Arno was careful, strictly selective in his brutality. No inflicting compound fractures - they were needlessly disgusting, for one, and more importantly, the media would never print those images. You get too gross with your targets, and people start to sympathize with them, no matter how bad they are. Instead, he applied a variety of potent holds, bruising blows, and bone-cracking kicks to the most deserving enemies. The Spinebreaker, the one who had gone after Chechens, was strictly objective-focused. Arno was running a war, and that included winning over peoples' hearts.
That was big picture. Small picture was putting Lt. Scumbag here (Hell's Kitchen Special Patrol) through a wall.
A mighty heft forced the panicking, sweaty mass into the side of a building. He was out cold, with the evidence of the deals he'd been making clipped to his disheveled uniform. He was bloodied, hurt, and full of enough fear to guarantee he'd leave his house after eight o' clock again.
Arno crouched over him for a brief second, then rose, bronze badge in hand. The badge that so-called cop didn't deserve, now a prize of the Night's Watcher. A prize, and a reminder.
He smiled, and his teeth were red, and pointed.
INCOMING SOS SIGNATURE DETECTED, his Widget informed him.
Could be good or bad.
It was Recurrent. Neutral, he decided, raising his hand to his mouth. The false fangs were removed in an instant, the mouth-guard slipping out in his gloved fingers before he stashed it away in his belt. A touch of extra horror, to bring the legend to life.
"Cute," he said, accepting the sticker with a mild smirk. She'd remembered, and maybe even shared his sense of humor. He half-wondered if she was here to help him out, or to ask him to stop. Ever since the SOS had replaced Deterrence as the main peacekeepers of the planet, they'd been tied down to its desires. The UN served the interests of individual states just as much as it did the collective, and the noise he was making in New York would eventually be enough for them to call in a favor and have him taken care of.
Maybe. Could just be paranoia.
But then, where was 'Meshindi?' That was the name Recurrent had used before, when referring to the other black-clad man hunting Russian mobsters. No way he got taken out by a stray bullet. He'd ask.
After the small talk, maybe. Ally talk. Don't bring up the UN.