Cropped black hair flutters at the nape of Hellion's neck as she skirts them past the orange glow of a trash-fire lit alleyway... it's October, and the cold is encroaching, the shapes of the ghosts of human lives are gathering, losing their summer-born solitude in favor of shared bottles and fires.  Everything's dark, especially the woman in front.  Her hands are in her coat pockets, and she matches her footfalls to Medea's so that, when they round the corner of  an alley with a streetlight, it's almost surprising how very close she's walking to the woman beside her.<br/><br/>"I've known this city for a while.  I've known the slime longer."  The two catch sight of a parked minivan in the next alley, some twenty feet ahead, not slowing as she moves to a crouch and duck-walks a few steps-- she's changed her angle to look beneath the vehicle from the distance.  "I prefer desperate city-scum.  They're more honest."  Hands still in her pockets, she straightens and edges to the left side of the shadowy alley, where a windowless wall still is feathery with the shredded remnants of advertising bills.<br/><br/>Medea, with practiced certainty, is aware that they're being watched.  Hellion seems aware of it, too, and the predatory roll of her stride seems to become more pronounced and her hands come free from the pockets very slowly.  "I'm curious as to how you know of this vagrant... Angel didn't give us much to go on.  And you think he's possibly one of the Watchmen?"  She narrows her eyes at that, casts a sidelong glance of skepticism toward Medea.  "They were disbanded years ago, and I don't think that retiree's club is accepting new members... or do you know something I don't?"<br/><br/>She laughs softly, the mask stretching slightly with the motion of her mouth.  "That would be something, wouldn't it..?  Nukes enough to turn the seas into vapor are pointing in our direction right now, and what do we do?  Drag out some jingoistic old farts and stick them in spandex.  That'd inspire public order alright."  Her eyes are laughing still, flicking back from their path through labyrinthine alleyways and looming shadows on streetcorners to study Medea's elegant form.  "Lions would lay down with lambs, Tricky Dick and Castro would have a three-way with Lady Liberty, and Jesus would ride a dinosaur through downtown."  Medea can see the silhouette of a top-knotted head at the mouth of the alley, just as they enter the pool of yellowish light at the foot of a streetlamp-- just the moment where visual recognition would be possible, just when Hellion's mask could be made out clearly-- and the top-knot disappears.  Leaves behind him the sound of pumping sneakers as he vacates the alley.  "So... what exactly can you<i>do</i>with those crystal balls, anyway?  They're clearly in<i>capable</i>hands."  Somehow, she manages to make the adjective into something more sensual.<br/><br/>Hellion pretends not to notice the thug's retreat.  "Next street's a right.  We should hit the 1600 block, and then--" her words stop suddenly as they hear a sharp, distance-muffled pop, echoing from several streets away.  Instinct says it's a car backfiring for the first one, always does.  The second, instinct says it's firecrackers... at the third, no one suspects anything but gunplay.  This time, there are actually four, removing all doubt even for the most naive.  Neither of these women, however, is slow to make the connection.  Hellion even guesses that it's a large caliber handgun... semi-auto, from the speed of it.  This isn't wild west firing; it's a tight group, evenly spaced-- the carefully aimed but quick delivery of someone who's fired a gun many times before.<br/><br/>A moment's pause, and she's locked eyes with Medea... their cool blue eyes could be traits of sisters, oddly enough, a point emphasized by the cold calculation, the hunter in them both.  The contrasting distinctions were just as clear, and Hellion's contained a ferocity that fringed on desperation, while Medea's seemed almost amused with the absurdity of the world.<br/><br/>Whoever was watching them before is watching them no longer; gunshots tend to do that.  If you're not up to anything illegal, they make you curious.  If you are, they make you flee; the exception being this strange breed of would-be heroes who roamed the streets in Kevlar and leather and latex and lace.  The freaks, the vigilantes, the heroes and villains-- their reaction is to jump onto the tiger's back, whichever way he might intend to run.<br/><br/>Hellion breaks into a sprint, knowing Medea isn't far behind.  Her long stride burns three city blocks-- half a thousand meters, in a minute and a half-- that's too long.  The scene's easy to piece together... a pale yellow sedan parked streetside, the motor still idling quietly.  The driver's head is leaned to the open window at an awkward angle with no fog coming from his mouth.  The shell of a building blackened and gutted by fire, fluttering yellow tape in the October breeze.  White streetlights, the distant wail of sirens.  Too late.<br/><br/>A streetlight flickers...  an upper-story window lights up, and the shape of a curler-ribbed head peeks at the edge of the yellow square of light.  The breeze picks up, the sirens are lazily rising and falling; they have only minutes.  "I recognize that one--" Hellion calls, gesturing toward the car with taloned gloves.  "Henry Bolinski.  He's an enforcer for Valentine."  She spots the gleam of spent brass by the ruined frame of a window.  A heap inside that's not ashen and charred-- brown coat, toppled, crumpled hat beside a brown face.  "Louie Pepper.  Same-same."<br/><br/>By streetlight, the two women pick up the faint gleam of something dark, a spatter trail, along the cracked concrete.  Hellion follows it with her eyes... up the street, across-- a heap of rubbish by the fluted steel of a dead streetlamp gradually takes form... it's a man's body, slumped against the post, upright and dazed.  A living, breathing mystery, who the spooky-lingerie model called Medea seemed to recognize by his description, who dropped Bolie and Pepper like a couple of schoolyard bullies... she closes distance, ready to roll, run, or strike if he more than flinches.<br/><br/>Her knees spread and she crouches before him, balancing on the balls of her feet like a perching bird.  The streetlight springs back to life with a locust's electric buzz; her black hair's rimmed in white light from its glare, but the black sheen of her suit gleams like an adder's back.  Her blue eyes rest on the young man's lashes, study the gentle features, the hardened edges.  They watch his eyes meet hers.  "It's time to go," she says, the skull half-face of her mask fluttering with the movement of her mouth.  She grips his shoulders and straightens upright, her thighs flexing as she heaves back to her feet.  Unless he resists, she manages to balance him on her shoulder and heave him over her back in a fireman's carry... he's a slender young man, despite his athletic build, but it clearly takes some effort for Hellion.  "Let's borrow Henry's ride... you think?"<br/><br/>She heads for the sedan with Aesir in tow.