One week earlier
Newspapers failed to realize the depth of it. Police were struck with fear for their own mortality as if the death was a plague upon their very souls. A wealthy man, last name Child, was found dead - mutilated and tortured for information of some kind, as a messy stack of notes was found near the corpse. A bloodied handkerchief was the only evidence for DNA, but even then the criminal wore some type of glove and these were not found.
He was drained of blood after several hours of torture, dismemberment, forceful extraction of key tissues and bone structures, and the like. His estate was without harm, save for a few broken security cameras, all of which centered around the room where Child had died. His will stated that he wanted to be cremated.
Warsman thrashed about like a madman in his underground study, tossing around instruments of surgery and twisted toys of a marred sense of happiness. He had thought he had the man cornered like a rat - three Wildchild families within reach and only one remained, but it was an old man that wasted his time. A loud crash and the cyborg fled from the place, storming upstairs to find that the sun was still out, or had reset itself up in the sky. Either way, it wasn't his problem.
He ignored the usual craftsmanship strewn across his home, the lavish design and intriguing furnishings - he had seen them all before. Descending the steps, he noticed that the sky was turning a slight gray and that would have strayed some elsewhere from an afternoon run, but instead he bolted to the southwest, bound for a major city to break up and attract some superhero to fight and take the boredom out of the day.
One week earlier