It was a glorious summer day in Halcyon City.  The sky was blue, the sun shone bright, and a soft breeze rolled in from the ocean.  A small regatta was in progress in the bay, as a group of the city's rich and powerful battled for prominence.  Not far from the bay, the only blemish on a perfect sky, a column of smoke rose from a massive warehouse fire that the Fire Department struggled to contain.  It was the result of violent clashes between the police and a large group of protesters enraged by a story that had exposed toxic waste dumping in the sewers beneath their neighbourhood.  A situation made worse by the presence of criminal gangs instigating violence.<br/><br/>Elsewhere, in the office of the Halcyon Hunter, a small but well regarded online and print news source, a man known as the Authoritarian was bringing his own brand of chaos to the city.  An imposing figure, he was dressed in a black military-style dress uniform, more severe than any used by modern soldiers.  A black cape billowed behind him as he walked, and a gas mask and hat concealed his identity.  He had stormed into the five-story office building that held the Halcyon Hunter as the head of a half-dozen men dressed like police SWAT officers.<br/><br/>A less prominent villain than some, he appeared only occasionally and always with a specific purpose in mind.  Some claimed he had been operating for decades, others that it was a persona taken on by the leader of a paramilitary group and that the individual behind it changed.<br/><br/>"You!"  He bellowed at a manager as one gloved finger pointed.  The rest of the staff has scattered, either diving for cover, trying to get outside, or surrendering immediately.  The manager's eyes glazed over, his body going limp as if he was held up by a single rope attached to his upper back.  "Where are your reporters, I will have a word with them."  The large open room was silent, the open concept space with back-to-back desks providing little cover and allowing all those still present to watch and listen.  Those that had fled for the doors found themselves blocked by more armed men, and quickly herded back towards the common area.<br/><br/>A floor above, alerted to the commotion, a journalist by the name of Saranna Cantrell hid under her desk as she frantically texted a group of heroines she had recently interviewed for a story.  She had been impressed by the group, and didn't buy the Mayor's story.  Also, they were the only superheroines she knew how to contact on short notice.