A cold, stale breeze flows through the alleyways, dark, with puddles reflecting the neon lights above, one of them read: "RedCold Motel". Dumpsters that looked unused and forgotten stood alone, trash piled and never picked up.
This place is the LowZone—Atleast that's what it's called by the people at the UpperGround. Unwashed gutters, grimy filthy air, even the rainwater is polluted.
Rain poured, the sound of the clatters and clicks of rain bouncing off the cold concrete reverberated through the city—New Alderhaven. Justice is a rumor here. Gritty, uncleaned, it looks like someone threw all their regrets and trashed stories here. The tech here isn't the best, but it's something. Morals have went to nothing. Sex in the streets with no regard for the children.
A single man—dangerous to be alone at night—walked in the alley, suit, gun in his pocket, peach fuzz on his chin. Looked like he was in his twenties—blonde hair, an outfit that looked like a corporate drone that's playing dress up. The puddles convulsed as he stepped over them.
His shoes clacked against the pavement, completely oblivious to the lurking danger that has now seen its prey.
A bottle appeared from nowhere, clicking against the floor, it rolled slowly towards the man. He turned around, his phone out, a hitman site stuck loading from to the telephone towers being hogged by the UpperGround. "Dammit—" he muttered, extending his phone in different directions as if it was going to do anything.
He finally gave eye to the bottle, it had a note inside it: "Got 10 seconds left." The man picked it up, throwing it somewhere in the dark alley, his eyes rolled. His mind wandered to the thought of kids messing with him. Until—his pupils dilated. He looked behind himself, a slim figure. Not too built, not too thin. Cut. An oversized jacket that didn't help against the rain at all, just for the look.
The silhouette could barely be made out by the man, the only thing he could see? A hand raised, note-book in hand. Sirens wailed in the distance, explosions from a recent robbery echoed through the air.
The man's face grimaced. The silhouette wasn't moving. Was he pacifist? Is he blind? Thoughts raged in the man's head. "Who the fuck are you?"
No answer. Just the ambience of rain hitting the ground filled the air. The man's hand flew for his pocket, his fingers wrapping tightly around his Glock. Already loaded. Already planned. Already losing.
He raised to gun to eye level; taking off his black fedora and tossing it onto the puddle beside him. It bounced once, tilting. He didn't need it anymore, and it didn't need him.
"Didn't your parents teach you to not aim if you're not going to shoot? Hand off the trigger. It'll be useless anyways." The silhouette shouted, calm though. Like he already lived through this same scenario a hundred times. He immediately thought in his brain: "Is this where it starts? Looks like it's a duel then. A bit unfair by the looks of it." He smirked. Chuckling before regaining his mind.
The man had a dumbfounded look smeared across his face. "Who said I wouldn't? Besides," He took a cigarette, aiming his pistol at the tip, firing. One shot, one light.
"You'll be dead if I shoot you with this anyways." He curled his sleeve, revealing a biotic arm—it looked delicately crafted, but hastily installed. Veins still fell on his skin.
(Fuck.) The man in the hoodie laughed. Not manically, but in a pitiful manner. He took his notebook out once again, the dim light from the neon above him lit his notebook up only a bit.
Words strewn across the pages, each one organized, with labels. He traced his finger around, lazily looking at the papers.
He found the one he was looking for—which read: Dash Cancel—Zig-zag dash toward the opponent, stab them to deal 100% base damage, 70% stun guarantee, back dash away for 40% evasion chance of next opponent attack.
(That'll work. What's the ranged weapon variant?) It read: Grab ahold of any nearby tough object, throw it for confused debuff of enemy, execute the normal variant as usual.
The man put his notebook back into confines of his pants. He looked around.
The man in blonde was confused. "What the hell are you doing?" He took the cigarette out of his mouth—holding it in his middle finger— blowing smoke into the air. "Ugh. Fuck this shit. I'm going home." He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. He walked into the darkness. Unaware. Uncaring. And scrolling porn on his phone.
The man in the hoodie finally found what he was looking for. A microwave. Yes, a microwave. He grabbed it, pulling the sides up to his chest with a "Hup!"
His footsteps made no sound as he approached the man. He threw it. The microwave clattered against the pavement. Hitting against the man's shoe in the process. Dented, Wouldn't work even if you plugged it in.
The now angry man turned around. Slow, deliberate. Gun already pulled out for the second time. "You're really pissing me off."
"Good. It'll just make this faster then." The man in the hoodie took one last look at the notebook, muttering words under his breath, as his hands sweated with the fear of what could happen if he got shot. One gulp. All fear gone. (Execute it in one perfect chain. I can't mess this up.) he fiddles with something on his chest, a recorder of some sort. It flashed on, but not in a 'There's something shiny on your shirt' way. More like a flashbang into a attack way.
The blonde man hastily covered his eyes with his sleeve as the light blinded him. "T-The fuck—?!"
(Stun received, now the hard part.)
He lifts the sleeve off, only to see a knife drawn, face to face with the man that was just a few meters away before.
"Hu-" He pressed the trigger, a shot rang out. He stumbled back, fear gripped his senses. He dropped his phone, the line still ringing, but nobody to answer.
It shot the ground, right next to the man in the hoodie, but he dashed out the way, hand placed against the concrete as skidded across the floor. His face showed clear concentration. Unbreakable. A spirit of: 'I'll win, but I need to lock it in first."
He dashed forward, knife in hand, already twisting his legs, pivoting across the ground. (Safe. Second part, execute.)
He aimed the dagger center mass, and it struck. Blood waited to gush out. Then? He took it out, crimson piled on the ground. Stab again. And again. Different position, it was like he was venting out anger.
He jumped in the air, leg crushing through the space like a guillotine. The blonde man's bones cracked, his neck bent at a sickening angle.
The hooded man landed. Soft like a ballerina, but brutal like a butcher. He ripped a piece of paper from his notebook, scribbling something on it, disrespectfully tossing it on the dead man's corpse.
He walked into the night. As if he didn't just kill a man. Or maybe he's just used to it.