The sky was gray and thick with clouds. Crowds milled in the streets far below in lumps and streams, wrapped in coats or bearing unfurled umbrellas.

Jake Edwards walked leisurely against the flow of the crowd, gently weaving and bobbing around the currents of people. He eyed the clouds and muttered a quick prayer against rain, but his steps did not hurry. He idly pulled up the dark hood of his rain coat, quashing scruffy black hair. Jake stopped.

A man before him, dressed in slacks to his own worn jeans, had copied his motion. A familiar triangle of smooth black synthetic fabric shadowed the stranger’s face. The man paused, Jake in his path, and finally seemed to notice he was being observed.

“Huh,” Jake said. “We have the same jacket.”

…

  “…and then I kicked his ass,” Jake finished. He sat on an old brown couch, resting shoulders and neck against the cushioned back ridge. His hair was matted, forehead flecked with blood.

Roger Lory, his tall , fair-skinned housemate, stood stone-still in the space between the hall to the door and the living room. Smooth jaws worked in silence for a time before he could finally speak. “Jake-you-you’re missing both arms!”

“…You should have seen the other guy?”Jake tried. He raised his right stump after a beat. “And I’ve still got all the way to the elbow on this one.”

Exasperation wormed its way past disbelieving horror, and he took a step forward. “I’d say losing an arm and a half is still a little beyond a fist fight! What happened to you!?” Roger’s voice choked off as fought to stay calm. “Good lord, you should be dead with all that blood-”

Both men started when something slammed into their door. “Roooger!” called a familiar, shrill voice. “You missed something awesome today!”

Roger glanced from Jake, bloodied and torn, to the hall. “That’s great, Charlie,” he called back, distracted. “But we have other problems right now!” He could hear the door rattling as Charlie shook the knob from where he stood, and reluctantly turned from his hopefully not dying housemate. “Wait!” he started for the door. “You know first aid, right? Tourniquets and stuff? Jake-” He flipped the lock on the door and very narrowly escaped  the swinging door with his face intact.

“Dude,” the redhead grabbed Roger by the lapel. “There was a huge fight in town today, some new bad guy, it’ll be all over the news I bet!”

“Fantastic, but seriously Jake needs-”

“So the guy just shows up in the crowd, blathering on like they do, right? Something about being an evil clone,” Charlie continued. “And the Black Justicar shows up and they just start wrecking everything-it was amazing!”

“Charlie-”

“Oh man, and it got nasty, too! The new guy took off most of Black’s arms with some sort of super laser, but he just pinned the bad guy down between his knees and started headbutting him into-”

“Shut up!” Roger finally snapped, taking hold of his friend’s collar. “Listen, Jake is really hurt-” there was a single, deafening second of silence. All emotion was swept form Roger’s face, except his eyes, flickering back and forth. It was ridiculous, but-“Wait, most of his arms?”

“Y-yeah,” Charlie muttered. Startled, his own grip slackened. “Like, the left one was just gone, but he was about down to his elbow on the right side.”

Distantly, Roger heard a door slam. Jake’s door. He dropped Charlie, causing the younger man to stumble, and ran out of the hall. “JAKE!” He all but crashed into the thin sheet of wood they called the doors to their individual rooms.

“There is a completely logical explanation for this.” Jake spoke, smooth and calm, but loud enough to be heard from the other side of the surprisingly resilient portal.

“I would love to hear it!” Roger replied, louder still and much less calm. Charlie cautiously made his way to them while Roger struggled against the knob without success. “You can tell me all  about it on the way to the hospital!”

Seconds passed, filled only with the sound of metal clanking ineffectively against wood. “You are drunk and hallucinating!” his armless housemate finally shouted. The knob stilled in Roger’s hands.

“Dick move, Jake,” Charlie said. He had no idea what was going on right then, but he he did know the taller man was in AA for a reason. The silence returned as Roger stiffly stalked off to his own room.

“Yeah, sorry,” came Jake’s voice through the door, oblivious to his friend’s departure. “I didn’t mean-what was that sound?” Roger made quick time back from his room, and drew back on the hammer of a sleek .45 with an audible click.

“Stand away from the door, Jake!” Roger ordered over Charlie’s near-scream.

“I don’t think-” The bang cut off his reply and the wood around the door knob exploded. Roger’s automatic wince at the sound of a body hitting the floor hardened into a frown as he kicked the remains of the door open. A crimson gash along the leg joined Jake’s growing list of wounds.

“Oh my God you blew his arms off!” Charlie cried, face ashen. Roger was ripped away from his rationalizations.

“What, no, he was like this when-” he tried desperately to reason with his friend, but he could barely hear himself over the screaming. Roger reached forward with his empty hand but Charlie danced away from him, shrieking.

“Good afternoon.” Both of the young men jumped where they stood. They turned, and were greeted with a bright flash. Muscles gave out, eyes rolled  back, they collapsed; Roger against the wall and Charlie onto a figure in smooth ivory armor.

Rory Tokkens, otherwise known as the White Justicar, gently lowered the young man down to the carpet. “You know, you could have just hid in an alley or something to wait for me,” he spoke as if to the air, voice garbled by an ornate helmet.

Jake Edwards, sometimes called the Black Justicar, groaned. “Just come over here and grow my arms back.”