on the death of an Executives officer.”

“Did they get a clear look at him?” Lady NightRaven asked.

“No,” Sanchez answered, “He stuck to the shadows. Whoever it was clearly had some experience in breaking and entering.”

“That doesn’t fit the usual Cult of Brass goon,” She-Wolf said.

“I know,” Sanchez said, “The Cult of Brass doesn’t hire anyone, they’d much rather get their own hands dirty. But if the Cult isn’t hard to track-”

“Except for their White Herald,” the vampire added.

“-Right,” Sanchez said, “Either of you have any leads?”

“We’re been tracking these people,” She-Wolf said, “Did you hear about the seismic tracker post that got knocked over a couple cities away?”

“Yeah,” Sanchez answered, “Word is Tremortis has his own cult now.”

“He might,” Lady NightRaven said, “And he might not. These new players, we haven’t gotten a clear lead on their motives. Were they here?”

“Yes, three of them,” She-Wolf said.

“Any signatures that I could look out for?” Sanchez asked.

“They pay in gold,” Lady NightRaven answered.

“Bullion? Or-”

“Coins,” She-Wolf said, “And not from anywhere I know of.”

“Maybe some custom mint?” Sanchez muttered.

“We had recent contact with the victim,” the vampire said, “Gorestrike was attacking her apartment. Wanted the gold coins she was paid in exchange for a guitar.”

“Well that’s the last thing I need,” Sanchez muttered, “Ever since he figured out he could throw engine blocks at helicopters, Gorestrike has been a lot nastier to deal with. I’ll give the boys in blue a warning, make sure they’re packing tear gas.”

“That stops him?” Lady NightRaven asked.

“Heavy artillery stops him,” Sanchez explained, “Tear gas slows him down long enough to drive away.”

“We might want some of that,” She-Wolf commented.

“We don’t have their budget,” Lady NightRaven said, waving off She-Wolf, “Besides, we’re fast enough to evade him already.”

“Naw, you think you can evade him,” Sanchez said, “Believe me, I’ve heard the whole song and dance before. ‘Oh, well I can just drive away from Gorestrike, he’s no problem!’ What you don’t realize is in order to accelerate you need to be moving in a straight line. If you’re moving in a straight line, Gorestrike is going to rip the axle off a car and throw it through yours. I’ve seen it happen.”

“Then how did you survive?” She-Wolf asked.

“What? I didn’t say it happened to me,” Sanchez explained, “Buddy of mine went peeling down the road while I took the first corner I could see. Shame what happened to him.”

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“That must have been awful,” She-Wolf said, doing her best to soothe him.

“Anyway, do you have a number I can call?” Sanchez asked, “If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

“Of course,” Lady NightRaven answered, passing him a business card.

…

Gargoyle looked over the recent news report, his phone a blinding white in the shadows of night. A woman named Diane had been killed recently, which was tragic, but she had died in her own home only a night after encountering Gorestrike. That wasn’t a tragedy, that was wrong. After some digging Gargoyle had found the officer who had handled Diane’s case, and had sent her home before the night was up.

Gargoyle was a well built man, tall, athletic and muscular. A career in construction work had given him remarkable strength, further honed by the local boxing gym and wrestling arena. Years of hero work had left him rather scarred, including a telling scar across his jaw back from when he didn’t wear a full face mask. His suit was swatches of dark, stone colored gray, blending effortlessly into shadows, along with a utility vest with pouches made of angular, armored plates. The pouches contained zip ties with quick and easy restraint, some basic medical supplies, a bit of cash for the odd purchase, and an extra snug case for his phone. Replacing it had gotten expensive, and he couldn’t tell the insurance company that he had been thrown through a brick wall.

Combined with some measure of super strength and rock hard skin, Gargoyle had made a name for himself as a hardworking, no nonsense superhero.

Gargoyle checked his watch, and slotted the faceplate of his mask back in with a hiss of steam. Right on que, the door to the Kings Head Police Department swung open, and out walked officer Ford. Gargoyle leapt over lanes of road to reach the rooftop next to the parking lot, and then landed in front of Mr. Ford with a light hop.

“Gargoyle!” the man barked, stumbling backwards as gravel shot across him, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m bringing you in,” Gargoyle growled, “You got an innocent woman killed.”

“What?”

“Diane Parker,” Gargoyle spat, grabbing Ford by the collar and slamming him against a wall, “She was put in your custody. You sent her home without any protection. Now, she’s dead. Everyone knows she found gold coins, but there’s plenty of gangs who want to strike it rich. Who do you work for?”

“The police-” Ford begged.

Gargoyle slapped him across the face, hard enough to sting.

“The pol-”

Gargoyle clenched his fist and beat him across the jaw.

“Don’t lie to me!” Gargoyle demanded, lifting him up against the wall, “An innocent woman died because of you! Who do you work for!”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” the man whimpered.

“No, but you’ll believe me,” Gargoyle commanded, “Tell me what you know, or join her in the grave.”

Ford’s posture shifted dramatically. All at once, he was no longer scared, he was no longer hurting, he was no longer worried. All that was enough to set off alarm bells in Gargoyle’s head, but the way Ford looked around set Gargoyle’s teeth on edge. Something was wrong. Something was-

Ford’s neck stretched forward, reaching for Gargoyle, the man’s mouth opening wide enough to shatter his jaw, his teeth turning long and wickedly sharp, and his skin turning into a greasy, oily mess.

“What-” Gargoyle muttered before Ford bit into Gargoyle’s shoulder. Ford didn’t bite hard enough to puncture Gargoyle’s armored suit, but it was more than enough to cause pain. Ford’s arm twisted around Gargoyle’s hand in an unnatural corkscrew, slowly wrenching it away as Gargoyle reached for Ford’s head.

Grunting with effort, Gargoyle dove to the ground to shake Ford off. The man, the creature, splashed as it hit the ground. Gargoyle repeatedly drove his knee into Ford, only feeling the sensation of slapping water. The creature fought beneath him, Gargoyle pinning Ford’s leg against the thing’s chest only for it to drain away. Ford slammed against Gargoyle’s faceplate, oily flesh searching for an entrance as Gargoyle scraped him off. Gargoyle dug his hands into the thing and dug, pulling and tearing at it as fast as he could. As the creature tried to reform, Gargoyle swatted and beat at it, splashing its body to pieces.

Finally, whatever it was boiled, evaporating as it died. Gargoyle took a few panting breaths, thankful for the small helmet cam he had installed a few months ago. He pressed a set of buttons by his ear and waited at the dial tone.

“Stone Cutter,” Gargoyle grumbled, “I’m sending you body cam footage.”

“Something you need to remember?” Stone Cutter asked.

“No, something I need analyzed,” Gargoyle explained, “I got into a fight with some… thing.”

“Very descriptive,” Stone Cutter remarked.

“It might have been an alien,” Gargoyle commented, “Transmitting now.”

“Alright, fairly standard bust,” Stone Cutter said, watching the footage, “You’re being a bit rough with him, don’t you- oh. Oh.”

“Exactly,” Gargoyle said.

“I can see why’d you think that’s an alien,” Stone Cutter said, “I’ll take a look through the databases, but I don’t think that matches anything on file.”

“You don’t know what it is?” Gargoyle asked.

“Can’t say I do,” Stone Cutter answered, “Did you recover any samples?”

“No,” Gargoyle said, looking over the parking lot, “But I think we found a lead on those cold cases you were looking at.”

“Diane Parker and Howardson?” Stone Cutter asked.

“Yeah, I think they’re some kind of body snatchers,” Gargoyle mused, “This is big. Do you think we should send this to the Vanguards?”

“I’d rather finish what we start,” Stone Cutter chided, “Just because they’re the best and brightest doesn’t mean we can’t handle it. We could just be looking at an escaped lab experiment.”

“I suppose,” Gargoyle said, “Where do you want me looking?”

“Give me a moment to check their personal history, patrol in the meantime,” Stone Cutter ordered, “Stone Cutter over and out.”