The next thing Hawk knew, there was a gun in his face. He looked angrily down the barrel at the ginger officer holding it.

"Is that so," the other officer said. "I reckon that makes you a murderer."

"What the hell're you talkin' about?" Hawk snapped at him, "I didn't kill anyone--"

"Who cares?" the ginger officer interrupted, and Hawk's feathers rose involuntarily, as he tried to swallow slowly rising fear. "Didja know we get bonuses for killin' monsters like you? Keeps the streets safe and all."

A small crowd had gathered across the street, watching quietly. No one spoke up; they merely waited. The broad-shouldered man in their midst had stepped forward; he was tall, with unkempt auburn curls and freckles. He surveyed the crowd, the police and the winged man backed against a wall, seeming rather taken aback by the whole thing.

"Well now," he said, to no one in particular, "I am naught but a tourist here, but..."

And he turned to face the people around them, to see them shrink back in fright and horror--his face distended, his skin and hair going black as charcoal, his eyes giving off an awful green light. He smiled a smile of sawed teeth, his face reflected in the snarling demon's face on the propaganda poster behind the crowd. TRUST NO ONE, the poster read.

"This just doesn't seem fair, does it?" he asked.