The city of Babel was the last human city, named after the mythical metropolis where a tower was designed to reach communion with God was built. And much like its mythical counterpart, this modern city also had a tower at its epicenter. However, this tower was not made to reach God but instead served as a precaution to keep humans away from the demons rummaging below.
Countless men sought to enter the sanctity of the floating city, but there was only so much space on board. Those who were denied entry settled below, and in the span of 50 years, a neon metropolis with a population of over 30 million residents was built. The city of lower babel, the city of contractors.
A filthy skyline blistered with countless advertisements, billboards and neon signs. A place where human depravity was given free rein to manifest itself. A domain largely ruled by contractors and their propensity for ‘evil’.
Countless crowds could be seen scouring the city at all times: people wandering aimlessly, going to work their mundane jobs, or to commit something dubious. Inside one of these crowds, a certain man traversed the city. A man that didn’t quite belong to any of these categories.
At first glance, he didn’t stand out. He wasn’t particularly tall, boasting a height that was only slightly above average. Nor was he especially handsome, his face adorned by a short scruffy beard, and his left eye covered by a black leather eye patch with a hideous scar barely peeking through. His only real defining feature was his salt pepper hair, that was loosely tied behind the back of his head. He walked the streets with a certain light-hearted slouch it his stride, lazy and careless. Those with insight could easily tell, only those of considerable strength could afford to be at ease within the city of lower babel.
The mysterious man walked carelessly through the city, periodically staring up into the sky, looking at the almost full moon with a blank expression.
Eventually, he reached a rundown bar hidden from the public eye inside of a small alleyway, a buffer between two mega-buildings. A place that was without a doubt built with certain shady purposes in mind.
The bar had several large, blackened windows in front, with a small wooden doorway in between. It was topped with a large neon sign in the shape of a pistol, “Gun-barrel,” the sign read.
The man made his way into the bar, looking around as he went inside. A thick smoke permeated the air, a heavy smog of burnt tobacco. Most of the people seated appeared to be illegal residents and vagrants, shady-looking individuals, men covered in tribal tattoos, with prosthetic mechanical arms and legs, loaded head to toe in deadly weapons.
In the back of the bar, there was a barkeeper dressed in a white buttoned shirt and a black vest. A barely visible dark purple bruise was poking out on his neck from under his shirt. He stood calmly while cleaning a glass, squinting his right eye in distrust, looking at the approaching stranger in front of him.
The man sat down on the barstool closest to the barkeeper. “Iron plated,” he noted to himself after inspecting the counter.
“Hey, barkeep, I’d like a double scotch on the rocks,” he asked, leaning forward with a strange, unnatural, almost creepy smile.
“We’re out of ice,” the barkeeper responded.
“Plain is fine too, I guess,” the man replied.
The barkeeper backed away, grabbing a bottle off the shelf behind him and poured a sloppy glass.
“So hey, you wouldn’t know anyone looking for work?” the mysterious figure wondered with the same nerve-racking smile, while holding on to his chin with his mechanical prosthetic left hand.
The barkeeper slammed his palms on the counter, looking the figure directly in the eye, inspecting him as if he was a timeless artwork, an aged bottle of wine, a splendid tool. The man continued smiling, and the barkeeper suddenly turned away.
“I think you should leave,” the barkeeper replied with a worried expression.
The atmosphere inside the bar shifted in an instant. As the figure peaked backwards, he could see the other customers intensely eyeing him, watching for his next move while grasping at their firearms. The barkeeper, too, stumbled for a bit. His expression became rather stressed. He appeared to adjust his hand below the counter, as if to grasp at something. The mysterious figure made a note of this. For a brief moment, his gaze shifted into a confident one.
“I come in peace, I’m here to offer some work,” the man shouted out as he demonstratively raised both of his hands into the air,“ I promise I can make it worth your time,” he continued with a slight grin.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“What are you looking for?” The barkeeper sighed.
“Phoenix!” the man responded and slammed his right hand down on the bar, leaning in closer towards the barkeeper.
“You should leave if you think that life of yours has any value!” the barkeeper glared at the man.
The bar fell silent, overcome with an intense, eerie atmosphere. The cigarette smoke stretched wide across the room in a single consistent veil, forcing its way into every little nook and cranny, before being parted by the breath of those sitting inside.
“Hey barkeep!” the man screamed out enthusiastically before downing his drink.
“Yeah…” the barkeeper responded, but before he had the chance to finish what he was about to say, the mysterious figure pulled out an energy blade from under his coat and cleaved the barkeeper’s head clean off his body in one fell swoop.
“What gives you the right to give me advice, you disgusting parasite?!” the man screamed out with a psychotic smile and a pissed off tone.
As the head dropped to the floor, 7 slimy tentacles sprouted from it, wiggling in all directions.
The man turned around, seeing the other visitors grasping at their weapons. He picked the head up by the tentacles, “See, I told you he was a parasite,” he shouted, waving the head in front of the armed vagrants.
“Help me, you idiots!” the barkeeper’s head suddenly screamed out.
Without delay, the armed men opened fire, focusing their sights on the figure, forcing him to dive out of the way, hiding behind the iron plated counter. He covered his head as bullets flew past, ricocheting in every direction. As the oncoming fire paused, he made sure to pull out his pistol and fire back from over the counter. This, however, this had little effect against the group of armed vagrants gunning for his life.
Seemingly out of options, the figure tied the barkeeper’s head directly to his belt, using the tentacles as makeshift scraps, and shouted, “Ordinus, requesting level 1 limiter release!”
“Denied, no demonic energy detected in your surroundings,” a robotic voice replied.
The man sighed, “Ordinus, please!” he pleaded, clasping both of his hands.
“Denied,” Ordinus responded in monotone.
“Fine, I guess I’ll do this the old-fashioned way,” the figure grabbed the double-barrel shotgun from under the bar and proceeded to saw off its end with his energy blade.
“Here we go,” the man sighed, grinning widely before jumping out from behind the bar with his new shotgun in one hand and his trusty pistol clasped in the other.
“Boom!” he called out, firing the first shot, hitting one of his attackers directly in the chest, before quickly reloading and firing a second shot into the group of armed men.
The figure appeared almost stationary. However, whatever minimal movements were made proved themselves to be enough to avoid most of the bullets coming his way.
It was akin to a dance. A trance that enveloped both sides of the party. One against many, an intricate game of precision, filled with interlocking feints and gestures of desperation. As bullets rained, a certain rhythm could be felt, a captivating flamenco of marksmen that the figure was, without a doubt, leading. The smoke subsided; it was blasted out of the way by the strong odor of gunpower.
“Almost got me,” the man tilted his head, barely dodging a bullet. It made contact with his cheek, grazing it slightly, leaving a large gash on his face right under his eyepatch. He paid almost no mind to it. There was no concern on his face, only a sick, maniacal smile and a bestial, entranced gaze.
Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, the bar was flooded with flames. A shadowy silhouette of a masked attacker could be seen standing outside of the bar, firing magic into it.
“Ordinus,” said the man as he narrowly hid away from the fire behind a wooden table.
“Demonic energy detected, limiter lowered by 1 level,” the robotic voice replied.
Blue sparks emerged, scattering around the bar, covering it in a strange hypnotic veil. The wound on his face, left by the passing bullet, began to close up and shrivel away into nothingness.
The interior of the bar exploded once more. However, this time, it lit up in a captivating blue light. Before long, the man calmly emerged from the door, staring the masked attacker directly in the eyes.
In a flash, he vanished, only to appear standing directly behind his masked adversary. He grabbed him by the neck as he slowly whispered into his ear, “Little piggy,” he remarked with an even more sadistic expression.
Some time later, the Knights arrived, arresting and detaining everyone involved with the den of illegal contractors. A certain person stepped out of the patrol vehicle. He was tall and lanky, wearing a suit and square glasses that matched the shape of his face. This was none other than Senior Squad leader Timothy Matsuhide.
“This was a perfectly good lead that you just went ahead and screwed up. You were going undercover for a reason!” Timothy shouted scolding the man, “Sometimes I wonder what the director even sees in a mad demon like you.” He continued before letting out a tired sigh.
The man threw the barkeeper’s severed head to Timothy before walking away, “Always ask the barkeeps. You might be surprised by how well they know their liquor.”
“Damn psychopath,” Timothy whispered under his breath.
The man left with no further delay, sinking into another nameless crowd of this god-forsaken city.
There were many rumors out on the streets concerning the man. No one knew his real identity, he was called by many names. But to those who knew him, he was simply known as X, the special grade investigator.
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