Steve Rogers High School

It was 2230, and the sky above Los Santos was a murky, inky black. No one in their right mind should have been out and about at this ungodly hour, but in the High School parking lot, a crowd had begun to gather.

A nondescript blue-grey van, unmarked aside from the dents and rust, crunched it's way over an abandoned soda can as it drew alongside the three similar vehicles that were already there and waiting. It disgorged it's contents: two men who weren't particularly burly or intimidating, but moved with the kind of swagger that suggested they certainly thought of themselves that way. A few nods of recognition were exchanged, but no one spoke out above the ambient murmur of hushed conversations in the crowd. The sound of a van's side door being heaved open cut through the night, followed by a thud and the grinding groan of a wooden box being dumped out and dragged across the lot. It came to a halt, and a figure used it to step up above the crowd.

Behind the cover of a billboard that proudly exclaimed Go Invaders!, Blackhawk lifted a bulky set of binoculars to his eyes, and flipped the switch to turn on the night vision.

"We all know why we're here," the speaker's voice hissed in Blackhawk's ear, relayed from the transmitter he'd planted on the flagpole. "We're here in the shadow of this school because it represents everything we hate: the lie that mutants deserve to be treated like ordinary people. The state of California, in it's infinite wisdom, has decided that it is perfectly safe for our children to be taught in the same place as these freaks and abominations. And in the rest of the city, it's only getting worse."

The ambience of the crowd grew louder with grunts and mutterings of agreement that the transmitter couldn't quite pick up.

"We can't trust the government. They think registration is the way to fix this problem is registration. I ask you: does putting a health warning on cigarettes stop them from giving you cancer? Do driving licences and gun registration stop people from dying in shootings and car accidents?"

"No!" the speaker continued, agreeing with the sentiments of the crowd. "We need more than a token gesture to keep our lives and our children safe. So if we can't trust the government, and if the Los Angeles Police Department is riddled with mutants of it's own? I say we take matters into our own hands."

Blackhawk didn't need surveillance gear to hear the crowd cheering. The situation made the muscles in his jaw bunch beneath his mask, teeth clenched grimly. Such sentiments were not unheard of: mutant crimes were in the increase, peaceful demonstrations were becoming decidedly less peaceful, and overreactive authorities were making everything worse. You couldn't go anywhere or hear anything without mutants cropping up sooner or later; it was easy to understand how people could be growing tired of that.

But this? This was a few torches and pitchforks away from a lynch mob. Desperate times called for desperate measures, but were things in Los Angeles really that bad.

"I have good news, friends," the ringleader continued, holding open his arms like a preacher addressing his flock. "I have friends in high places, and they have provided me with exactly the tool we have been looking for. I have a way to get us inside Treadstone Tower. I have a way to get us into the lab where Doctor Thomas Harriman takes anyone who walks in off the street, and helps them hone their skills; helps turn them into weapons. We need to send a message to these people that their actions will not be tolerated. We need to burn down his gun store."

The crowd whooped; another van door groaned open, and Blackhawk trained his binoculars on the contents. Inside he saw barrels; wires; home made explosives and incendiaries. They were crude, but if they'd been made right they would be effective, especially if you set them off somewhere volatile and full of secondary explosion risks, like a parking garage or a science lab.

"We know where we are going," the ringleader shouted, voice a little too gleeful to be appropriate. "Our drivers each know the routes they will be taking to help us avoid suspicion. We will meet at our destination, and then we will send a message that they will be unable to ignore!"

The crowd drowned out anything else the preacher might have said, but Blackhawk had heard all he needed to. In swift but silent strides he retreated to the shadows, speeding through the buildings and across the football field to the gate he'd broken open; though and out onto the street, down the alley, and to the dumpster beside which he'd secreted his motorcycle. Tossing the tarpaulin aside, his attention turned to his utility belt, and to the padded and reinforced pouch where he'd stowed his latest burner. A few quick key presses and the bluetooth headset was ringing in his ears. He stowed the phone, shuffled the bike clear of the crates and containers he'd used for cover, and swung his leg over the saddle.

"Hello. Los Angeles Police Department switchboard. How may I direct your call?"

"I'm after Detective John Jackson," he said, trying his utmost not to sound like a vigilante on a motorcycle. "Extension 2814."