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Nightingale turned toward the purple smoke, fired a grapple line at the nearest fire escape, and soared into the night.

The source of the explosion was an old car under the bridge on 5th Street. A hole had burnt through the front of the car, the metal still glowing orange from the heat. Three men were shouting at each other. They wore the colors of the Jagged-Tooth gang, low-level street thugs who usually dealt in stolen car parts. Tonight, they were dealing in energy weapons.

"I told you not to touch the trigger, you moron!" one of them yelled.

The "moron" was holding a rifle that looked far too big for him. It was sleek, silver, and glowing with unstable violet light. A Supplier Pulse Rifle. Military grade.

"I barely touched it!" the man argued, sweating. "This thing is twitchy!"

Nightingale landed silently on the side of the bridge above them. Three targets. One heavy weapon. Unknown instability. She didn't hesitate. She dropped from the bridge, landing behind the gunman. The three men jumped back.

"Nightingale!" the leader shouted, reaching for a pistol tucked in his belt. Too slow. Nightingale flicked her left wrist. The grapple hook fired, the claw snapping around the leader’s pistol. She jerked her arm back, yanking the gun out of his hand and sending it skittering across the floor. In the same motion, she drew a Stun Baton with her right hand. She surged forward, slamming the electrified tip into the leader’s chest.

ZAP.

He convulsed and dropped. The man with the Pulse Rifle panicked. He swung the massive weapon toward her.

"Don't come closer!" He fired abd a bolt of purple energy tore through the air. Nightingale didn't try to block it, she slid underneath it, the heat singing the air above her head. The blast hit a tree behind her, exploding it into purple smoke. She rolled to her feet and tossed a smoke pellet at his feet.

HISSS.

Thick, grey smoke filled the small shop instantly. The gunman started coughing, swinging the rifle blindly. He heard a zip-line sound above him. Nightingale had grappled to the bridge. She hung upside down for a split second, then dropped right on top of him. She drove her knees into his shoulders, taking him to the ground hard. The Pulse Rifle clattered away.

The third man bolted for the back door. Nightingale stood up amidst the smoke. She raised her right wrist. She aimed.

Zip.

The grapple line shot out, wrapping around the runner’s ankles. Nightingale pulled back sharply. The man’s legs were yanked out from under him, and he face-planted onto the ground.

"Stay down," she commanded.

Nightingale walked over to the Supplier Pulse Rifle lying on the floor. She picked it up. It was heavy, dangerous, and worth more than this entire block. In the time since she'd taken out the Supplier everyone wanted to get some, now that they were a rare commodity. Every two bit thug thought they were an arms dealer selling whatever Supplier weapons they had. She hated to think about it but it was nearly more dangerous now than before she'd taken him down.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Nightingale made sure to wait for them to arrive so she could hand them the rifle directly. She didn't need this tech getting lost and ending up back in the wrong hands.

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Perils of a Novice Superheroine

A generic superheroing setting drenched with sex and scandal

About

Acropolis City, the center of super-human and caped crusader activity in this particular world - with its own dizzying highs and lows, high-tech skylines and slums standing in stark, four-color contrast, it provided everything that a costumed megalomaniac or masked vigilante could ask for. In fact, as is usually the case where colorful masked characters are the norm, it has become something of an institution by this point. But although the mere existence of costumed heroes and villains no longer shocks people, these people - who, by their very nature, thrive on attention - keep finding new ways to stand out from the crowd and attract the eye. This last goal tends to get a lot of emphasis in the most simple, sexualized way possible. For reasons that the world's most brilliant scientists have yet to explain, latent super-abilities seem to manifest more often in women than men by a ratio of 3 to 1 or more. This is true even when the superpower isn't "natural"; paranormal artifacts fall into their hands, esoteric martial arts schools never seem to have a male heir, the technological prototypes they test always seem to be the ones that are most easily used or abused for good and evil. Unfortunately, the glory days of the past where citizens were happy to see any old masked do-gooder show up are over - in recent years, Acropolis City has established a ranking system of heroes where those who get high marks from the citizens and resolve incidents are rewarded with corporate sponsorships and (most coveted of all) seats at the prestigious League of Propriety. Those who intimidate the populace, cause excessive collateral damage, or simply don't excite anyone, garnering low rankings, get 'asked' to move to less prestigious cities. Few superheroes want to get stuck battling clans of villainous hillbillies and corrupt small-town sheriffs for the rest of their careers, so they're always eager to please the influential citizens of Acropolis City (judges, eminent scientists, first responders, and of course the all-important reporters). On the other side of the law, a similar dynamic predominates; only the most glamorous and charismatic costumed ne'er-do-wells can make it in this town. And so, the novice superheroines just learning the ways of battling for justice and order, without any team to back them up, always end up patrolling the skeeviest, most undesirable slums of the city and taking on the most thankless rescues. As if that weren't bad enough, most of them feel obliged to dress in ways that get more outlandish and revealing with every passing year while they fight the good fight and/or feed their craving for attention, depending on how you see the 'cape life'. As if that weren't troublesome enough, the superhuman mutations that make so many of these heroes' careers possible also result in greatly increased sexual sensitivity, particularly in females. The adventures and misadventures that these spandex-clad lady crusaders get into are often too hot to print for the kind of comics that their young admirers would read. Messy mistakes will be made, but you don't want to disappoint your readers, do you? So let the League know what kind of superheroine you are, your chosen name, powers, and appearance, and they'll send you out on your first patrols. Good luck.