KNOCKOUT

I: UPSTART

A NEW FIGHTER WITH LOTS OF POTENTIAL

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ZENON STALKS THROUGH the underground sewers of New York City. The rhythmic click of her boots hitting the hard concrete echo within the walls of the tunnels. She can list about a thousand other things she'd rather be doing on a Friday night. Damn Hale for getting his sorry ass captured. And damn everyone else too, for being such lazy asses that she's on a one-man rescue mission.

She takes a glance at her watch, and grits her teeth, picking up her pace. It's well past midnight. She's so going to slaughter Hale.

It's not like the mission was even difficult in the first place—get into the mayor's office, get some documents, then get the fuck out before the police arrive. But no, apparently that was too much for Hale to handle, and now she's stuck cleaning up his mess.

Zenon grits her teeth pulls her black mask on, hoping it'll help against the atrocious smell of sewage next to her, and nearly gags as the stench continues to hit her nostrils stronger than ever.

Having had enough, Zenon breaks out into a sprint and turns the next corner before halting to a stop in front of a ladder leading up to a storm drainage from the NYC underground. Verifying she's in the right place, Zenon begins to climb up the drainage ladder.

She winces every time she grips another slimy rung, silently thanking God she's wearing gloves. While keeping one hand on the ladder, she lifts the other and pushes against the storm drain. At first it doesn't budge, but after a few more forceful shoves, the lid pops open, and Zenon emerges out into the middle of an empty street.

The first thing she does is inhale a breathful of fresh air. The aroma of car gas and grease has never smelled so fresh.

Zenon kicks the storm drain back into place with disgust and looks around.

To her right is the Hudson River, and left, the Justice Building. Even with the streetlights casting a dim glow onto the pavement, it's hard to separate Zenon from the darkness of the night—hard to see where one ends and the other begins. The fact that she's wearing all black, from head to toe, certainly does not help.

The cool December wind wafts by and Zenon shivers. She pulls the hood of her cloak further over her face, covering her braids until only her chin and lips are visible. Then she turns to her left.

There are two tiers to the law enforcement in New York. First: the police, then the Justice Department. They're the ones who handle the big, extreme cases—ones involving the public safety of the masses.

Or, at least, they used to, before the branch lost all sense of integrity and started taking bribes from the rich and powerful as payment for sweeping their illicit activities under the rug—according to rumors that Zenon's heard, anyway.

To say the Justice building is large is an understatement. It's a massive structure made of spotless marble. How they manage to keep it so white and pristine in spite of smoke and pollution, well, that's a mystery.

The walkway connected to the entrance is held up by grand pillars carved with intricate designs. The actual building is a long rectangular prism with a glass dome in the center. (Who puts a glass dome on top of a building? That's like giving someone your credit card number and asking them to not rob you.) A billion stairs lead up to the entrance, and Zenon almost feels bad for the empty-headed drones who have to climb it to get to work every morning. Almost.

       It took her a total of ten minutes to find the best entry point into the Justice Building. The set of windowpanes covering every side of the building don't seem to be a good choice for a break in. As stupid as the people who reside there are, they probably won't ignore the sound of shattering glass in the middle of the night.