• Detective Damien Roke. He's been chasing after this one vigilante for the majority of his career. Five years if you want to get technical, and all he had to show for it was that it was a dark haired kid, late teens or early twenties, he wore dark clothes, and that he never settles down with one place for long.
    Roke also remembered the suspect's partner in crime, the short, pumkin-headed kid. The stories about him were the most srtangest things he ever heard, almost cartoonish.
    Whoever they were they were causing the raven haired detective much grief. When he became a cop, he never expected to be here. Some hotel in the middle of nowhere, file papers stacked on the table and dressers, coffe cups littering most of the whole room. Just to find some guy who beating on no good thugs, with some pumpkin-headed assistant.
    The detective sighed, he laid back in bed and decided to get some sleep.
    Might as well, he never stays for more than a month...

    "So boss, how was that exit earlier?" Toby asked.
    "Your tricks are improving Toby"
    "You see the look on that guy's face?" Toby laughed. "Priceless!"
    "Those were good illusions..." He sighed.
    "Something wrong boss?" Toby asked.
    "Just tired, I'm going for a shower before bed..." He slipped off his coat, dropping it on the grubby floor.
    "Yes Toby?" He was becoming slightly annoyed.
    "Why do we always have to stay in dumps like this?"
    "Toby," he groaned, "It will take more time to tell you than the amount of time I'm willing to give."
    "Oh..." Toby looked at the stains in the carpet as the teenager closed the door. "Sorry."

    He stepped into the shower, the water scolding hot. His dark brown hair became dampened by the steamy water.
    He didn't mean to be so short with Toby, he was tired and didn't want to deal with things so trivial. He wasn't even sure why he allowed that little illusionist/ pyro artist to follow him around anyways.
    Because he's a daemon too?
    Daemons... Grotesque... That damn cure contaminant.
    If it wasn't for that gene splicing formula he would be normal, Toby would be normal. He wouldn't be here, in some sleazy motel in the bad part of town. He wouldn't have these burn scars on his back, on his wings.
    He would still be with his brother.