"So, repeating.
- A level 1 Villain is classified as a Minor Disturbance. He or she has no resistance to conventional weapons and his or her powers don't make him or her powerful enough to face squads of policemen. Local enforcement is usually more than able to handle him or her.
- A level 2 Villain is classified as a Serious Disturbance. This kind of Villain is recognizable first of all by his or her resistance to conventional weaponry, meaning guns and rifles in dotation to police enforcement. This bullet-proof menace is usually above the pay grade of your odd enforcer and requires the intervention of Quick Intervention Special Squads or QISS. These veteran soldiers are equipped with the specialized weapons needed to take down this level of disturbance. One QISS squad is usually enough to deal with a Level 2.
- A level 3 Villain is classified as a Grave Disturbance. Apart from being impervious to conventional weaponry, this level of Villains is usually more than the normal QISS protocols can handle. Local enforcement is required to stay away from this level of disturbance and multiple QISS squads are deployed to face it. The subjugation of a Level 3 requires the direct intervention of a Professional Hero or heavy QISS support."
- From a lesson held by Asdrubael Kend, Professor of Transhuman Physiology at Starlight University
"Stop him!"
A flurry of bullets zipped through the air.
Dark laughed as they pinged uselessly against his chest, piercing his shirt but not even slowing him down. They felt like someone had thrown a bunch of confetti his way.
There were a lot more policemen now. Their cars blocked the street before and behind him, and the enforcers huddled behind them, taking potshots at him while shouting stuff he couldn't be bothered to hear. Their glowing sirens were annoying though.
Ignoring a windscreen shattering five paces away, Dark took a bite from his hamburger.
The street had gone empty remarkably quickly, the people scampering away at the alarm like ants before a fire. Now, only scattered bags, trampled journals and abandoned objects littered the asphalt.
Mouth full, Dark grinned. That felt right. They should be running, running from him.
Bunch of humans.
Ignoring the bullets flying, he turned toward one of the shops. The billboard advertised a jewelry store, complete with a diamond, shine and all.
Dark ate the last of the burger, wrap and all. He didn't mind the taste of it, and his teeth shredded both paper and food like they were the same. Still, a jewelry store, uh? He had filled his jacket's pockets with junk food from an eatery earlier, but money could always come in handy.
Stuffing a still wrapped hamburger in his mouth, he waddled toward the shop.
Differently from many other shops, the store had what looked to be a bullet-proof window. A heavy grating covered it, presumably having been activated when the alarms started sounding. It was a sweet thing of security: even the small windows between the bars were closed shut by tough-looking wire mesh.
Ignoring the cops' yells, Dark pushed his hands against the grating. It felt kinda warm, but wasn't where his attention went. Since he had been taking bullets, the darkness had spread across his body. It ran beneath his skin like an infection, converting his pale skin into black, chitin-like material that bullets couldn't even scratch. Even his hands weren't spared from it, the darkness having grown to cover both his fingers and his palms.
As he watched, the darkness spread further. It flowed from his fingers, making them longer, condensing in glistening, long talons.
Dark felt the corners of his lips quirk upwards as he watched the process happen. When it finished, his hands had turned into tools of violence. Each finger was the length of the palm it was attached to. It ended in a wickedly sharp point, with its underside a single, thin, glinting blade.
Dark pressed down. The metal strained then squeaked then broke. It bent around his fingers. He pulled back sharply, ripping pieces of the grating and the wire. He kept doing it until there was a hole big enough for him to step through. The glass behind took him a few moments of ripping and breaking before giving way as well.
Stepping inside, Dark barely glanced around, walking instead toward a large exposition stand. Necklaces and earrings stood on little cases and cushions, laid over a soft moquette. He grabbed fistfuls of the shiny little things, filling his pockets with them.
Hearing a clicking sound, he turned toward the counter. A man stood behind him, trembling as he pointed a rifle his way.
Dark showed him his teeth and the man struggled for air. His eyes rolled back and he went down like an empty sack.
Scoffing, Dark walked to the counter, and the cash registers on it. It took a few hits to break the lock, and he added the money to his loot, in his pants' pockets since the jacket's were already filled with food and jewelry.
Satisfied, he grabbed the rifle from the fainted man and made for the exit.
He was just about to step beyond, when he heard the sound of steps and voices. Frowning, he peered cautiously outside, to see what was going on.
He found himself staring into the mouth of a rifle's barrel.
The gunshot felt like an explosion went off beside his ear, which was, admittedly, not so different from reality. Stars exploded and pain sparked down his neck where it collided with the glass' edge.
He shook his head, dazed, hand running to his now sore temple. Blinking, he looked at the cop. The man – young man, he corrected himself – looked almost surprised. He yelped when Dark reached for him, lifting his rifle like a shield.
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Dark heard another detonation behind him. Something hard smacked against his neck, followed by another and another and another. It didn't hurt, not really, but it was annoying.
Snarling, he jumped out of the window, lashing out with both hands as he did so. His rifle smacked against the cop shooting at him, his claw grazing the other. They both flew off their feet, one crashing into a shop window and the other slamming through a car's windshield.
Dark turned around, ready for more. Nothing came. Those two were alone, and they weren't getting up.
"Playing heroes?" Dark growled, nudging hard one. The man dangled between broken segments of glass and said nothing. He was alive, probably thanks to his body armor, but he wasn't going to be action valid for a while.
Stupid, flimsy humans.
Spitting, Dark turned toward the end of the street, where the police cars blocked the way. Their stupid lights were getting really annoying now. Maybe it was time to give them a lesson too, in case others got the same ideas as these two idiots.
He narrowed his eyes. His neck itched where they shot him. Yeah, that sounded like a good plan.
----------------------------------------
The cops scattered, shouting and yelping.
Dark strained. His fingers dug into the bumper, claws screeching against the metal. The police car gave an ominous creak as the wheels left the ground.
Dark huffed and panted, hoisting the car until it almost was sideways. A bullet bounced against his cheek, making him growl. With a snarl, he pushed, letting go of the bumper.
The car rolled on its head, hitting the asphalt with a crash and almost turning back on its side by sheer momentum before settling back down on its ceiling.
Dark laughed between pants, admiring his handiwork. Three cars were overturned, two of them yelling with the whine of alarms, the third leaning against another like a toy thrown by a bored child.
A few bullets zipped his way, but they looked more like a formality than an actual threat. The cops scattered in confusion, yelling at each other and a few into their transmitters.
Dark laughed at them. They had learned their lesson, hadn't they? Them and all those stupid humans.
Grinning, he fished another hamburger from his pocket.
A sudden gust of wind almost blew the food out of his hands. Surprised, he looked up. A big helicopter hovered above the street, its rotating blades sending dust and papers flying.
Dark lifted a hand to shield himself from the lights the vehicle pointed at him. He'd lie if he said he wasn't kinda awed by the sight. Now that wasn't something you saw every day.
Was it? He wasn't exactly sure. His memory was fuzzy about helicopters. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see the face of the pilot.
Small objects hit the asphalt close to him with a metallic ping, breaking his line of thoughts. He watched them warily. They were canisters the size of his fists, mean little things that turned and rolled as he watched them, scattering grey gas as they did.
Dark had the time to blink before they exploded. Everything disappeared in a grey fog. Dark raised his hands in defense, taking a big breath as he did so. The grey came with it. It rushed down his throat, filled his lungs, bringing the taste and smell of rubber with itself.
He coughed, spluttering. A slight dizziness washed over him.
Pushing it back, he shook his head, holding his breath. Was this supposed to throw him down? Put him to sleep?
The thought had him clench his teeth and narrow his eyes. Nobody put him to sleep. Nobody.
Holding his head down, he ran to a side. Thankfully, the smoke gave him a nice cover. He easily reached an alley entrance, almost bumping into a row of garbage cans. Smirking, he grabbed one.
Pieces of cardboard and banana peels rained on his head as he lifted the garbage can. Aiming at the position he guessed the helicopter was, he threw it, putting all his strength in the launch.
A moment later, a heavy clanging told him how good of a thrower he was.
Grinning, he hefted another garbage can and threw that as well. A third, a fourth and a fifth followed right after, all of them ending with a satisfying metal clang beyond the fog.
Dark was about to throw another, when he heard metallic pings close by. He looked down. Another canister rolled against his foot.
It happened in a moment.
Someone screamed danger. The little metal object against his foot beeped, like a shy little bird. Dark thought he liked birds. But that almost ruined them for him.
The world exploded. It wasn't gray fog this time, no soft dizziness-inducing gas to breathe and spit out like candy.
It was pain. The world turned into a giant mess of pain.
Someone was screeching, a sound like nails over a chalkboard. It took Dark a moment to realize it was him. It took him another to understand that he was on his back. And another to pinpoint the chaos of pain shooting through him, for his hand to reach it and, well, not find what it was supposed to be there.
His face. His poor poor face. He liked that face. Sure, people might not. They may scoff and frown and be scared by it. But he liked it. It was the only face he had.
Someone was singing. Was it normal? Something told him that someone singing, right now, right here, wasn't exactly in the barriers of normal, clustered in that strait-jacket they call reasonable reality.
The voice kept singing, ignoring how very unusual it was for it to be doing so. So rude. Dark tried to tell it so, but his tongue didn't quite comply. He fumed. First, he was bombed with grenade launchers then this. Why everybody was being so rude to him today?
The song rose, became fainter and stronger at the same time. Distant and ethereal like the moon, dark and profound like the night. It caressed him with fingers of silver light, brushed against him and his pain with the breath of the abyss. It was soothing, like an ancient lullaby, one to hearing which the earth could stop its spins and go to sleep.
Dark would have done just so, but the song spoke to him.
We're here for you.
Not one voice, he realized. It was many, he couldn't even start to understand how many. So many. So damn many. All of them, folded together, pressed into one until they got the semblance of one, the texture of one, the sound of one.
One… thing.
We're here for you.
The song, the voice, it caressed where his pain came from, his face. Dark flinched, tried to move away, but the song cooed soothingly. His resistance, his reticence; it disappeared like specks of dust under a breeze. He entrusted himself to the voice, let himself fall into it. There was so much to fall in. A depthless depth.
The voice held him gently, reassuringly. For a long moment, Dark thought of nothing. The world was the song. He needed nothing else, wouldn't ever need anything else. He was swaddled, covered, held and protected forever.
He would have gladly remained like that forever.
But the song slipped away from him, like a warm blanket being pulled away to reveal the cold air behind. Dark wanted to protest, but the voice soothed him again, with words he wouldn't forget.
We are always here for you.
Dark blinked. He sat on the alley's floor, with his back propped against the wall. The alley was a mess of scattered, burning garbage.
Looking down, he saw a tendril of ink detach itself from his foot. He watched it flow away, retract into the mass of darkness dancing amongst the flame, like the night retracting her finger. It disappeared into it, and the darkness split, painting the alley's walls with shadows that danced with the fire.
Dark got up slowly. He touched his face. Not a mark. His skin was unmarred and more importantly, it was all there.
He watched his hand. It felt warm, as if somebody had held it until a moment ago. He turned to the alley. The shadows quivered, dancing with the flames.
We are always here for you.
He clutched a fist on his chest. It felt right. It felt so damn right that words couldn't express how right it felt.
A gust of wind splashed over him, extinguishing some of the flames and setting the shadows quivering.
The helicopter hovered above the entrance of the alley, shining its searchlights into it.
Dark watched it, not bothering to cover his eyes. In all honesty, they didn't feel as annoying as before. In all honesty, he kinda felt stronger. Or, well, strong enough.
"Round 2, friends", he said, banging his fists together. He grinned. "You better watch out now. The Darkness is my ally."
The shadows danced. The tophat cheered for him. Oh, it felt so damn right.