"No!! Please!!"
The Skrill businesswoman's screams shatter the silence of the dark, filthy alley. Rats and less savory vermin scatter as her captors -- two ill-favored Human youths -- drag her deeper into the darkness, one of them holding a disruptor pistol to her throat.
"Easy, honey," he sneers. "This won't hurt... much."
"Yeah!" laughs his companion. "Unless you _make_ it hurt. Or unless you _want_ it to..."
"Please!!" she begs again, dim moonlight reflecting in wide, yellow eyes brimming with tears. "I have money!! Take all you want!!"
"Oh, we'll take all we want..." says the gunman. "Won't we, Zed?"
"You know that's right, Mick!" replies his companion. The blade of his vibroletto pops out with a click and a menacing hum. He runs it slowly down the front of her blouse, fabric parting at its touch. "We just wanna see if it's true what they say about you Skrills..."
"I don't think the lady enjoys your company, punks."
The Humans -- and the Skrill, due to the arm around her neck -- spin about toward the source of the baritone voice. He stands atop the high brick wall at the end of the alley, arms crossed over his massive chest, where moments before there had been only sky. His massive frame eclipses the moon, casting himself in deep silhouette. Stars wink in and out of existence behind him as a long cloak dances on the evening breeze.
"Mind your own business, asshole!" Zed shrieks inanely, surprise and fear tweaking his voice out of the 'menacing' range. His disruptor speaks for itself, however, filling the alley with a metallic whine and crimson flare that suggests its mysterious target won't be minding any business at all from here on out.
But when the glare fades, the interloper still stands, seemingly unfazed. His hands rest on his hips now, revealing the emblem upon his chest: A golden, glowing "CJ".
The man shakes his square-jawed head at the slack-jawed youths.
"Boys," he says, "looks like you could use a little taste of Justice."
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