Kaige

GM There wasn't much on the Haywood case that was public record. The death of the detective wasn't much clearer, though it had more coverage. Detective Jason Howle, son of the CEO of one of the companies of the Howle-Brandt Consortium, had been killed several weeks earlier. There wasn't much on how it had happened, except that he had been "killed in action". There was a lot of press speculation on how his death would affect the company and very little genuine sympathy. As for Susan Haywood, Xavier was able to confirm that she was in foster care, that she had been reported missing a month ago by her biological father, and that the case had been assigned to Detective Howle. Exactly who had the case after his death was unclear; it seemed to be sitting in limbo, but it was still open. Susan had a lot of friends, and Ross had numbers for several of them. They could confirm that she had been unhappy in foster care, and that she had been thinking about running away, but they'd assumed she would go to her dad if she really did. The foster home didn't answer the phone. Susan's cell phone didn't pick up, either, though it definitely rang. A call to the third precinct produced a strangely different result: it was sent all the way up to the precinct captain. Moses Runyon was one of the only African-Americans to reach any semblance of rank in the Bedlam PD, and word on the street was that he intended to use that position to improve community relations in Wolverton - which in Bedlam-ese meant reach out to the local gangs in order to secure new sources of graft. It was said that he was a personal friend of Rock Johnson, one of the two crime lords that ran the district, so he might just pull it off. Over the phone he was calm and collected, with a bright, eager voice. "Mr. Steadman," he began, "hello. I hear you're looking into the Haywood case. Trying to take our business?" He laughed.

Holding off for a bit to give Arrowhawk a chance to react. Posting should be faster this weekend. It's a good distraction from grading summer reading packets.

Well, Aaron reflected as he suppressed the urge to hold his head in his hands, he'd managed to bungle this pretty thoroughly already. He was not much of a spy. "Three of us, then," he said dryly, wondering just how many other people he might have alerted with his clumsy maneuvering. "And we'll move quickly, so that we don't add anyone who wants us to fail." Lovelace and Red Rat... maybe he needed a codename. Or maybe he should get out of this business after this job, if he survived, because he was clearly bad at it. "I can pay you well for your services and your silence," he promised, and it was true. Of course, anyone hiring corporate spies in Bedlam would say the same, and then probably dispose of them after the mission to make sure that the data was secure. But Aaron was honest, if not exactly an expert on this stuff. "I'll lay our options on the table," he went on, speaking quickly and quietly. "You'll know better which way we should take. First, there's a service elevator in the underground parking garage that goes as high as the fiftieth floor. We would have to switch elevators there or take the stairs, both of which are on the opposite side of the building, so that might be tricky. The main elevators in the lobby go all the way up to the sixtieth floor, but getting there would be tough; there's a security desk at the entrance, and we're not dressed for it." "Or," he said, opening a duffel bag full of harnesses and suction cups, "we can climb the outside. Dangerous, but it'll be dark out soon. We'd be hard to spot."

GM Rona shrugged as Aaron also turned away; she was still literally hanging on the arm of a good story. "Mr. Pennington," she told Lord Steam in a low, conspiratorial tone, "comes from one of Bedlam's six founding families. Well, seven, but the Scarletts didn't make it past the founding. They used to be the Starks, who gave their name to Stark Hill. They've always been landlords; Mr. Pennington owns most of Hardwick Park's apartments, like he said, and no small number of the skyscrapers downtown. As for criminal connections," she said, her eyes dancing and her smile sultry, "well, we can only speculate. But this is Bedlam City." One arm hooked through Lord Steam's, she raised the other to gesture over a red-uniformed waiter bearing a tray of champagne glasses. She took two between her slender fingers, passing one to Lord Steam before taking a dainty sip from the other. "I would love to hear about where you really come from," she said over the rim of her glass. Her small diamond stud earrings twinkled beneath the light of the chandeliers as her dark hair shifted over her ears. "We have the wine, and the food is on the way." Another waiter was coming around bearing a cheese platter, and people were starting to move toward the long banquet tables. Beyond the tables, on a raised podium at the far end of the room, Vivian Howle stepped up to speak. Her steely, commanding voice came through the speakers set along the edges of the ballroom. "Ladies and gentlemen," she began, "good evening." Despite her funeral clothes and the whispers that filled the room as she began, she was the very model of composure. "It is my very great pleasure to introduce the Grant Conglomerate's new director in Bedlam City, Mr..." At that moment, everything went wild. The microphone exploded, throwing Vivian from the podium to land heavily on her back. All along the hall, the lights flickered wildly. Chandeliers began to burst, raining shards of glass down on screaming guests. The heavy security doors swung shut with an ominous click. White noise came through the speakers, loud and disorienting. High rollers dived beneath the tables or pressed themselves against the edges of the room. All was chaos. And the three huge chandeliers, half ruined, were threatening to fall entirely from the ceiling, crushing the tables and the guests beneath. A chilling voice cut through the white noise. "Thieves," it accused. "Kidnappers. Liars. Murderers."

Aaron breathed a heavy sigh as Pennington turned to go. On the one hand, he was relieved to see that the gala was not about to descend into a brawl that would accomplish nothing - and probably get Lord Steam arrested, given that men like Pennington ran "justice" in Bedlam City. On the other, he believed what Pennington had said; he probably would kick out thirty of his tenants that night. He resolved to follow up. He had the money to find those families a new place to live if the threat was realized, and he felt partially responsible; he'd failed to fully defuse the mess of a conversation before it had turned ugly, and perhaps had made it worse. "I think we can manage without Mr. Pennington Sr. tonight," Aaron agreed, "but if you plan to stay here long, you've made a powerful enemy." He was reluctant to go on; Rona Romita was staring intently at him, no doubt mentally recording everything he'd said. The Bedlam Inquirer would love to hear him say something negative about the Penningtons, and he had already come perilously close. He could already see the headlines: "Old vs. New: The Pennington-Howle Feud". The last thing he and his mother needed was more time in the tabloids. "Mr. Howle," the journalist began, "I was so sorry to hear about your bro-" In a low but firm voice, Aaron cut her off. "No comment. It was good to meet you, Lord Steam. I hope you have a pleasant stay in Bedlam. Good evening." He turned to go.

GM Ross took a deep, steadying breath. "Right, sure. I've got a card somewhere..." The business card he produced was ragged around the edges and starting to get dingy; Xavier had the distinct impression that it might be the only one the man had. NEat, simple letter spelled out Ross Haywood, Piano Tuning and Repair and a contact number. "I used to work with little instruments at the Greely factory," he explained. "Turns out that's still good for something. Not too many folks around here who own a piano and will let a black man into their house, though." He thought for a second, then looked worried. "I can pay, though. I have it saved up." The credit check indicated that he probably could. The average rate for a Bedlam PI would clean him out if the case took longer than a few days, but if it was closed quickly he'd be good for full price. Asked about the photo, he nodded. "I've been talking to Susie all along. That was taken about three months ago at prom; she was a junior, but a senior took her." When Xavier announced that he would take the case, Ross's smile could have lit the city for a month. "Thank you, thank you, sir," he said, standing for another shake of the PI's hand. For a moment, he thought about the final warning. Then he said, more quietly, "I just want her to be safe." "There might still be a case file open at the third precinct," he said, "but I doubt if they'll help people like us." He was ready to answer any other questions, or to depart and let Xavier work.

Far better. In that case I'd better fix it.

Aaron found his mouth very, very dry as the woman asked her question. This was the point of no return. This was where he betrayed his family's company. But he owed it to Jason. He owed it to the city his brother had died trying to save all on his lonesome, and he owed it to all of the people who had gotten hurt so that he could afford private school and private jets and private dinners. "Behind us," he began, his voice low and far more calm than he felt, "is the Howle-Brandt Building. On the sixtieth floor, between a breakroom and a security station, is a server room full of the kind of data that could sink them, or at least the local division. I can get you in there. You can break the encryptions." He paused. The next part of his ask was tricky, touchy. He didn't think that she would like it much. "But I need you to promise to give the data to me," he finally said. "If it gets released to the public, and the news bothers to pick it up, HBC will be finished in Bedlam. And for all that harm they've done, they employ a third of the low income workers in the city. But I have an in with the company. If I threaten to go public with the proof we find, they'll have to stop the illegal drugging or risk losing all their business in the city, maybe even folding up entirely. And if they stop, life gets better for the workers, nobody loses their jobs, and HBC gets a black eye and a stern warning. Everyone but them wins." It was an earnest plea, though he worried it might sound shady. He didn't look forward to the conversation he was going to have to have in putting his leverage to use if he got it; he was going to have to bring it to mom. Some part of him hoped she didn't know, and the proof would help him convince her to purge HBC's Bedlam division of all of the corruption and inhumanity it was dealing in. But it was Howle Chemical that would have developed something like this, the company she'd built from the ground up. In his heart, he was sure she knew, and it tore him up inside. Every image he'd ever had of her must have been wrong. He was so deep in that plea, that thought, that he didn't have a chance of hearing Red Rat sneaking up to eavesdrop...

GM Even as the argument raged, Lena spotted what she'd been looking for. Rothstein had definitely been careful; neatly labeled security tapes sat stacked on a shelf beside the computer, and a fresh DvD was spinning in the tray, full of the previous night's footage. It would be easy to take, though its absence would be easily noted - if the cops bothered to check the back room, and weren't drunk or high. It would also be pretty easy to rapidly rewind through the footage and check the events of the previous night, but there was no guarantee as to whether they would be able to manage it before the police arrived. Luthor, keeping a vigilant ear on the sirens due to his concern, couldn't be entirely sure how long it would be until they showed. But he was pretty sure that, if he and Lena (and maybe Robyn Hood there) left now, they could slip away before any patrol cars pulled up, even through the front entrance. Arrowhawk's impossibly keen hearing enabled her to guess that only one patrol car was en route. It would probably just be the beat cops arriving to secure the scene, and maybe steal whatever was left over if they thought it wouldn't be missed. Detectives from Burglary Squad, which was notorious for its low success rate and lower officer morale, would show up later - if the beat cops decided that this was even a crime worth investigating, given that the only concrete evidence of a break-in was the fact that everything was gone. They might look into it - or they might decide that there were other explanations and drop it altogether. It was Stark Hill, but the place was not of Stark Hill, so who knew for sure?

GM The bodyguard shoved Aaron away, growling "don't need you" in a thick Chechen accent. For a moment, Pennington just looked stunned by the verbal barrage, his tiny eyes squinched up as if he might cry - or bore a hole right into someone's immortal soul. But finally he smiled, a nasty but pearly gash in his fat face. "You talk a big fancy talk, Steam, whatever kind of name that is," he said, one sausage-like finger mimicking the accusatory stab of Lord Steam's cane. "But if you think you're some kind of crusader, that you've won some kind of prize with your high and mighty act, you've got another thing coming." He turned around and held out his arms, prompting his bodyguard to slip on his drab grey overcoat. "You've put me in a bad mood. And when I'm in a bad mood, see, I run out of pity for worthless layabouts. So I'll evict... let's say thirty of the filthy illegals that infest my apartments tonight. I'll pick families; they spend more on food, school supplies, whatever, and it makes it harder for scum sucking the welfare teat to pay me what they owe me. I'll be sure to give them your name when they ask why." Turning back toward Lord Steam, he looked past him as if he weren't there. "Come on," he told his bodyguard. "No reason to stay. They've let the rabble in." As he turned to go, Rona Romita stepped up beside Lord Steam, holding out an arm for him to take. "My," she said, offering a winning smile. "They do make men differently in Freedom City."

Leaning back and quickly producing a small camera from her pursue, Rona Romita snapped a picture of Lord Steam pointing his cane at Pennington. Aaron swallowed hard. This was getting out of control very, very quickly, and he wasn't entirely sure what to do. Pennington knew that no one in Bedlam would dare speak to him that way, no matter what hateful drivel he shouted at them - no one except its Mafia overlords, and even he had the sense not to insult them. But Lord Steam was from out of town, from a place where the aristocracy could be openly questioned without the fear of horrible retaliation in the night. He couldn't know the consequences - or else he was truly fearless. Aaron admired everything the man had said and done, but getting into a brawl at the entrance to the Gala wasn't going to look good for anyone. "O-kay," he said, his voice low and calm as he stepped between the bodyguard and Lord Steam's accusing cane. "I think that's enough time in the headlines for all of us. Ambulances at the gala don't look good for anyone." He glanced up at the stage at the end of the hall, over to the banquet table, then back to Rona, desperately formulating a way for both men to save face. Pennington didn't deserve one, but the consequences would be dire if he didn't get it. "Lord Steam, I'm sure it would be a real coup for the Informer if you'd oblige Ms. Romita with an interview. Mr. Pennington, I think the bourbon is free tonight."

Yes, but the police will notice that they are gone if they bother to check. Given that the owner is Jewish, Lena estimates that whether they will go that far on their due diligence is about 50-50.

No, what he's saying appears to be the truth.

Aaron blushed as his contact reprimanded his lack of caution. He was flying by the seat of his pants here, well out of his experience, let alone his comfort zone. Jason's death should have been a stark reminder that sticking your neck out could get you killed if you didn't take all the right precautions, but so far he hadn't been doing too well at heeding that warning. Then again, he wasn't planning to live forever. Taking massive doses of untested muscle stimulants was not likely to be good for his life expectancy. As long as he found a little justice before he died, enough to make up for his own arrogance and make Jason proud, he could die fulfilled. But he wasn't at that point yet, so he would have to be careful how he handled this one from here on out. He couldn't be sure if this contact of his was actually in for the plan and not to troll him or, worse yet, turn him over to HBC. No matter what, he certainly had no intent of letting whoever it was know that he was stealing this proof from his own family's company. Fortunately, his costume didn't look all that different from street clothes, if perhaps a little gothic: a hooded trench coat, with a scarf to cover his face. Down by the river, where it was cooler even on August evenings, it wouldn't draw undue attention. He hoped. Anyone who looked would probably just peg him as a drug dealer, after all, and the police wouldn't much care unless they wanted a fix themselves. As he got to the scene, Aaron realized that he hadn't left any kind of code phrase or identifier beyond the bench. This was one part of Bedlam where people might actually be walking and sitting; evening joggers were relatively safe here, shielded from the smog and desperation of southern Babylon by a wall of fancy hotels and high-rise office buildings. This was the part of the riverfront where local businessmen could walk undisturbed with visiting clients, pointing across the river at the failed old city and spinning lies about how they would make it new again. But Aaron was used to those people, and he could usually tell who wasn't one. A phone-surfing, gum-chewing young woman in dark but practical clothes was not one, but she might be a hacker. Gathering his courage, Aaron sat down beside her. The bench squeaked lightly under his muscular bulk. "You actually showed, then" he said, his tone hopefully nonchalant as he stared out across the river rather than at her. "That's a good start. Fair warning: this is dangerous. Are you sure you want to keep going?"

Sorry to take so long to get back on this. School started, pushed my head underwater, and held it there a while. Justiciar smells, oddly enough, a strong scent of chocolate. There is no air freshener or any other apparent source of the smell. Luthor easily breaks open the door, which is not particularly secure. There is no back exit to the store, though; only the front doors.

GM Adam hung back as first Lena and then her brother rushed into the store, past row upon row of empty jewelry cabinets. Everything was peaceful, undamaged, pristine except for its emptiness. But Lena, taking it all in, noticed something odd: it smelled like chocolate. Not air freshener chocolate, if they even came in that scent. More like processed sugar, as if someone in the room had eaten a huge stack of candy bars. There was no apparent source for the glass crunching beneath Luthor's boots, either; the windows, cases, and countertops didn't even show signs of wear, much less cracks or breaks. As brother and sister crossed to the back of the store, they found the door locked. Luthor wrenched it open with one mighty heave, revealing the small back room beyond. Rows of shelves lined with cardboard boxes took up three of the walls. A few of the boxes were open, filled with tissue paper and the first jewelry that had not been taken. Most of it looked to be scratched or otherwise damaged, though still pretty. A workbench covered in jeweler's tools sat against the back wall, set up for the next day and undisturbed. Beside it, still running, a security monitor with about twelve different camera feeds of the store. As Osla entered the store as well, her words were proving true. The wail of sirens was drawing closer.

Not so much on the bluff, no. The bodyguard's attack and defense bonuses are lower than Lord Steam's. He looks big and tough, but not particularly graceful.

GM Pennington stopped short at Lord Steam's words, appearing to ponder them behind his beady little eyes. Turning each phrase over and over in his mind, he was only able to tease out that he had more or less been offered an apology, which was extremely disappointing; it might look bad now if he had the man beaten. But maybe he could still provoke a confrontation. "Saki," he snorted. "Maybe they have whatever that is where you're from, but we have class around here. You can order me a bourbon to show how sorry you are, and don't cheap out on it. I know a cheap man when I see one. I rent to half of Hardwick Park." It was at that moment that a broad-shouldered young man of modest height and dark hair stepped into the conversation. "Howle," Pennington growled. "I won't miss anything, if they know what's good for them in there and wait until I'm done sorting guests from busybodies. Go have them hold my seat; this won't take long. He was just apologizing." At that moment, another person stepped through the entryway. Skinny, with a hairdo that must have cost more than most bicycles and a form-hugging backless red dress, she had eyes as small as Pennington's but twice as alert. She was quite attractive, but gave off the sense of a bird of prey. "Lord Steam," she said, sliding into the triangle of men and flashing a perfectly white smile, "Rona Romita, with the Bedlam Informer. I'd love to get your thoughts on the city. A far cry from home? Or is this what most Fredonians are expecting if they come this way?" She leaned forward, showing off generous cleavage. "It's a party, so drinks are free, if you want one." Pennington, half enraged at the mere presence of a reporter and half at having been cut out of the spotlight, turned bright blotchy red in the face. "No press in here!" He bellowed, beckoning his bodyguard forward.

This wasn't exactly the kind of fight Aaron wanted to leap into. Most likely, Pennington and his stooge were unknowingly running the risk of having the stuffing beaten out of them, for which they were long overdue. But when Aaron glanced over at his mom, he wondered if she could take one more curveball. She was standing in front of all these fake smiles, holding her ground, but if her first appearance in Bedlam turned into tabloid fodder because of a brawl in the entryway... well, it wasn't a pleasant possibility. So Aaron summed up his years of experience dealing with the pompous and entitled; it hadn't been so long ago that he'd fit that category pretty well himself. "Gentlemen," he said with a brightness that sounded genuine but did not touch his soul, "the food is further in! It'd be a shame to miss dinner." He shouldered past Pennington's bodyguard, breaking his looming stance over Lord Steam and creating a triangle between the three men of society. He could almost make his eyes match the disarming smile he wore.

Aaron almost felt guilty to be working against the company his mother had spent her life building. Almost. He wondered if she knew about Xanacet-12. Sitting in the dark recesses of the Endler Library, he stared down at the thick muscles veining his arms, lost in thought. The fact of the matter was that, when it came to finding Jason's killer, he didn't have the faintest idea where to start. The police had pretty thoroughly destroyed any evidence relating to what had happened to him, right down to his body, and although Aaron was now more than capable of just shaking criminals over the edge of buildings until someone talked, he was smart enough to know that he would never find the truth in a thousand years by interrogating street scum one at a time. While he considered that problem, he'd found other ways to keep busy. Taking enough Xanacet-12 to probably stop his heart or crush his bones with impossible muscle mass in a few months had been his own choice, one he'd made when his old life had been crushed to pieces anyway. When he'd discovered that he wasn't the only person using it, just the only person who was using it voluntarily, it had become the first of his family's company's abuses to be truly personal. He had no intention of letting the drugging of innocent people continue, not when he alone had all the information he needed to stop it. But if he just smashed his way in, crushed the vats or something, it wouldn't stop. And if he spoke out, he risked the tools he needed to avenge Jason. So he'd called himself In$id3r, spread his truth, and waited. And now, in the darkness of the library, a response pinged across the screen. For the first time, it wasn't mockery. All right. We'll go tonight, 7:00. Meet me at the bench on the Babylon riverfront that's just north of the Heart of Dixie riverboat. Bring dark clothes. He was moving quickly now, incautiously - it was the excitement of finding someone willing to accept after weeks of scorn. He had no idea that another pair of eyes was also watching. Inferior Western Security Bypassed, SLAVE reported, intercepting the conversation. There Are No Secrets From The Party!

All good by me! Red Rat discovers that In$id3r is a very new account, created about two weeks ago on about a dozen different boards and chatrooms. Whoever made the account was being pretty careful not to be traced; tracking the IP address used to create each of those accounts leads to a desktop computer at an internet cafe downtown, and the user paid cash. Later post updates were made from a public computer at the Greely Point branch library. The user's message stays pretty much the same across every board and chatroom: HBC is using an addictive muscle-building stimulant to control its workers, and In$id3r can lead a skilled hacker to proof. The user doesn't appear to have any background in the hacker community; he doesn't know the lingo, and his username is a fairly transparent attempt to blend in despite that.

GM Pennington turned around as Lord Steam approached, a grin of vicious glee spreading across his features. He always enjoyed it when someone contradicted him; it gave him someone to shout at and, if he was lucky, have beaten. At his elbow, a hulking Iron Talon security guard cracked his knuckles. "Why the hell would I want to go to Tokyo?" He asked with a snort. "If I want to see a Japanman, I'll buy myself a sushi chef. Good way to throw up when you've eaten too much, I bet, eating raw fish like some kind of brainless savage. They think they're so clever, stealing American tech jobs. We should take a few more a-bombs over there and finish the job." He narrowed his beady little eyes. "Of course, I hear that over in Freedom City you're all ready to hand the whole country over to whatever gutter rats wash up on the coast." A small crowd began to gather, watching the exchange in what they mistakenly believed to be a surreptitious way. Most looked to be hoping for blood, a petty lust for violent amusement shining in their jaded eyes. A few, though, looked uncertain; there were stories about the gentleman from Freedom City, stories which - if they were to be believed - would indicate that Pennington and his brute had probably bitten off far more than they could chew in seeking to bully him. The Iron Talon bodyguard, easily six foot four, didn't have that much insight. He loomed over Lord Steam, grinning stupidly, waiting for an excuse to pulp him.

It felt bizarre, wrong even, to be out at some social gathering as if his world hadn't ended. But Aaron Howle had appearances to keep up, so here he was. He wore the same simple black suit he'd worn to Jason's funeral the week before, with the addition of a pair of sunglasses to disguise the puffiness of his eyes. Distantly he wondered if the paparazzi were done running articles on his family's mourning and would move on to questions about his new physique; the suit was one of the newer items of clothing he owned, tailored specifically to accommodate the increased breadth of his shoulders. Mostly he wondered how long he would have to be here, and if he could leave before he broke someone's face. He'd been to a thousand gatherings like this growing up, so classist jokes and idle talk about expensive hobbies were second nature to him. Now, though, it was hard to summon the energy to keep up what had become little more than a mask he wore over the driving purpose that coiled in his heart. He longed to be out on the streets, punching gangsters, seeking answers. For the millionth time in his mind's eye he held the faceless man who'd gunned Jason down in his hands and crushed him to powder. He could be out there changing this city for the better, and instead he was stuck yakking with people who had the means to do so but no interest in it. He wanted badly to confide that frustration in someone. But the only person who would have understood was Jason. Aaron looked over at his mom and felt a surge of mixed emotions. He admired the strength she showed, working through her pain without a flinch or a tear while the sharks circled, but he also had to wonder: how much did she know? Her company, the one she'd spent her life building from the ground up, was elbow deep in Bedlam's misery. He was here for her, showing his support in the way that would mean the most to her, but he felt a wary resentment bubbling up inside him whenever he looked at her. How could she not know? And what kind of person was she if she did? He glanced back at the entryway and swallowed hard - the retro celebrity from Freedom City was getting into it with the older Pennington. That would be trouble. Draining his glass of wine, Aaron put it down and headed for them.

GM Adam McConnell looked up as Lena approached, surprise mixing with the worry on his features. He clearly wasn't expecting to see someone like her at the edge of Stark Hill, but his face stayed open rather than contorting into the all-too-common sneer. He fiddled with his boxy glasses as he turned his gaze back toward the storefront, as though hoping that all would be well again when he looked a second time. "Normally in a little under an hour," he said, his voice mousy and unassuming. "But... Well, I think the place has been robbed! I just can't imagine how. Saul is always so careful to set the alarms." Stepping gingerly forward, Adam tried the door. It swung lightly open at his touch, revealing the darkened interior. Although all of the lights had been turned out, the rising sun cast enough of a glow over the scene to reveal perhaps two dozen large display cases of steel and reinforced glass, each one locked with a combination lock - and each one completely empty but for the velvet stands on which jewelry had until recently been displayed. The cash register was open, its tray equally empty. Nothing was broken or askew. The quiet whirr of the air conditioning was the only sound inside - until, a second after the door opened, a shrill alarm began to blare. Adam took a startled step back, nearly tumbling into the dirty gutter as he missed the step down from the door. "That's what should have happened if anyone but Saul went in at night," he shouted to Lena over the noise, his face red with embarrassment. "Only he knew how to turn it off." He put his hands over his ears, wincing. "I just hope the police get here soon. I want to help Saul, I do, but I have to get to work." As if in answer, a siren began to wail some distance away, slowly drawing closer. From his position in the alleyway, Luthor could tell that the store had no other entrance - if someone had robbed Rothstein's, they either had some freaky abilities or they'd done it through the front door. From her vantage point, Arrowhawk could see the approaching police car as it came down the hill. It was perhaps two minutes away. Their chatter, picked up over the scanner, was bored and unconcerned.

Wonderful! Here's the links to Believe It Or Not: IC / OOC