Two months later.<br/><br/>Monday. 04:03<br/><br/>Booker squinted as he looked in the mirror, piercing lights sending shocks through his aching head. He brushed his teeth mechanically. The effects of sleep thawed out like a thick layer of frost on a windshield. He twisted his torso and inspected a yellow and black bruising patchwork on his back. He turned back and checked over the stitches on his left shoulder, bicep and chest. The bruises on his right ribs and hip were fresher, some parts still red and swollen. He spat out a mouthful of toothpaste and sighed before rinsing his mouse and leaving the bathroom, flipping the light switch as he did.<br/>A series of files already lay at his desk when he arrived on the third floor of the federal building less than an hour later. Their presence was tempered by a steaming cup of coffee left by his assistant. He sipped the black coffee as he read through them, vaguely aware of the rising sun shining through the half-opened Venetian blinds that covered his office’s view of downtown.<br/>The conference room smelled of stale air, sweet snacks and cheap anti-bacterial spray.<br/><span style="color: #BF4000">“Oh, and there’s another update from the containment facility fiasco.”</span>A half-awake forty-something-year-old whose little remaining hair was messily matted with sweat in the stuffy room. He read from a ubiquitous brown file and dabbed at his shining forehead that stood perfectly in the path of the idle projector that cast an uncomfortable blue light in the room.<br/><span style="color: #BF4000">“Two more samples have been found missing from the lab's storage rooms, but nowhere near the incursion point. Security cams were already gone by then so no luck on that end. It’s been passed to internal affairs to have a look just in case and downstairs is looking through their reports to see if they turn anything up.”</span><br/>It seemed like the city was falling apart, hurtling towards critical mass like a train unable to hit the breaks. Things had been bad enough for a long time in Scarlet City, and everywhere else around the country it seemed, but ever since the attack on the containment facility, everything had been getting worse. Supers were appearing every day in incidents ranging from petty crime to demolishing buildings. Gangs roamed the city at night in force, their already prodigious activity seemingly emboldened by the assault on federal authorities that went unanswered and killed dozens.<br/>Both Casey and Mongrel were still out of action, leaving a gaping hole in the city’s ability to contest powered criminals, as well the well-armed thugs that took to the city at night.<br/>Booker nearly made it to lunch before an alert went up. Armed suspects, possibly super in nature. Officer down, possible civilian casualties. Even during broad daylight, the bloated criminal element was bold enough to start gunfights in the city.<br/>He made it back to the hotel room the FSA provided him around midnight. Booker slumped onto his bed sometime after two in the morning.<br/><br/>Tuesday. 04:09<br/><br/>Booker squinted at the mirror. The bathroom lights hurt his head. He inspected a fresh set of stitches over his right eye and a dark bruise on his right shoulder. He spat and left the bathroom, flipping the light switch on his way out.<br/>He finished another cup of coffee, rubbed his eyes and set down the last file on his desk. His assistant entered shortly, depositing another. Booker was about to open it when an alert went up. The sun hadn’t risen yet.<br/>He arrived back for lunch. A chicken wrap and a side of fries went down well with another two cups of coffee. He caught up on a briefing he missed. Two officers were injured in some kind of an explosion in one of the older warehouses in an abandoned industrial area while following a lead. No sign of Garrison in over a month.<br/>It was dark. Only one lamp on the street still worked. Ambulance lights flashed across Booker’s blood splashed face. Three armed men in a tenement room in the northside, one hostage. Four dead. A journalist tried to get Booker’s attention over the sirens and cries. It was the fourth call of the day.<br/>Booker fell asleep around half one.<br/><br/><br/>Wednesday. 04:12<br/><br/>Booker squinted. Bright lights invaded his sleepy mind as he brushed his teeth, an automaton. He flipped off the light as he left.<br/><span style="color: #40FF00">“Jesus, Booker, you look like sh*t.”</span>John Martins said, handing him a file.<span style="color: #40FF00">“I need you to take a team out to these old warehouses and take a look. We’re pretty sure we’re onto something here. Briefing in ten downstairs.”</span><br/>They rolled up in two vehicles, on opposite sides of the warehouse. The dilapidated building looked like it could collapse in the next storm. Rusty metal and rotting sheets of plywood kept it together. They found who they were looking for inside. Tattoos, neon hair, leather and bulletproof vests from Amazon. Plus three ARs per head. And none fond of police or super agents. They seemed to be living in a place, with TVs and beds and everything.<br/>One of Booker’s team got jumped from behind, three bullets and he was dead. That kicked things off.<br/>A few hours later Booker sat into a squad car. His body ached as he came down from the adrenaline. His powers took a heavy tole with extended use and he had pulled something in his shoulder. He wiped a mixture of sweat and blood off his forehead as a medic examined a cut along with his quad from a narrowly avoided bullet. Had he been fresher, he might have been able to pull his leg out of the way in time to avoid it.<br/>Two of the officers sent in with his were dead, another three on their way to the hospital. Most of the rest wore the gunfight on their face. The bunch of psychos in the warehouse were serious about their rebellious phase. Before leaving Booker had seen a pile of cheaply printed ‘bounty posters’ with his face on them. He thought they made a pretty bad art project. He had probably killed whoever made them.<br/>He lay on his bed sometime after midnight. He wasn't able to sleep immediately.<br/><br/><br/>Thursday 04:14<br/><br/>Booker brushed his teeth, his eyes still closed. When he eventually raised his heavy eyelids, he spat out a mouth of toothpaste and rinsed his mouth. He was almost out the door before he reached back and flipped the light switch.<br/>More files. Another briefing. Three more calls before lunch, one violent, then an overcooked lunch. Two more calls. One gunfight outside a bank. A super with flamethrowers in his palms.<br/><span style="color: #40BFBF">“Nice work out there,”</span>someone said to Booker as he returned to his office that evening. Maybe it was Martins.<br/>It was another late night of catching up on missed paperwork. He checked over a report from Donutman. The girls were doing well. He would check up on them in person at the weekend.<br/>Booker sat into bed at two.<br/><br/>Friday ...<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF00">“It seems to have been some kind of volatile fuel. Our analysts are digging into where it came from. We’ll keep you appraised as we get more information.” </span><br/>Booker got another cup of bitter black coffee as soon as the briefing was finished, doing his best to rid his mind of the sluggish haze that didn’t seem to wear off as quickly as it had even a few short years ago. He briefly sat in his office, taking stock of emails, messages and files left at his desk. He picked up a report sent by Donutman, once again reminding himself to check up on the two recruits being trained up in the middle of this mess.<br/>Aimpoint suited up and met a team of officers at the front of the federal building. The group was a mixture of federal agents and SCPD officers. Most of them looked as tired as he was. He had been in the city long enough to get to know a great many of them. Unfortunately, he doubted that all of them would be making it to the end of the month without being hospitalised or worse. Officer casualties were becoming a problem. Every kid in the inner city and stuck political freakshow who never had a father to beat the stupidity out of them had collectively chosen now to band together and cause chaos.<br/>They loaded up into cars, pulling away from the pillared front of the Federal Building, tinted windows reflecting the golden sun as it slowly sank behind the monolithic skyline of the city centre.<br/>It would be a long night.<br/><span style="color: #BF0000"> "Sh*t, I left on the bathroom light." </span>