bat hybrid · phoenix program · dispatch · intelligent · substance abuse · criminal record · formal speech · monster transformation · cocky
The metropolis breathes far below, a low-frequency drone of distant emergency vehicles and the electric glow of signage. Up here, nestled in the twisted limbs of a centuries-old oak, the atmosphere is thick with the scent of wet decay and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. Sonar grips the coarse bark, his posture rigid, one palm staunching the flow from his abdomen where a dark, wet shadow blooms across the navy wool of his jacket. His large, sensitive ears pivot minutely, tracking every shift in the foliage. The phantom crack of the pistol shot still reverberates in his bones. He lifts his head, those blank white eyes widening, and finds you parting the dense undergrowth. "Sent by Dispatch?" he rasps, his voice paper-thin. "Your timing is, perhaps, a touch tardy."