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Well, that was a all a little more hair-raising than we might have thought it could get. Good work, Maskmates, though.
<span class="mu-i">the warehouse of the Slicerats burn with purple tinged flame. Rinik's contraband is consigned for sure and certain to the Empyreal's embrace. In the smoke-choke streets the Slicerats groan and moan, too tangled in their own arms and legs to offer proper pursuit. The building crumbles into sparks and detritus, stained with foreign chemicals. The Urban Raincatcher patrols will arrive soon, with buckets, batons and badges, to investigate this breach of the peace.
They'll find a score of cross and concussed Slicerats and the embers of Rinik's dreams, and no matter how many of them he has bribe and coerced and corrupted, even a man as cunning as Rinik cannot contain the stain of this defeat. Most of these crew will find themselves before a Judge before long, and it'll take a lawyer some fine talking to get them out of community service, penal time or what's worse, for a score of minor and major crimes.
Perhaps an anonymous woman, maskless and inconspicuous, will find time to deliver a package of evident evidence to the right address, a few extra tangles in the case.
And what about you?
You can flee, break into the afternoon, fade into the city itself, ever welcoming and grand, to rid yourself of smoke-stained clothes in an odd alley, and then - gently - pry the Mask off of your face. Breathe clear and true. And walk back into your normal life, assured that you've done some grand good tonight...</span>
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