Superhero or Vigilante (Part 1)

A costumed Emolga stood atop a rusting roof, looking down upon what could only be described as a slum. His blackened cape swayed in the gentle breeze behind him, its front below his chin adorned with a yellow oval containing a black bat like Emolga silhouette. A black mask covered his upper face, head and ears, looking distinctly bat like and designed to look intimidating. Spiked dark grey gloves took their place on his paws while a bulky yellow belt wrapped around his waist. Finally, the rest of his body was covered in a black suit, likely armoured to repel crunching blows.

He sighed, as he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He deployed himself in the area to check out a disturbance involving a large group of local thugs. He had not spotted them, just a bunch of homeless men and women milling around. The buildings in the district all looked condemned, with red brick exteriors covered in varying amounts of graffiti. It stained the bricks in white, red and various other colours too. Worse, sickly green fungus was seeping through the cracks between the bricks, growing horribly along the walls. Windows were smashed or boarded up, sometimes even a combination of both. The buildings were mostly three or four storeys tall, all attached to another side by side...like a community of decrepit friends. Some had boarded up shopfront or restaurant exteriors. It must have been a thriving community once...reduced to a slum and cesspool for the homeless and scum alike. It made the Emolga sigh deeply and roll his charcoal coloured eyes, then glanced towards the distant skyscrapers to the right. Mainly, he stared towards the building with a big letter M upon the top of its glass facade. It seemed to mean something to him, as his glance was long, as if he had some kind of longing to be there.

He then closed his eyes, turned his head and looked down towards the street again. He had a bag of steak and onion crisps in his gloved paws, grabbing a fistful of them and shoving them in his mouth. As he listened to the crunching while chewing, he watched the people down below going about their business. Still no criminals though, so he wondered just why he was there.

He shoved some more crisps in his mouth and chewed, then thought about who tipped him off and how reliable they really were. He felt less like a superhero there to save the day more with every passing minute. Instead, he felt more like an idiot that had misjudged Halloween a few months to early. Instead of kicking scum in the jaw, he was casually pigging out on crisps. Instead of saving the day, he felt like an upright slob. At the rate it was going, he would become morbidly obese and jack in his heroism days. Not the best thing to be running through ones mind, is it.

He then grabbed the last of his crisps and shoehorned them in his mouth. The crunchy chewing broke the silent monotony and disrupted his thoughts for a moment or two. That was a good thing. Once he gulped and swallowed them though, the quiescence continued. He tossed the pocket away behind him and it was caught by the breeze. It floated in the air, over the roof and towards the next street. A sudden and very unusual downward surge in the wind caused it to begin falling gracefully. With the street populated by homeless people shambling around like zombies, the packet found its way into a bin attached to a streetlight. There, it settled and the breeze returned to its usual habits thereafter. The Emolga frowned as if he knew what had happened to it, but noticed a homeless man and child below him speaking to one another.

"Yeah he took my home and money. Basically my fucking life...!"

"Sorry to hear that, dude. My mom threw me out because I'm too lazy."

"They shouldn't throw out a little kid. Fuck, man how old are you?"

"I'm thirteen, man. You got a smoke?"

"Yeah I got two left. My ex was raped six months ago by a sick minded cunt and she bled to fucking death..."

"Why didn't you get your life back after that?"

My fucking son took it all as I said. Took it to court and cleaned me the fuck out..."

"It seems like your family are a shit-tastic bunch of motherfuckers. I'm sorry, man? Can I have one of your smokes?"

"Well what can you do? These days evil wins fucking everything, little man."

The Emolga sighed, almost feeling a shred of sympathy for their plights, but shrugged it off as he had a job to do.

He crouched down and took a few Pokédollars out of his suit pocket. Placing two of his fingers in his mouth, he unleashed a loud whistle which accelerated down to the street below. The two he had heard conversing looked up as Pokédollar notes dropped towards them. Their eyes lit up as they flapped their hands to catch them. Some fell into them, others scattered on the floor only to be scooped up quickly anyway. Then they looked up at the rooftop, only to notice nobody at its edge. Nonetheless, they expressed their gratitude without a second thought.

"Thank you, whoever you are. May you be blessed with good fortune..."

"I could never express enough gratitude. All I can say is thank you so much."

"You're welcome...but evil does not always prevail. I will always prove that notion wrong..."

His voice was deep and hoarse in tone as he spoke up in response. He stood forth again to survey the surroundings down below. Still there was no sign of the criminals he had been dispatched for, making him wonder why he was there in the first place. He wondered how a large group of thugs could take so long smashing up a joint or something. Maybe they had concealed themselves among the homeless ranks littering the streets. Whatever the case was, he was feeling impatient and so decided to call up his assistant on his intercom.

"Alfredo, are you sure there are any thugs around? I don't see any...are you not pulling my leg?"

His voice was tinted slightly with a Spanish flavoured accent. The reply on the other end was swift.

"Patience, Murciélago. They will come and then you can claim your reward."

The voice had a distinctive British nod despite its owner's Spanish origin. His name? Alfredo Centavo Vale la Pena, an aging Gallade that regularly provided wisdom and resources to the Emolga. Nonetheless, the Emolga still came to question his advice this time.

"All I've done is give money to two homeless people and snack. Are you sure they didn't show up somewhere else?"

Alfredo could clearly note the concern seeping through the tone of his voice. He knew the Emolga hated getting things wrong. He sighed and gave him his response.

"It is always a possibility, sir. However the word was that they would show up where you are now..."

The connection then ceased to establish and left the Emolga to figure it out for himself.

"Fuck..." He cursed quietly and stowed the intercom back onto his suit. He is known as the vigilante Murciélago, a masked crime fighter. Called by many as a superhero, he takes down criminals using his intellect and combat prowess. An expert in hand to hand (well, paw to paw...maybe paw to hand) combat, as well as with melee weapons, he is often feared by the city's criminals. Unfortunately, they did not stop the city's criminal ranks from committing crime after crime. They figured he was just one and they were many...ripping off the 'we are legion' phrase in the process. Even fear could not override masses. Nevertheless, Murciélago was practically a one Emolga army, beating swathes of adversaries senseless. While his methods were brutal, they were very rarely life threatening. All the same, they are criminals and to him they should have an ample dose of sense beaten into them, no matter how savagely. Savage was a word he liked very much, it almost made him think of sandwiches. Mmm...every time.

He then shook his head to sweep his thoughts away, instead focusing back on the task he was given. The targets were still not there though. How annoying it was too. He was getting fed up of the notion that he was merely there to save the day. Surely he was a much better personality than Batman. At least he secretly amused himself with some of his thoughts. At least that showed he had a sense of humour beyond his gruff and grouchy exterior. He shook his head again to push the thoughts back. He had a job to do. Were his targets there yet? He looked down and surveyed the area for what felt like the millionth time. He pouted. Nope...they were still not there.

So instead of waiting around and making himself thoroughly useless, he wanted to wander around a bit. Maybe he would find his targets that way instead. He spread his cape and arm flaps and wandered onto the end of the building. He then dropped or more...glided gracefully towards the ground. His feet skidded briefly before landing unhindered. The road around him was littered with garbage, with crushed beer cans and cigarette packets being particularly prevalent. No wonder the authorities hated setting foot in the district. It was like herding a bunch of still conscious zombies into an open playpen. However, Murciélago still had a job to do. He glanced at each of the homeless people drinking. He saw one fall over and hit his head on a stairway. He must have been drunk, for instead of expressing pain he fell asleep and started snoring. It made him chuckle inside while noting some of the homeless ranks staring needles at him.

Immediately, it stopped his amusement and put him on edge. He could feel their eyes resting upon him, testing the strength of his Emolga shoulders. Any one of them could be dangerous, perhaps even form a flash mob. Any could be armed with a weapon or firearm, he knew this all too well from experience. He continued to wander on though, rather than risk make himself an easy target. His costume was eyecatching enough. He could hear some grumbling to themselves, some smoking marijuana and others drinking bottled alcohol.

"We don't need you here, you fucking spic!" One heckled suddenly and unashamedly, causing Murciélago to flip him off. His gesture offended the man enough to lob his bottle of beer at him. It arrowed straight for him at speed. Ducking at the last second, the bottle hit the floor and smashed into numerous shards. A pool of beverage formed around the fragments, fizzing up as it did. The heckler did not stop there though and stood forward, watching Murciélago proceed forth again.

"You think I'm done with you, motherfucker? Come here and show me how fucking tough you are!"

The tough guy speech laid out by the drunken loudmouth caused the Emolga to sigh deeply and stop. He could hear his loud and hasty breaths betraying his cocky attitude. The Emolga knew he was a popular superhero like figure to the city people, but also knew that many hecklers lurked in the shadows. It was something he always took on the chin. After all for every praise there is always some criticism not far behind. So, like a man, Murciélago turned around to face his hater. Dressed in a grey beanie hat, a mud splattered brown trench coat and ripped jeans, he was clearly among the city's homeless population. His skin was gritty, his bloodshot eyes grizzled and his bushy beard matted. His stance looked ready for a violent fight and his eyes glared piercingly.

"Come on, Murciélago, have you lost your fucking tongue? You think you're fucking above me? Yeah well, fuck you! You're not the hero you think you are...you're just a little shit!"

The Emolga sighed again at the constant jibes. Noticing how much he actually wanted to fight, he made a simple flick of the wrist. A grappling hook shot forth from a contraption there and grabbed a hold of the man's trench coat. It yanked on the material to cause the heckler to stumble towards him. With that, the Emolga had dashed forward, leaping into the air. His feet and lower body thrust sidewards and drove a savage drop kick straight into his stomach. Immediately the heckler keeled over onto his knees with his hands clutching his winded stomach tightly. His cry of pain was obvious to anybody in the vicinity. His sound of agony was hoarse and bellowed, much like his tone of voice. Before he could speak up again, the Emolga latched onto him in a flash.

"Are you happy now, gringo? You forced my paw in this." His voice was deep and utterly serious, hoarse and grizzled. His firmly clenched gloved paw thrust forth and buried itself with force into the man's midriff. He felt it ripple disgustingly from the impact, knowing it would leave quite a bruise later on. Regardless. the collision of fist and midriff was enough to cause the heckler to gurgle on and cough up blood. It dripped and spilled from his mouth, with some dark red liquid splashing onto Murciélago's mask and outfit...the rest hitting the floor. Murciélago sighed, knowing that it stretched the limits of his modus operandi. He knew though that the man deserved his lesson and so withdrew his fist from him. The heckler fell forward as he sidestepped, watching him end up sprawled on his front.

"Is that...ugh...is that all you got...spic?" The man jeered again, albeit with the blood he was coughing up spreading in a puddle beneath his face. The Emolga noted him clutching his stomach in its throbbing pain. Clearly he was not going to get up again for a while yet. However, his mind played back the taunts and jibes repeatedly in his head. Unusually, the racist remarks had riled him up. His fron considerably deepened and he momentarily snapped.

He dashed forward the required few steps and made sure his foot crashed into the man's cheek with raw callousness. Again it rippled his skin like a stone dropped in water. His head squelched considerably and a disgusting wet snapping sound rang out. The onlookers gasped and cringed in shock, leaving one visibly gagging. He covered his mouth and dashed down an alleyway in a panic as his lunch was about to make an unwelcome return.

Nonetheless, Murciélago stood over the now unconscious heckler. His face looked deformed with its dislocated cheekbone, while the onlookers gazed in shock at the actions of the Emolga. All the same, his look of anger remained as he glared at many of them.

"Anyone else planning to fuck with me? No? That was too much for you, huh? Too fucking much?! Just remember I'm always watching every last fucking one of you!"

His voice was still hoarse and croaky. The onlookers held their arms and hands out before them to protest their innocence. Others scattered in flocks, rushing away from the scene. Murciélago's pulse rate and heartbeats began to slow at last. He had calmed at least in part. No doubt his violent discretion would be sensationalised by the media and tabloids the next day though. Oh the beauty of today's society and how one's every movement can be scrutinised or slandered. At least he had broad shoulders and usually a strong tolerance for criticism, including the way journalists blow everything out of proportion to shift more newspapers. It made him sigh, but knew it was the way of the media to pen over the top articles. Sometimes, they may as well have been discarded as mere fiction.

Nevertheless, Murciélago had a job to do...and that must have been the seventh or eighth time at least he suddenly remembered that already. He stepped forward again, leaving the unconscious heckler laying sprawled with a fractured cheekbone. Somebody else could deal with him if they cared enough. Ahead, the street was almost deserted except for the odd homeless person roaming around. The buildings all looked decayed and rustic, their red brick facades tainted all over with sickly green fungus. It was like nature was trying to wrap its talons around the area and reclaim it bit by bit for itself.

The buildings were likely condemned, unsafe to inhabit anybody. The homeless population would never be denied shelter though and so they would risk the structures potentially caving in on them. Down the end of the street was a large concrete factory. Its tall cylindrical funnels towered over it and its local area. At least they were not in operation, but were still a blight on the city's skyline. The Emolga remembered that the city used to rely on industry and had a horrible smog polluting the air. Luckily, the factories fell into disrepair and Ciudad Porcelana refocused its efforts on tourism. It was like the governors had left the industrial age standing as relics to remind themselves of past mistakes. Either that or to keep the pockets of homeless people away from the more tourist minded areas. Knowing the government, the latter was more likely. They may as well quarantined them like flesh eating zombies. Probably though it was sometimes difficult to spot the difference as some spent most of the day drunkenly shambling around.

Murciélago's eyes drew to the factory as he finally began wandering in its direction down the street. He passed by a dented metal trash can in the middle of the road. Flames emitted from it, its embers crackling gently inside. He knew that the homeless gathered around it on cold nights to keep their hands and themselves warm, though wondered why it was lit in hot, broad daylight. He had a mind to look in and see what materials were used, but realised he would have a faceful of fire to deal with. That would only be good for the most literal definition of rage.

His mood had calmed since, so he decided against it. He continued to look around, surveying the environment in full. Nearby, one of the buildings had a shopfront. The walls around it were charred black, as was the interior beyond the no longer existing glass. Clearly it had been burned out of recognition, likely the result of a past robbery and arson attack. Murciélago sighed. He hated not being feasibly able to deal with every criminal activity in the city. He saw crushed beer cans and empty glass bottles strewn along the pavements and road. Lampposts were slanted at an angle, the traffic lights at a nearby junction not functioning. It really was like the coming of the apocalypse, a year round flavour of the aptly named Diablo district. It was a far cry from the city's seafront in every way and was neglected of any mention by every tourist brochure. The city itself was not ashamed of its success and cruelty clearly, instead openly embracing its victories and failures of its society. That was also its problem, as it established higher crime rates compared with other cities in the region. That was where Murciélago came in, hoping to establish some sort of order.

He remembered past bouts with thugs as he wandered on. How he snapped bones in their arms, face and legs. How he cracked their ribs, dislocated their shoulders and fractured their fingers. How he had also made use of a pair of curved sickles to cut off the hands or feet of criminals. What he did to his heckler was nothing compared to any of that. He also remembered some thugs urinating in his direction and one even defecating in front of him. Luckily he was never touched by either, though it reminded him just how much the criminals detest his very existence. In a way, it amused him. After all, at least the majority of the public thought of him fondly for his help to cleanse Ciudad Porcelana of its scum. That and of course he had his own deep personal reasons. He was just about to delve into them when his intercom buzzed, surprised by its vibration. He took it into his paw and looked upon its screen, with Alfredo's name flashing up. He accepted communication and the Gallade's formal tone of voice piped up.

"I have received word that the gang have been located in the Sol district, sir..."

Murciélago listened intently as he walked, nodding and understanding.

"OK...gracias, Alfredo..." He replied, causing the Gallade to let loose a heavy sigh.

"Hmm well, don't thank me. Thank my source..."

With that, the contact clicked and cut off. At last, Murciélago had a factual sighting confirmed. Knowing that, he would waste no time, he knew he could not afford such a luxury. So, he took one last look at the archaic Diablo district. The fungus plagued buildings, the scribbled graffiti and the ugly factory funnels. The embers in trash cans, smashed or boarded up windows and damaged lampposts. It was little wonder the district had its moniker and known for being a hotbed in criminal activity. He knew that it was a safe bet that his targets would have shown up in Diablo. However they were smart enough to prove otherwise, leaving him with no choice but to rush. No more thinking, Murciélago, it was time for action.

He thrust his fist forth and his grapple hook extended. It clawed its way onto a rooftop, dislodging a chunk but held tight. As the chunk fell to the ground, he was propelled upwards. Time to head towards the Sol district to take out some scum...