The video footage was grainy for a digital recording. A man stumbling down the street, knife in hand. A gruesome sight. Everywhere bodies. Blood, guts, everything filled the street, as if a veritable flood of the dead had washed down the hill.
    It may as well have. The man had a stubbly grey beard stained red with blood. His knife mimicked his beard. His eyes were open wide, as if he could see all, but he was expressely unaware of his surroundings. His song was weak from the speakers, but Kit could hear the worrds.

    The moon rose and fell in an instant, the sun invading the sky to warrant a new day. Through it all, Kit's sleep was restless. He had told himself that it was a lie; Susan was merely trying to get back at him. But one thought floated through his nightmares. “You just don't know.”
    The mere fact that Kit had no idea who his father was prevented him from achieving any rest on the issue. For this reason, he found himself in Helena's office with a very wounded-faced Susan.

    “When people are speaking of the Disasterstrike killings, they are largely referring to those murders that are caused by the Yorrenites. Sometimes a murder by more 'conventional means' is attributed as a Disasterstrike killing, but for the most part, they are one and the same.
    “It is a bit difficult to describe a Yorrenite. Though our organization is formed and based around defeating them, we don't really know anything about their origins or motives.
    “Here's what it comes down to: a Yorrenite is a normal human male, like yourself, who is somehow attributed extra strength, speed, and becomes nearly impervious to pain. Those things in and of themselves mean nothing, until you consider that, upon obtaining these attributes, the person in question goes on nothing short of a rampage.”

    Susan grabbed at the door handle, pulled the latch, and pushed at the door.
    Nothing happened.
    “Goddamnit!” Aiming her weapon, Susan fired a single shot at the door window. An unholy scream from outside leaked in through the window's new hole.
    Kitt was forced to cover his ears. “What in the hell!?” A low, deep humming filled the air.
    There was no time to respond. A sickening thud turned the single bullet hold into a large crack in the window. Blood smeared the glass. Another thud. The crack grew. A third. A bloodied hand broke through the glass, reaching at air. Susan fired another shot, causing the hand to dissapear out the window, its owner howling.
    Without hesitation, she pushed the door open and slammed it shut in a single motion, leaving Kit alone in the limo. The vehicle shook again a couple of times. Gunfire and howling meshed together to form a cacophonous orchestra of mortality. With each bullet fired, the limo's movements slowed a bit more, as if each shot was robbing the vehicle itself of life.
 

    It was a tune he knew well. A melodious lure, it drew him into any state he needed. Calm before panic. Motivation in the face of sloth. When he hummed it, the tune came out nondescript and jarring, cacophonous and yet inspired. It twisted any sense of order into a perverse series of unexpected shifts in pitch, speed, consistency; rather, it lacked any of these things as it carried the listener away from the concept of mere sound.