Prologue

Another dusk, another ghost.

The asphalt of damp roads bites the edges of sable rubber wheels as they speed into the maze of architecture. Headlights beam on the other side of the white broken line, and the vague mist of another rainstorm still hovers over the neon. Another vehicle passes the black motorcycle as it rushes like a glass bull to the city center, not aware of the driver's intentions after the moon crawls from a navy horizon.

The small remaining droplets that came from the distant thunder brush against the glass of their helmet. The fainted leather of their gloves wrap around the handles, and they speed across a bridge that spans the large river below. They race the wind, the birds, and the stars as they confront for the first time. With little time to tick by, the beaming advertisements of the modern society mirror in their helmet. The black, stitched garments of the driver are more visible now, and the glints of smooth metal hide the best they can under waving cloth.

The driver tilts to the side of a vehicle ahead and skims past with ease, and the obstacle they face roars a honk as a response. They look to the car as it races them, speeding up even more out of dominance, and turns their eyes back to the road. The car speeds down and allows the motorcycle to pass them as they send clouds of fog to dissolve the gleam of their brake lights.

Revving their engine to roar across the maze of glass, the driver meets bright stoplights at an intersection just as they flicker green. As the vehicles behind the motorcycle follow far behind, they begin to notice the next several stops changing right as the engine makes its presence known — almost as if they were switching on command. Not once does the driver ever have to stop, and not a single member of authority stops the speeding bike from swerving through the traffic ahead.

Only the wind cares for the crawling echoes of the engine as it ripples across the streets. For this reason, the driver soon finds new rivals for dominance as they edge closer downtown.

Two new bikes swarm into the traffic of the bustling street from thin alleys, their bodies tilting to dodge anything in their way of meeting with the first. Their headlights beam new life into the streets as they ride in unison, soon matching the speed of their lead and following close behind. They watch the helmet of the driver ahead turn to them with interest, and they nod when they find the silent greeting of an emblem painted on the side of the black plastic. The mark of a claw strikes the helmet in a faded grey, the dried paint sitting just above the visor of the helmet.

These others that trail behind aren't rivals. They're following their leader into another act for their own justice.

The city starts to find its monochrome in the dead streets of its downtown. Traffic lightens as the streets stretch for the corporation buildings beyond, the metropolis finding its heart in the heavens of society. Markets and businesses that once grew exponentially in customers now wait for a long, drastic silence as the streets linger in screams and terrors.

After a restless drive through the fresh night winds, the motorcycles finally calm their heating metal as they delicately roll into a parking lot as if they hadn't nearly gotten into a dozen accidents. The consistent thumps of the engines cut off as quickly as the last storm that rolled across the district.

The three get off their vehicles, hopping onto the thick layer of concrete with the weight of brewing malice. The first driver leading the others turns to both of them and scans them both carefully.

One of the followers takes a glance around the corners of the closest buildings without a step away from the figure in front of him. Without a sound of society live at work, the only light swirling into their visors is the screens glued to the walls of the skyscrapers for advertising. After their quiet check for other life, they click the latch at their neck, tugging the helmet up, and letting short, thick black hair ruffle out. A younger man, just on the brink of adulthood, takes in a breath that isn't heated by the foam under the plastic.

The second follower decides to trace the same gestures, a little rougher, and shakes the helmet off with her silver strands sweeping over her shoulders once again. She fixes wipes her face from the drizzle the storm left behind and takes a deep breath as she looks to the last masked figure in the lot.

After a few moments of pondering, the lead driver releases the strap over their neck. The followers watch as the helmet slides off delicately to reveal the thin eyes of their leader, who gives them a light stare before sitting the plastic over the cold leather seat. They bite a mental bullet as they make eye contact with her again, and they'll do it every time it happens. Her light, thin facial features are as fearsome as they are welcoming. Her black hair is partially tied into a loop above her head, the rest of the silky sable running smoothly down her back. If anyone sees her walking close behind, they'll know she's gorgeous, but keep in mind that she could kill anyone that got in the way of her path.

She kneels to the side of her bike, releasing the latches that keep a long, thin, carbon fiber case firmly against the vehicle. Unsheathing an inch of a sleek, steel katana underneath the fabric, the woman is satisfied to see the weapon still in one piece after the drive.

She looks up to her followers, looking around them for the same kind of metal. The boy raises his shirt up to his stomach, displaying his own weapon tucked in the side of his jeans. The woman steps her foot forward, raising her pants to show hers, almost in rivalry over the boy next to him. Tonight is all about impressions. If what they're planning comes true, they'll be terrorists — but not all acts of crime are forged without morals.

"They are our last resort. We use them only when we have no other choice," the leader gently gifts the air with her slight Russian accent. "Remember what we're here for, and don't get too excited."

The followers give a glance to each other, their faces lit by the screens of a once crowded plaza. The boy continues to look around, keeping his guard as high as the buildings he'll soon be climbing.

"As much as I am excited for this little endeavor, I won't let go of how insane this shit is," he shivers. The woman next to him puts her hand on his shoulder as an act of comfort.

"Oh, come on, don't be a pussy," she jabs. The gesture was not of comfort.

The leader growls. "We've been planning this for a very long time now. We're lucky to have such an opening, and we need to take our chances before it's too late. I know this may seem far too dangerous, but we can't turn back. This needs to be done, tonight."

He nods in agreement, and the woman next to him lets go of him, passing him as she gets a clearer view of their destination. The leader pats his back and guides him to follow his friend to the side of the street, where they gaze at the center of the downtown. Past the fountain sparkling for the darkness, the white of the streetlights and the faded screens, a skyscraper holding strong as the highly acclaimed Anomaly Alliance Agency Headquarters, or better known as simply the Agency.

They're the next level up from the modern police department, and another above even the Federal Bureau. They've been the ones to innovate authority for over a decade, dealing with all the grime under their perfect envisions of a safe, protected society.

Tonight, they're going to be erased. The leader looks up to the tower of glass with hope, but not because of its own beauty. To her and the people she guides, the skyscraper is a mark of constant distress and disorder, although its primary goal is to reverse those inconsistencies.

As they trace their plans to plant one last nightmare into the company before the dawn, they give a moment of honor to the image painted in a shining blue that has made its mark into the minds of millions. The sharp carvings of a glazed artwork bleed into the glass under the Agency rooftop, taking over the side of the tower for everyone to see.

The beautiful, lucent wings of a butterfly spread across the dark canvas showed the world a truth hidden under guilt and shame. What once hung between them was the chrysalis of a revolution, and the statement she left in bold rest messily below the wings. As people gathered in a time of freedom, they were faced with the grim reality through the sight of a thick crimson blending with a cold, cobalt blue. As fireworks were booming, so were the cries of the tortured and abused. People had ignored the pleas of the hurt for their own benefits, and the Agency only motivated the distractions.

The graffiti still remains after a very long week after it made crowds drop their jaws in awe. The plaza, however, sits unpleasantly quiet and lifeless. It seems her dread stayed to keep her message in the air.

The three begin walking toward the half-smeared paint, knowing the attempts to clean it have been ineffective. The leader smiles at her creation, proud of her work on that restless night when the artwork could've very easily been discovered. Her strokes against the glass have swirled color into the revolution that the world now faces. Her marks have imprinted society with an image of uncertainty, but she is well aware that all artworks are best known for their obscure, arcane origins.

Only few know of how the wings were brought to shade the tower of authority into a monument of shame and disgust. The light rain stays to wink against the leader's cheeks as her smile nears them, her thoughts lost in what effort she gave to weave her dreams into a reality.

Tonight, they're going to come true.