Corrupted Streets

Your name is Kirsten Fowler, you are a reporter in the city of Windover. You're 5'9" tall, you have B-cup breasts, and you wear your dark brunette hair in a pony tale. Several months ago you and your father, a policeman, were assaulted by... well. You're not quite sure what it was.

Your father had picked you up from work that day and you'd been driving home when a call from the station came in, reporting an in progress nearby.

You'd pulled up just in time to see a man get thrown into a dumpster by an incredibly tall figure. Actually thrown. Like a basketball. Your father had leapt out, pulled his gun, and told it to freeze. It had turned around slowly, too many eyes blinking in the headlights as it raised an impossibly long limb to shield them from the light.

You had screamed and your father started unloading bullets into the thing. It didn't even flinch, just flicked its wrist disdainfully and the night blazed green. That was the last thing you remembered before waking up in the hospital almost a week later.

That was over six months ago. No-one had seen your father since then and your search had shifted from a rescue mission to a hunt for justice. The car was in the scrapyard, it looked like the worlds largest plasma cutter had sheared off most of the drivers side so finding a body seemed unlikely. You needed to know what that thing was and you needed to make it pay for taking your father from your family. Your mother was still distraught and your sister was coping the same way you were, by throwing herself into her work.

Rationally you knew you couldn't have seen what you thought you saw, that it had been dark and the shadows were playing tricks on your eyes, but the image was burned into your memories... Eyes... too many eyes. But "it" was human. It had to be. You had chased dozens of leads all over Windover but none of them had lead anywhere. You were beginning to feel as though the universe was conspiring against you. As you step out from your latest false trail you slump back against the door, fighting the wave of emotions you'd been repressing for the last six months.

You're in the Windover equivalent of chinatown, thick smoke darkens the twilight air and you push yourself up. This wasn't a great neighborhood at night. Something catches your eye as you hurry along...