Falchion/Rook (Both Must Be Available)

Upon being called, the pair dash out the door, arriving to the scene a little slower then would be ideal, neither of the two being particularly fast on their feet but it seems they’ve not missed much.

In that short time the situation has devolved, the suspects are visibly intoxicated by an unknown substance and shambling about, speaking in garbled repetitive patterns.

They’re clearly chanting something but neither the surveillance drones nor the heroes on the field can make out what they’re saying.

“Ehr ohn ah… wholy mehission, bruhders ahn shishtrs..!” One of them cries, a bearded man well into his 70s, his body emaciated as his skin sticks tight to his bones.

Each of the members of this group are dressed in what must have been fine clothing once, all of which now ruined by grime, wear and tear.

Dresses and skirts are shredded, shirts are missing more buttons then not and every pair of pants are stained black from the knees downwards.

Everyone’s eyes are half-lidded, men’s faces are adorned by unkempt facial hair while women have smeared makeup across their faces that they haven’t bothered to reapply or remove in its entirety.

“Hey! Stop it!” Rook shouts, trying his hand at diplomacy for a change that goes entirely ignored by all parties.

“I don’t think their listening big man…” says Falchion as his grip tightens around the bow staff he had brought along with him, made from some shiny metal with a ridiculous name that you could never remember.

They continue with their tasks, not speeding up, not slowing down, like zombies milling about, spreading trash as several of them break off to journey back to the various trucks presumably to procure more refuse.

Again Rook tries to exert his authority and upon being ignored a second time he decides a firm approach must be taken.

He marches over to one of the shambling vagrants, a middle aged man, salt and pepper hair and scraggily goatee, by his shirt collar.

The man lets out a growl and attempts to sink his teeth into Rook but it seems to get him nowhere, the jagged shards of bone lining his gums shattering under the **** of the bite like trying to chomp brick.

The drone feed picks up Rooks expression, a mix of confusion and dismay before it morphs into anger, he delivers a punch to the mana solar plexus, taking the wind out of him before he’s dropped into the street to think on his mistake.

The other vagrants turn around, almost in unison to stare at the two, those carrying trash bags drop them on the spot. Falchion drops into a defensive stance as they begin their stunted, shambling march on the capes.

The vagrants move as one solid mass, a singular wave that intends to swallow whole those who would disturb their strange mission.

The old man from before, jumps up onto the hood of a car, crying out in a howl for all to hear but few to understand.

“Ye sink in duh muck er duh muck sinks in ye! Gut dem nonbeavers! Necra whills hit!” If nothing else, his tone leaves no mystery to the order as they close in slowly, their bodies wobbling on unsteady legs.

Rook stands like a brick wall, holding back the tide as several of the disheveled men and women dive on him, trying to dig their nails into his chest or sink their teeth into his throat, holding them still long enough for rook to send them into unconsciousness if maybe with a little brain damage to show for their efforts.

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Stop iiiiiiiit!” shouts Rook, his vitals indicating a steady rise in stress, likely brought on by pain.

The suspects are undeterred, a few seem to grasp the impervious nature of Rooks skin and bypass the big galoot, their sights set in Falchion, their lack of training and unsteady posture make them easy prey for Falchion who either redirects them back into the crowd or tripping them for an easy take down.

The horde washes over Rook, who can only stem the tide a little longer before they entirely obscure his vision, allowing others to slip past him or even crawl over him entirely.

As the battle rages that old man stands atop the roof of a sedan, hollering gibberish like a preacher giving mass, trying to rally his fellows before eventually he too joins the fray.

“Ah have sheeeeen duh goshple! Ah have heeeeeeard duh eckos! Each a us is tied ta he dat follas, each a us feedin the beast wether we likes it or nah! Shows em duh truth bruhders and shisters!”

Before long the battle begins to draw to a close, the bulk of the suspects lay across the pavement, thankfully none of them having sustained too severe of injuries.

As the battle draws to a close a few of the suspects break off from the crowd, shambling over to the commuters locked in their vehicles, punching through the glass or ripping the car doors open to pull the victims from their car before running off down the street.

The drone feed picks this up and you reach for your mic, speaking directly to the agents out in the field, ordering them to give chase.

They quickly mop up the remaining suspects and attempt to give chase, but through the live feed of the drone you can see clear as day, they run substantially faster then expected, easily out pacing the capes even as they drag or carry their screaming victims.

The suspects disappear around a corner, when the capes arrive they find the street empty, not a sign of any of the suspects or their victims.

There are no witnesses to point to where they could have went, they search through back alleys and poke their heads into stores, no trace of those people are found.

You call back the troops, in the end you captured all but 5 of the suspects and saved all but 7 commuters.

The suspects have yet to be identified and those that have been hauled in seem to be in some strange hibernation, complete numb to all external stimuli like zombies that just stand motionless in their cells.

Larry Fillmore, Sophia Campbell, Kimberly Truman, Henry Sinclair, Judy Blackwall, Jin Yukimoru and Beverly Peters are declared missing. You put out an APB for rank and file officers to remain on the look out for them but you sincerely doubt you’ll be finding them, something in your gut that can’t be put into words.