What time was it?  Nine, midnight, three?  Hugh could never tell because the river of lights below never diminished.  Standing on the balcony of his penthouse, Hugh looked out over Epic city at night.  Cold wrought iron pressed against his palms as he leaned on the railing.  A chill breeze blew straight through him.  Again, his supper sat untouched, growing cold.  He couldn‘t remember the last time he had been hungry, thoughts of recent events made him sick to his empty stomach.

There of course had been all the questions.  How had the slowing economy affected Ward Industries?  How had he returned from Central America?  Where was the plane and its pilot?  Hugh’s PR agent had adeptly answered most of these.  The press had been told that Ward Industries would release a statement on possible downsizing strategies in a few days.   His mysterious return and lack of knowledge about his pilot had been chalked up to amnesia from a crash (the bandaged head wound seemed to confirm that theory).  Hugh knew differently, however, as his thoughts drifted to the poisoned Umbaro dart laying in a locked box in his penthouse safe.

Fortunately for Hugh, recent acts of terrorism had drawn the media’s attention elsewhere.  Castor and Pollux’s absent  lights left a hole in his view; beyond that, lay the endless black of the sea rising up to meet the night sky at a horizon which was lost to darkness.

Ward Industries had had offices in Pollux, and thankfully everyone had managed to escape safely.  Quickly, the McKormic team had turned up to assist.  They had done well and the city loved them.  Hugh chose to quietly donate Ward Industries profits into a private relief fund.  With the media (WEPC, SNN, etc) currently distracted, he felt it best to remain anonymous, helping from the shadows.

Hugh decided to rest.  Going back in and laying down, visions fell on him like a shroud.  Again, as in nights before, Hugh found himself walking down dark, deserted streets following a jet black jaguar through wisps of fog.  They passed a worn sign that read ‘Waterbury’.

As he walked, images and voices as vivid as reality filled Hugh’s head.  Young girls with the look of terror twisting their faces loomed at him from the shadows, incessantly, hopelessly pleading.  Past them through the mist, the jaguar led Hugh to a corner, around which it disappeared.  When Hugh turned the corner, he looked down on an alleyway chocked with the bloody, mutilated bodies of prostitutes; their dead, accusing eyes stared at him coldly.

He woke up driven by the fading nightmare.  A minute later the Shade stood on the balcony and dove down into the night toward Waterbury.