Protectors- Consequence

Chapter One: Five Years Later...

Simon walked across the street with slow purpose, the dwindling twilight casting a beautiful sunset to his steady movement. He was across the road from a recently reconstructed building, the Nightshade Club, which had been rebuilt, by some strange twist of fate, into a high-end Vietnamese restaurant by the people who had owned Little Hanoi before Bjorn had taken over. It was poetic, and a delightful place to eat, but Simon had no business there, although he did wish to bring his friends there one day, using his salary as head of the Superhuman Division. The SCD had been officially shut by the Americans four years ago, after legal battles on the legitimacy of Zavant, who had died a hero, despite his heinous past actions. Luckily for Simon, the Australian government had kept its SCD centre open, renaming it the SD for legal reasons. He was on that street for some serious business that night, though. Simon checked his watch, reading the date as February 12th, 2041, 7:47 PM, thirteen minutes until his business would go down. Simon was not phased by the number, as superstition had no space in the mind of a rational man, but he was early nonetheless. He slunk into the nearby alley, any semblance of his well practiced walk gone as he blended into the darkness, watching intently. Four minutes passed, and Simon saw a man, looking around the area, before leaning against the wall attached to the left of the surface Simon was pressed against. The man was no professional, as he was only nine minutes early. Even in the best-case scenarios, you would want to be more than ten minutes early, as people who are a part of deals like that get desperate quickly, and would want to be there as early as possible in hope for a hit. The man had not bothered to check the alleyway, and therefore was an amateur in the trade,

"Federal agent!" Simon roared, turning the corner with his badge out, declaring him a member of the Australian Federal Police,

It was not unusual for Simon to do fieldwork, despite the fact that he was the current chairman of the SD, due to his power to multiply his own body. At the sound of Simon's voice, the man spun around, a small pistol clutched in his left hand as his briefcase hand from his right. The bloke was wearing a blue-collared shirt, along with beige chinos and white loafers, a typical office worker turned dealer at night, nothing new for the 40s. The man had a very old Colt detective's special, a .22 handgun that could cause some serious damage at close range, and had been used in places as a service pistol for police in the past. Simon elbowed the man in the arm, before twisting his right shoulder, jamming the dealer's arm upward. He then delivered a kick to the man's right arm, causing him to drop the briefcase in the span of a second from when he had drawn the pistol,

"Stop!" The man cried as the case hit the ground, its cushiony leather stopping the product from being damaged, "If I don't sell this stuff, they're going to kill me!"

"You attempted to sell dangerous narcotics to a federal agent," Simon stated, kicking the legs from under the man, but keeping his arm locked in place, so that it dislocated, leaving the man screaming as his .22 clattered to the road below,

The time was 7:53, six minutes after Simon had gone into the alley, and he had already caught the dealer red handed. He handcuffed the man, before asking him to state on record if he knew his rights or not. The man said he did, and that was that. Simon did not bother calling the police, as they did not have the resources to combat their own problems, never mind the issues that contact with the SD could bring. Instead, Simon blindfolded the man, activating a small teleporter on his belt as he did. Ten seconds later, when Simon removed the man's blindfold, he was in an interrogation room, Simon standing on the other side of the one-way glass as the man squirmed against his bonds. On a piece of paper before the man was scribbled a question,

"Who are they?" The man shouted, bewildered, hoping for someone to let him free, "What do you mean by they?"

The agent next to Simon made to speak through the glass to the man, to clarify the question, but Simon rested his hand on her shoulder, whispering,