12

You emerge from the mall, blinking in the light of the brisk October day. The crowd of assembled journalists has grown. A score of cameras point toward you. You spot Winston and Leach, waiting among the police forces. Guul, you see, has slithered away. His kind don't like the bright glare of media attention.

Nearby, Rogan's corpse, covered by a white sheet, is loaded into the back of a waiting ambulance nearby. You wonder to what degree MetaHuman can truly be held responsible for his actions.

Just then, a particulary plucky journalist leads her cameraman over to you and jams a microphone in your face. "Mr. ., do you have any comment regarding today's incredible events?"