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A large burning tree branch breaks loose, and crashes down between them.

Roman stands at the edge of the courtyard, in grass now a smoldering brown. Holding the remains of a metal handrail like a baseball bat, he glares upwards at the Charred Hun – again hovering above him and formulating a fresh pair of fireballs.

Focused on impending doom, Bernadette does not witness Night Terror swinging through the air on his wire rope.

While hugging the bleeding man tight, Bernadette braces herself and waits for the aerial burning tire to take its best shot.

The spotlight reveals what her goggles could not. Hovering just 10 feet in front of her, with an body entirely composed of gas (sulfuric based on the odor), is a woman she will soon come to call Sulfur.

While thousands of commuters course through the main terminal and the various underground subway platforms, Arsenelle marches silently deeper into one of the long unused tunnel offshoots.

Bernadette sprints through the hospital’s VIP parking lot, in a beeline to her silver BMW visible just a few rows in front of her.

He keeps his eyes fixed 50 feet above the hospital courtyard, where the Charred Hun hovers in the air.

With several frightened bystanders huddled behind him, Roman holds up a 20 foot portion of the stage, seconds before a melon sized ball of fire rains down. Upon impact, the stage shatters into hundreds of pieces after serving its protective purpose, leaving the crowd mostly unharmed.

Too far away, neither of them notice a most unordinary hand creep out from that darkened stage area. Covered in a matted, dark brown pelt, the hand grips the edge of the passageway and its sharp yellowed fingernails click against the concrete. Before it can poke out further, a squid-like tentacle slithers out from behind