Blackhawk, California

[Blackhawk]

The night was dark. Or at least, it was as dark as the city ever allowed it to be. Street lamps cast pools of light, bathing the buildings and pavements in a pale golden glow that starved them of much of the colour they would have had in daylight. Few and far between, people moved as quickly as they dared - as fast as their often inappropriate footwear would allow - hopping from one light pool to another, avoiding the shadows as best they could. It was a wise choice.

In the shadows, something stirred.

A quartet of voices sounded from further up the street. Four thugs came into view, strolling with confidence - borderline arrogance, even - down the centre of the roadway. The traffic was absent, but even if it hadn't been they looked prepared for it: muscle-bound and battle-scarred, the planks and chains and baseball bats they carried gave the air of barbarians ready for war, not citizens out for a moonless night stroll.

The sound of rolling glass drew their attention to a side-street. A short two-story trench of building-lined walls opened into a broader vale of generic-looking garages, the bricks and steel-slat doors addled by age and graffiti and violence. The thugs entered without a second thought, their confidence weighing so heavily on their shoulders that it bowed their legs into a swagger. Without a word they fanned out, their movements still casual, and yet bearing the grim hallmarks of battle tactics. An open garage beckoned, it's gaping shadowed maw almost like a black hole, projecting an unseen force that drew them in and yet not letting even the faintest light escape.

One of the group - shortest, hairless, and yet undeniably their leader - stepped up to the entrance, a nine millimetre that he made no attempt to hide held in his fingers. "We know you're in there," he baited, his voice thickened by his south-of-the-border accent. "There's no point hiding."

His words hesitated for a menacing moment.

"Come out where we can see you."

Silence and stillness screamed out at him from the black; they dragged out awkwardly, and the leader shuffled to match. A hint of frantic thought crept behind his mind as he searched for something more threatening to say; relief came when the darkness finally responded, but it was short-lived.

"You want to see me?"

Light exploded from the garage, so intense that the quartet of thugs were forced to recoil and stagger back. Through squinting, bleary, watering eyes, the thugs could make out a vague silhouette, framed by the array of high-intensity headlamps that peppered the humvee he stood before.

"Holy shit!" the one with the baseball bat exclaimed. "It's fucking Batman!"

The voice that replied was gruff and chilling; more gravel and menace than any Hollywood feature could ever hope to convey. "Not Batman," the voice countered, his movements still largely unseen in front of the wall of light.

The all-too familiar sound of a pump-action shotgun clicked it's way through the night air.

"Blackhawk."

The night exploded into activity as the shotgun fired, a riot-issue beanbag hurled through the air. It slammed into the gang leader's arm with a sickening crunch, the pistol tumbling from his fingers as pain radiated from the break point. The figure - Blackhawk - surged forward, crossing the distance between them in a fraction of a second. A heavy, booted foot collided with the leader's head, and he crumpled to the ground.

The one with the baseball bat tried to run; a nightstick flew from Blackhawk's hand, colliding heavily with the back of his head. Chains was braver, trying to fight back on behalf of his fallen comrades; an armoured sleeve let the chain wrap harmlessly around it, a solid yank hauling it's wielder close enough for the plated glove of the other hand to flatten his nose.

Plank swinging wildly, the last thug tried to catch him unawares. A swing of the chain snagged hold of his two-by-four, pulling it to the ground; a booted foot stamped the makeshift weapon in half in a shower of splinters. The thug recoiled but Blackhawk caught him, a fist wrapped tightly around the scruff of his shirt.

"I'm watching you," Blackhawk snarled, drawing the thug close to his face. "When your buddies wake up, tell them - and anyone else that will listen - that the streets aren't safe for your kind any more."

The thug's lips curled into a retort, but his voice didn't get a chance to unleash it. A sculpted helmet smashed into his forehead, and he too slipped into unconsciousness.

Blackhawk held him upright for a moment longer, rummaging through his pockets for a cell phone. He dug it out, punching in the digits for 9-1-1, before tossing the thug unceremoniously into the heap of his friends.

"You need to send an ambulance to the Barnes Street garages in Los Santos," he growled, as the operator answered. There was a pause as they spoke back. "I'm fine," Blackhawk assured her, "But the crooks I just beat up are probably going to need stitches, and handcuffs."

She asked for his name. He didn't give it. He simply tossed the phone - the call still live - back towards it's owner, calmly walked back to his humvee, climbed in, and drove off into the night.

[Stern]

A minute or two later, and the EMS dispatcher had managed to forward the mysterious 9-1-1 call to the LAPD. The second dispatch alerted Captain Michael Stern to the situation, Stern was in the parking garage on Barnes street. He checked the thugs' vital signs, cuffed them to a nearby handrail, and decided to do what he was hired to do--investigate crime.

Stern looked for security cameras, noted their positions in the pad he kept in his breast pocket, and continued to look for more clues. A fresh set of tire tracks decorated the concrete garage. Not knowing what else to do, but desperately wishing his forensics expert, Jo, was there, Stern opened his cell phone to snap a picture of the tire treads. Seconds later, the low-res picture sailed back to the LAPD forensics lab for study.

"Now if you fellas will just wake up, we can talk about the mystery man who turned you into beanbag chairs."

[The Tres Onces]

Waking up handcuffed to a railing was never a good sign. Handcuffed to a bed perhaps; but pretty much any other object was a sure fire sign that you'd stumbled into some deep shit.

He grunted - definately a mistake he decided, catching sight of Donato's intense shut the hell up stare a moment or two late. Apparently his compatriots had decided to feign unconsciousness, waiting for the paramedics to arrive and - temporarily at least - liberate them from the greasy hands of The Law.

His cover blown however, he decided to revert to a more agressive and confrontational approach. Pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, he blasted out a shrill whistle, jerking his head in the direction of the shit-for-brains cop who'd cuffed him up. "Hey, chota!" he shouted, voice loud enough to carry well through the acoustics of the garage complex.

Satisfied that he'd captured the attention he was after, he shook his wrist, cuffs rattling against the railing. "What the fuck, man? What right 'cho got to lock us down? We aint done shit."

[Stern]

Stern shrugged. "You sure I did that? When I got here, I found you guys knocked out. Got a call saying someone showed up here and beat the crap out of all three of you."

The MCU Captain turned towards the Tres Onces. "It's not usually my job to investigate crime like this, but it's so unusual to get a phone call from a
Do-It-Yourself Justice Dispenser that we at the LAPD decided to answer as fast as humanly possible."

Stern couldn't help but grin. "Or at least as fast as mutantly possible. So, maybe we talk about what happened to you here, and then we let you leave. Or, you choose to be a good gang-banger, don't snitch to police, and we take you to back to the precinct. Your move."

[The Tres Onces]

Miguel grunted. This pig was fucking stupid, right?

"The cuffs, asshole." He rattled his wrist, again. It was like talking to a wall; a wall that wouldn't listen. Not that he should have expected any less: this guy was a cop and a mutant. Fuckin' freak was probably mentally deficient or something.

He shook his head. "No one's accusin' you of beatin' anything. Hell, a scrawny runt like you probably has trouble beatin' himself." He laughed, proud of his - whatever the hell that was. School names for stuff were bullshit anyway.

"Gettin' beat up ain't a crime. And you ain't got no right to detain us; we ain't done nothing wrong. You're all empty threats and hot air, law man."

He grunted. "Didn't even read me my fucking rights. What kind of amateur are you, freak?"

[Stern]

"Did I actually say I cuffed you?" Stern asked. "People can get handcuffs from anywhere, you know. I hear some places sell them with fuzzy pink coverings."


Stern would let them go eventually. They couldn't escape him. But the officer wasn't about to let them go on their terms.

The MCU Captain chuckled. "And as for your rights, I read them to you. Though I bet you couldn't hear it over your friends' snoring."

Stern squatted down in front of the low-life. He probably wasn't doing mutant-human relations any good by antagonizing a gang best known for its violent crime against mutantkind. It was so gratifying, though. Plus, Stern found out a long time ago that he didn't mind playing dirty from time to time.

"So, you want me to read you your rights, huh?" His voice was dangerous. "You've seen the TV shows. People get read their rights when they're under arrest. People get arrested for breaking the law. Did you break the law there, pal? Did you do something wrong?"

The lower Stern's voice got, the brighter his light grew until it filled the parking garage, ruined the cameras' view, and threatened to blind the petty thugs in front of him.

"If you would like to confess to a crime, then by all means do. I'll be happy to read you your rights then. But if you're a victim for once then I suggest you get very busy telling me who did this to you."

[The Tres Onces]

"If you ain't arresting us," Miguel threw back, "Then I ain't got no reason to talk to you."

He let a grunt escape from him, relaxing his body as much as the handcuff would allow. This asshole cop had screwed up big time. No arrest? No rights? This guy was just some up-himself mutant freak, trying to get his rocks off by playing big man in front of a bunch of people that someone else had taken care of for him.

Even the light show didn't impress Miguel. Sure, conjuring light out of nowhere was some freaky shit; but he'd just been beaten up by Batman, and he'd seen mutants tossing fire and water and chunks of sidewalk around the place. This guy's glow in the dark powers weren't gonna make him fess up to anything.

"I ain't scared of you," he grunted back. He even managed to muster a smile. "You ain't just an asshole cop; you're a freak. I'm just a lowlife; I ain't got nothing to lose. But you? Lay a hand on me, and you get in deep shit with your bosses. And even if they don't believe me, I'm sure the press would love to hear the story of not just police brutality: mutant brutality."

His lips curled into a snarl. "Go ahead, Holmes. Do your worst. You'll just be proving to the world that you gene-freaks are just as bad as everyone's scared you are."

[Stern]

Stern rubbed the bridge of his nose. Classic racist bullshit was getting in the way of his investigation. This guy was way more interested in causing Stern trouble than helping him catch the person who beat them all up.

"Ok, then. You want the worst?"

Stern took his gun from its holster and pulled the magazine out of it. He opened the chamber and made sure there was no bullet in there either. Then he set it all down just beyond the Tres Onces feet.

Last of all, Stern nudged Miguel over and sat down right beside him.

"Here's something you need to know. You and me, we're not even really on different sides this time. You woke up cuffed, and I was standing here. So you decided to blame me. I'm a police officer: I use handcuffs all the time on you and your friends."

"I'm not arresting you, so I'm not going to read you your rights. I'm only asking that you help me get justice for you. I got no guarantee you three were up to anything wrong--yet."

Stern retracted his light so it was maybe 15 watts. Not harsh at all. "Those cameras in the corners will tell us everything we need once we get the footage. You're innocent until proven guilty. This guy might have just beaten you up for no reason other than you look like trouble. But looks can be deceiving, right?"

Stern threw an arm around Miguel's neck. "And really, the only reason I was rude is because you were rude first. It's been a long day for me, and sometimes I lose my temper. Besides, you guys get targeted by mutant gangs and vigilantes from time to time. It's my job to investigate crime mutants do to you just as much as I'm supposed to investigate crime you do to mutants."

Stern chuckled and grabbed the other gang member like he had Miguel. "Besides, the minute I arrest you and read you your rights, you'll exercise your right to remain silent anyway, and I get nowhere. I don't find the asshole who did this to you, and you have to go around knowing that you got beaten up by some guy--probably mutant--who likes to dress up like Batman. So this mutant--this freak--is probably also a huge nerd with a gigantic comic book collection living in his mother's basement. Now that's got to hurt."

[The Tres Onces]

For serious? This guy was trying a one man good-cop, bad-cop routine?

Miguel grunted, trying to shrug Stern's arm off his shoulder. "Get off me, man," he muttered, wondering how long it would take to scrub the mutant off his skin. Who knew what kind of stuff he could catch from the gene-freak if he let him get this close?

"You got it all wrong," he added; his tone still carried his stubborn refusal to help, but his words granted a few reluctant hints to the Captain. "The guy who attacked is... he weren't no mutant. He's just a dude in a suit. He shot Leoncio with one of them beanbag shotguns you chotas have for riots... beat the rest of us with his boots and his bare hands."

He shrugged, almost apologetic. "Looks like this isn't your deal at all. You freak-cops will have to find some other crime to play around with, 'cause this is just some crazy-ass regular guy."

[Stern]

Stern nodded and got up. Looks like it worked. He'd have to thank Anita for lending him the book when he got home tonight.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" The mutant cop got up from where he was sitting.

"Now that I know that, I'll just file a report with the precinct and get someone in another department to handle the case."

Officer Stern reloaded his gun, returned it to its holster, and reached for his keys. "Hello Headquarters, this is Officer Stern. It seems like that mysterious call was from a non-mutant vigilante. The three guys here seem to be Tres Onces. They insist they weren't doing anything wrong, and that this guy who looks like Batman beat them up. We need a warrant for the camera footage in this parking garage. How close are the other units?"

A sound of police sirens could be heard nearby. "Never mind."

Stern addressed the Tres Onces, still cuffed to the rail. "I'm going to get you out of those cuffs. But we're going to stick around anyway so you can give your story to the regular police. Do be polite. I didn't arrest you today for your disrespect, but do know you can spend a couple nights in jail for mouthing off to a police officer."

Stern found the proper key and released them. "Like I said, I'm Officer Stern, Captain of the Mutant Crimes Unit." He offered Miguel a handshake. "Sorry about your trouble."

It was a longshot, but perhaps Anita's advice book would bear more fruit.

[The Tres Onces]

Miguel looked at the hand with a level of disgust more appropriate to having someone's genitals waved in his face. Suffice it to say, he did not return Stern's gesture.

"Don't push your luck," he muttered, rubbing the reddened patch of his wrist where the handcuffs had been. He knew it was that lying cop son of a bitch; this Captain Stern guy could take his keys and shove them up his ass for all Miguel cared.

He squared his shoulders. "I'm getting sick of your games, chota. We don't gotta stay around to give statements unless we volunteer to; and no way in hell is that happening."

He made a gesture to his three compatriots; normally they couldn't have listened to the loudmouthed member of their crew, but with Leoncio cradling his broken arm and not particularly in the mood to talk to anyone, the others were apparently happy enough to let Miguel mouth off on their behalf.

"If you want to stop us, fine," he challenged, as the rest of the group shuffled slowly away. "Your cop buddies are here now, so if you wanna break some of your cop rules, there's plenty of witnesses."

His mouth tugged into a ghost of a smile. "Adios, man. Have fun catching your costumed friend."

[Stern]

"Actually, amigo,"--he made the Spanish word an insult both to mock the man himself and his odd manner of always cursing in Spanish--"you don't go until I say you can go. That's the rules on that. Feel free to ask. There's plenty of witnesses, and they'll all tell you the same thing. Failure to comply with our simple request will constitute an obstruction of justice. Continue to resist, and the charges stack up."

Stern smirked, but so far managed not to laugh. "Thing is, you're not as smart on police procedures as you think. You can play the race card if you like with me, but those police officers are just like you. No powers. When they ask you for your statement--and I guarantee you they will--you will do as they say. And if you don't, I'll see you in holding back at the precinct."

As the regular police approached, Stern flashed brightly and disappeared. Time to go follow the tire tracks.