Post by Zenios on Jul 16, 2015 20:38:31 GMT -5
Like any self-respecting vigilante, Staccato owned a police scanner - and like any self-respecting vigilante, he was usually monitoring it when he wasn't working, sleeping, or wandering the streets of Detroit looking for petty criminals to electrocute. Today was one such fine day, though he was also browsing the Internet--wearing rubber gloves, ever careful not to fry his electronics--as he listened. He'd gotten engrossed enough in his not paying attention that he'd mostly tuned out the police scanner: he hadn't quite been at this long enough to know how to keep one ear cocked at all times. Besides, he had Detroit sports and news to keep up with, and it wouldn't have done to jeopardize his public life in the name of his private one.
He'd taken a brief moment to stretch and grab a drink when something caught his ear - a "Code 1200, repeat code 1200." Staccato rushed back to his desk, disregarding his stretches or thirst in the name of googling just what a code 1200 was. The officer also mentioned the Second Bank of Detroit, a place he knew fairly well - it was just a few blocks from where Staccato lived, though he generally preferred to go to the First Bank, a few blocks further away. That was perfect! He could show up, stop the robbery, save the day, and make more than a few fans in the process.
Staccato didn't bother shutting anything down as he rushed around the one-bedroom apartment, finishing his preparations: he tied his combat boots, finished applying spirit gum and mask to his face, scarfed down the remains of a half-eaten protein bar he'd been gnawing on earlier. He slipped his stun gun and baton into pockets, then he was out the window--which he left cracked just enough to lever it back open with the end of the baton, a distance carefully measured and practiced--and he was off.
His windbreaker swished quietly as he jogged that way, raising the collar and adjusting the zipper slightly. It wasn't a long journey, but it was one that gave the would-be hero enough time to mentally prepare. He hadn't done much beyond accost random thugs at night as of yet, but this - this was bold. Stopping a robbery during the day, assuming the situation wasn't already taken care of by the time he arrived.
Not that that took long. He'd always been a fast jogger, but that was both a blessing and a curse: he was out of breath, definitely sweating more than a little bit, wasted energy because he didn't know how to run a little more slowly. A windbreaker hardly helped, given that it was just a bit too hot for one, but he couldn't just sacrifice his costume because it was hot out.
He stopped around the corner to pant a bit, catching his breath, and then focused on the charge running through his veins. He directed it to his muscles, just enough to rejuvenate himself a bit and remind himself that his powers worked. They did, so he strode around that same corner and down towards the bank. It looked like somebody had backed a couple of limos in through the front doors, probably to load up and get away in. "Hmm," he muttered, closing in and noting the sound of sirens approaching. "Swanky."
Staccato reached out, could feel the electricity reach back from the confines of the two cars' engine blocks. He could have just killed the batteries with his mere presence, but he decided not to - he felt a strange, writer-induced compulsion specifically not to do that, but managed to justify that strange sensation by assuming it would make the limos harder to get out of the storefront after the criminals had been subdued. So he just climbed in over one of them to the ever-so-pleasant sight of an unarmed stripper running in his direction and screaming something about not getting paid enough to die. He assumed that probably meant that she was one of these bank robbers, which probably meant he could get away with tasing her.
"Well, then it looks like you'll have to default on your loan," Staccato said in his best heroic voice--which, truly, was quite good. The dancer couldn't quite slow down enough to avoid the hand he reached out to tap her shoulder with. Her muscles tensed up and she went down like a sack of potatoes, not that he'd ever seen a sack of potatoes suddenly stop running and hit the ground. "I hear the police make great repo men."
It wasn't the best witticism, but it would do. Staccato paused to take stock of the situation before he dove too much deeper into it,
He'd taken a brief moment to stretch and grab a drink when something caught his ear - a "Code 1200, repeat code 1200." Staccato rushed back to his desk, disregarding his stretches or thirst in the name of googling just what a code 1200 was. The officer also mentioned the Second Bank of Detroit, a place he knew fairly well - it was just a few blocks from where Staccato lived, though he generally preferred to go to the First Bank, a few blocks further away. That was perfect! He could show up, stop the robbery, save the day, and make more than a few fans in the process.
Staccato didn't bother shutting anything down as he rushed around the one-bedroom apartment, finishing his preparations: he tied his combat boots, finished applying spirit gum and mask to his face, scarfed down the remains of a half-eaten protein bar he'd been gnawing on earlier. He slipped his stun gun and baton into pockets, then he was out the window--which he left cracked just enough to lever it back open with the end of the baton, a distance carefully measured and practiced--and he was off.
His windbreaker swished quietly as he jogged that way, raising the collar and adjusting the zipper slightly. It wasn't a long journey, but it was one that gave the would-be hero enough time to mentally prepare. He hadn't done much beyond accost random thugs at night as of yet, but this - this was bold. Stopping a robbery during the day, assuming the situation wasn't already taken care of by the time he arrived.
Not that that took long. He'd always been a fast jogger, but that was both a blessing and a curse: he was out of breath, definitely sweating more than a little bit, wasted energy because he didn't know how to run a little more slowly. A windbreaker hardly helped, given that it was just a bit too hot for one, but he couldn't just sacrifice his costume because it was hot out.
He stopped around the corner to pant a bit, catching his breath, and then focused on the charge running through his veins. He directed it to his muscles, just enough to rejuvenate himself a bit and remind himself that his powers worked. They did, so he strode around that same corner and down towards the bank. It looked like somebody had backed a couple of limos in through the front doors, probably to load up and get away in. "Hmm," he muttered, closing in and noting the sound of sirens approaching. "Swanky."
Staccato reached out, could feel the electricity reach back from the confines of the two cars' engine blocks. He could have just killed the batteries with his mere presence, but he decided not to - he felt a strange, writer-induced compulsion specifically not to do that, but managed to justify that strange sensation by assuming it would make the limos harder to get out of the storefront after the criminals had been subdued. So he just climbed in over one of them to the ever-so-pleasant sight of an unarmed stripper running in his direction and screaming something about not getting paid enough to die. He assumed that probably meant that she was one of these bank robbers, which probably meant he could get away with tasing her.
"Well, then it looks like you'll have to default on your loan," Staccato said in his best heroic voice--which, truly, was quite good. The dancer couldn't quite slow down enough to avoid the hand he reached out to tap her shoulder with. Her muscles tensed up and she went down like a sack of potatoes, not that he'd ever seen a sack of potatoes suddenly stop running and hit the ground. "I hear the police make great repo men."
It wasn't the best witticism, but it would do. Staccato paused to take stock of the situation before he dove too much deeper into it,
