A man in a black suit and trench coat strolled down a sidewalk bathed in muted, yellow light. The street was empty, save for the odd car parked along the curb. A black luxury SUV was parked down the block with its lights cut off. In the driver seat at a man with dark shades and an even darker expression.

The man in the suit had instructed his driver to stay inside. The person he was scheduled to meet wouldn't have appreciated it if he had shown up with armed guards. Besides, he preferred being out the constant surveillance of his detail. Ever since his campaign started, he'd been placed under a 24/7 detail.

He stole a glance behind him, checking the barren sidewalks, before entering the shoddy bar next to him. Upon entering, he removed the gray trench-coat hugging his shoulders. He draped it across the coat-hanger at the door and ventured inside the smoky lounge.

It was fairly empty, but not too empty. It was the perfect place to have a meeting, especially one like this.

The bartender behind the counter paid him no mind as he entered; he was too busy watching the news report playing on the shabby television mounted across from him.

The man in the suit scrunched his nose at the strong scent of cheap booze and cigar smoke invading his nostrils. He ran a hand through his dark, slicked-back hair as he observed the décor around him. Old paintings adorned the chipping wallpaper. The furniture positioned around the bar looked like they were on their last legs.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have been caught dead in a place like that.

But these weren't normal circumstances.

He was there on business. Business that could save the lives of thousands. Millions even. He adjusted his gray tie and approached the broad-shouldered man sitting at the bar.

The man was significantly older than he was; short, gray hair sprouted from his blockish head. He was dressed in 5-star general's uniform. Colorful pins and gold medals decorated his left breast. A box of cigars rested in the pocket on the right. A silver nametag ran along the pocket. It read: North.

"Crane," the general said. He was still staring ahead at the half-finished glass of dark whiskey in his wrinkled hands.

The man in the suit, Senator Alastair Crane, nodded. "Thank you for agreeing to meet me, General North."

North grunted. "I didn't really have much of a choice, now did I?" He narrowed his ice-blue eyes at the senator. "You know, I've never really liked you politicians. You lie. A lot."

Alastair forced a smile onto his reptile-like lips. His fingers squeezed the handle of the leather briefcase in his left hand.

The general downed the rest of his whiskey. He grimaced and hit his chest with a meaty fist, a guttural noise following shortly after. Alaister resisted the urge to recoil in disgust.

"So, what is it that you wanted to speak to me so badly about, Crane?" North inquired. "You said we couldn't speak about it over the phone."

Alastair nodded. "You never know who's listening." He swung his briefcase onto the bar counter, pressed his thumb into the pad along the side, and flipped it open after he heard the satisfying click. He reached inside and retrieved a yellow folder. The letters PRA were printed on the front in bold, red print.

"It's called the Prime Regulation Act," he explained. "We've been calling it the PRA, though."

"Yeah, I got that much," the general grumbled. He pulled out a thick cigar from the box in his pocket and lit it. After placing it to his lips, which were overshadowed by his bushy mustache, he took a long drag. "What exactly is it?"

The senator nodded and opened the folder. Papers detailing the proposal met his eyes and he turned to his desired page. "As you know, Primes have been peaking all over the world. Local governments are struggling to keep up with and handle these...individuals. While Atlas has been doing a decent job, there has already been more than one event that has resulted in the deaths of civilians." He paused, inviting any input from the general.

North grunted and gestured for him to continue.

"The PRA is designed to deal with any Prime related event, ideally before they can occur," Alaister said. "We will implement a way for hospitals to scan the population's blood for traces of the Prime gene. If enough is detected, they will be input into a registry and moved to a safer location away from the general public."

"What if they refuse?"

The senator adjusted his tie. A dark glint passed over his pale eyes. "For those who reject being put into the registry, they will be arrest and dealt with accordingly. Same goes for Primes who commit crimes using their abilities."

"Where will you be sending them?" General North asked. He stroked the ends of his mustache. "A regular prison can't hold them."

Alaister flipped to another section of his folder. Schematics for a prison complex laid in front of him. "Atlas has converted an abandoned island into a prison for the enhanced. If this plan goes through, it will belong to the United Nations."

General North nodded slowly. He held his hand out and Alaister dropped the folder into it. The man examined the rest of the file.

"And I take it we'll still be using Atlas to take care of the more...dangerous Primes."

The senator cleared his throat. "I'd prefer it if Atlas were absorbed in the United Nations and overseen by a grand council."

"Agreed."

Alastair wrung his hands. His heartbeat quickened as he awaited General North's final decision on his proposal.

His word was all he needed to get the PRA to the next stage. With support from a high-ranking US general, he could potentially get a meeting with the United Nations council. And if they agreed with his stance on Primes, then there was nothing that would stop it.

But he needed North's word. If he couldn't get this, then everything would all be for nothing.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, General North closed the floor and took another pull from his cigar. Alastair tried his best not to breathe in the acrid, gray smoke.

"It's good, I'll give you that." The general pulled a twenty from his wallet and placed it on the bar. The man behind the counter pocketed the cash.

"Thanks, boss," he said before turning his attention back to the television, which was now chronicling a Prime attack on a jewelry store in Boston, Massachusetts.

Alastair peered at the screen, watching as a playback of agents from Atlas subdued the rogue superhuman attempting to rob the store. His hands clenched into fists as he watched the Prime being ushered into the back of an armored truck.

The frame then switched to a reporter standing in front of the ruined shopped. A tall, blond boy of about nineteen stood beside them.

"—and we just want to say thank you again to Sentinel and Atlas Industries for stopping this Prime attack," the reporter said as they prepared to sign off.

The boy, Sentinel, nodded and smiled. "We're just doing our jobs."

"There you have it, folks," the reporter said, turning to the camera. "They're just doing their jobs. Back to you, John."

A muscle in Alastair's jaw flexed as he glared at the screen. Sentinel's bright smile seared into his brain, taunting him and reviving dead memories within the dark of his mind.

They're jobs huh? Where were they when she needed them?

He shook his head and averted his eyes from the television.

We need the PRA. We need it.

He faced the general. "So, what do you say? Are you on board?"

North studied the senator for a moment, his gaze narrowed ever so slightly. He nodded, grinning. "I'm on board, Crane. This is a good plan you've got here. I just hope you know it'll face some resistance. The higher-ups like Atlas."

"Don't worry about that," Alastair said. "I'll handle that."

General North nodded. The two men shook hands. "I'll be in touch." He gestured at the folder in his hand with his chin. "Mind if I keep this? The boys back home might want to check it out."

"Of course."

The general stood up and patted the senator's shoulder. "Until next time."

"Until next time."

He headed for the exit. The door closed behind him seconds later.

Once he left, Alastair took a seat at the bar and ordered a glass of water. He turned his attention back to the television. The news was airing a short special on the Prime attacks in the last six months. Images of burning buildings, collapsed bridges, and other damages passed over the screen. He sneered at them.

The death. The destruction. The anguish. It all needed to stop.

"Here's your water," the bartender said as he set the glass down. He looked up at the screen and shook his head. "The world's getting crazier and crazier every damn day. Next, they'll probably tell us wizards and aliens exist."

Alastair took a sip from his water, his eyes still trained on the screen.

"It's madness," the bartender mumbled as he began wiping down the counter.

"It must be stopped," the senator said, mostly to himself.

The bartender chuckled. "You don't gotta tell me."

A dark look settled itself into Alastair's gray eyes.

"I'm going to be the one to stop it. Whatever it takes."