Aleister had only just settled down to try and get some rest when distressed shouts and cries reached his ears. It was an insufferably hot morning, he had just had a long and muggy night, and he was actually looking forward to a few hours lying on the cool concrete in the warehouse. Staying where he was in the back corner of Darby Auto Factory, hunched in his ratty cloak, he listened as the cries rapidly spread. "Dead! He's dead! Midnight Strike is dead!"
Children were crying. Women were wailing. Men were mourning. The beloved Patron of Diesel City was gone; they had good reason. Aleister was pretty upset himself. He had never shed a tear; he figured that somehow the condition of his eyes prevented it. But if he could have, he would have.
Like many of the poor people of Westside, Aleister had met Midnight Strike. The amiable Patron had wished him luck, a fellow Super beginning to come into his own. He had given Aleister an easy smile, friendly pointers, a hero to look up to.