Special 2: Insert Coin to Continue
By Nova & Roach
Neon signs flickered to life below Vorpal as the sun sank closer to the horizon. The rooftop was still slick from the afternoon’s rain, while clouds blotted the sky in shapes like sea-monkeys. A few floors beneath, Vorpal could hear the sound of conversations and laughter. But traffic noise polluted the soundscape, turning the voices into indistinguishable chatter. Vorpal’s gaze traced the streets down below, where they expanded through Chinatown like veins pulsating with the rush of headlights.
Vorpal leaned forward slightly, watching the movement of each vehicle intently. From ten floors above, people turned into distant specks and cars into tiny boxes reflecting light of the setting sun back up at them. The small, lonesome figure—obscured in black clothing—surveyed the neighborhood’s ebb and flow with a falcon’s precision. A face mask hid the lower half of Vorpal’s face, only leaving their deep brown eyes visible as they watched over the streets.
Suddenly, Vorpal tensed, tightening their grip around the hilt resting at their hip. It looked to be part of some kind of solid metal rod, painted a soft pink. A small keychain—in the form of a fluffy, white rabbit—was attached to it, which now dangled in response to their touch. Their eyes fixated as something seemed to catch their attention.
They continued to watch as a white semi-truck departed from an alley behind a sushi place. The letters Sakana Shimai flickered in neon blue above the restaurant. The accompanying logo—two intertwined fish—also decorated the truck’s flank. At first glance, there was nothing unusual about it. Just a regular sushi delivery. Except—after watching from the rooftops of apartments and hotels for the last week—Vorpal knew better than that.
It could only mean one thing. Yakuza. The neighborhood’s rotten intruders; their depravity only rivaled by that of Dragon’s Teeth.
Vorpal cocked their head, eyeing the sushi truck. It seemed that the cops and heroes hadn’t caught on to this detail yet… Nevertheless, it had only taken Vorpal a few nights of observation before they could tell which of the deliveries were fishy, and which were… fishier. The telltale signs were small, but in plain sight for those who knew to look. For instance, Vorpal had quickly learned to notice which of the semi-trucks traveled between the docks or how much weaponry their couriers carried. And, after memorizing its unremarkable California license plate, Vorpal came to realize that this particular truck never went anywhere near the docks.
Which begged the question: where did Sakana Shimai get their fish from, if not the ocean?
And, if not fish, what were they really transporting?
Heroes certainly didn’t seem bothered to find out—they were too occupied chasing boogeymen and performing glorified circus acts, stringing the cops along by their teeth…
So Vorpal weighed their options. They could try to stop the truck—stake out one of the alleys en route, then strike once it passed through.
But time was slipping, and the truck started down the roads. It rounded a street corner, before hitting a red light.
Vorpal faced the vehicle’s direction. Then, with sudden momentum, they dashed forward. As the last slivers of sunlight retreated below the horizon, Vorpal leaped into the air. The next building stood twenty feet away, across a wide alleyway.
They crossed it easily.
They dived toward the hotel rooftop, rolling into a run in an instant. Without stopping, Vorpal charged toward the edge of the roof. Rain puddles splashed softly beneath their shoes. At the same time, the truck advanced—continuing down the darkening streets.
Vorpal leaped between the rooftops in pursuit of the truck. Moving on foot turned out to be an advantage, as the crammed and busy roads of San Francisco would quickly suffocate a large, clunky semi-truck. Every time it gained any distance, traffic slowed it down again.
This cat-and-mouse game of falling behind and catching up continued as the truck strayed into Nob Hill, deeper into Yakuza territory. Vorpal navigated the city’s rooftops with a certain familiarity—taking cover behind the occasional rusting HVAC, while their feet thudded softly against the rooftop concrete. A row of startled pigeons took flight as Vorpal rushed past their nesting spot, leaving in a blur of feathers and coos.
By the time the Sakana Shimai vehicle slowed down, drifting clouds had bruised the sky into a hazy purple—soaking up the city’s light pollution like a sponge. Vorpal ducked underneath a rusty water tank stationed on the roof of an abandoned apartment complex. From this new vantage point, they watched over the delivery truck.
The truck veered into the large garage of a thin six-storey building. Before it disappeared out of sight, Vorpal glimpsed a trio of figures coming up to meet it. If it hadn’t already been obvious that they belonged to the Yakuza, the poorly hidden guns at their belts left little doubt. Vorpal noted a katana peeking out of one goon’s hilt.
Once the figures were out of sight, Vorpal inspected the building more closely. Peeled paint, rusted rain gutters, and degrading signs aged the facility by what seemed like decades, although construction had been more recent. Vorpal only recognized it because it had made the headlines after its opening some years ago. It was called Wonderland, and housed a massive, multi-level arcade. But now, long since abandoned, it was only an echo of the blaring promotional pictures which once plastered advertisement boards around the city. Dust and grime coated the once fancy wall-to-wall windows, while cracks formed in the unlit neon tubes contouring the exterior.
Vorpal leaped onto the fire escape of the building which neighbored the arcade, quickly ascending to the rooftop. Now that they were closer to Wonderland, something else caught their attention; a flickering. Through one of the sooty windows on the top floor, a small light took form…
A man’s silhouette appeared, his face lit up by the glow of a cigarette.
From their position on the rooftop, Vorpal was slightly elevated above the man—seemingly enough so that he hadn’t noticed them as he watched over the empty street below.
A smirk formed underneath Vorpal’s face mask.
As the man exhaled, a puff of smoke coated the glass. He started to turn away. Just then, Vorpal lunged forward. Midair—soaring between the two buildings—they reached for the hilt at their hip. In one swift motion, they grabbed the metal rod and swung it through the air. It lashed out in a pink streak, shattering the window on impact.
The man didn’t have time to react before Vorpal struck him, the hilt hitting the back of his head. He toppled over as shattered glass sprayed the floor around them.
Glass crunched against Vorpal’s back as they somersaulted across the floor, before quickly regaining their footing again. They took in their surroundings, and found themself in what used to be a lounging area of some sort—with frayed couches and dusty tables. There was a bar to their left, where a man stood alone. He held an open bottle in one hand, and a cork in another. His mouth agape, he stared at the smoldering cigarette on the ground next to his fallen ally. Then he looked at Vorpal.
Vorpal reacted immediately, dashing toward him. While the hilt remained in one hand, they grabbed a wine bottle off the wall with the other. The circular shape of the bottle had a sense of familiarity in their grip—but they held back the instinct to wield it. Instead, Vorpal resorted to brute force, flinging the bottle toward the man. He started to shriek just as it smashed into his face with an uncomfortable crunching noise.
Vorpal didn’t stop to see what became of him. Instead, they ran for the exit. Once at the door, they found themself peering down a staircase. They started down the steps, when a voice called from below, “…Phil? Everything okay?”
A man turned the corner and looked up the stairs at Vorpal. They stood there, locking eyes with the man below. He looked like he was going to shout something, but his voice caught in his throat and all that came out was a gagging sound. He pulled away slowly, shrinking back behind the corner—looking to escape.
Vorpal wouldn’t let him. As quick as he could blink, they launched themself down the stairs, then socked the man in the cheek with a solid left hook. A solid crack sounded through the dusty air of the stairwell at the impact. He flew back, slammed into the wall, and slid down—completely unconscious.
Vorpal didn’t waste any time reaching the floor below, and promptly retreated into the nearest room. It was a gaming room, with arcade machines forming rows like gravestones throughout the space. Neon tubes ran across the ceiling—emitting unsteady blue and pink lights, while a sporadically colored star-pattern covered the flooring.
Surprisingly, a handful of the arcade machines were lit up. However, there was only one player—presumably, Vorpal had already encountered the others upstairs. Upon Vorpal’s arrival, the lonesome figure started to turn toward the door.
“The fuck!?” he shouted. The faint light of an arcade screen outlined the silhouette of his shoulders, hunching as he reached for the gun at his belt.
Vorpal ducked behind one of the machines, crouching as they snuck past a row of arcades.
A gunshot sounded, its volume terribly loud in the closeness of the game room. In a flurry of sparks, the bullet blasted through the arcade machine Vorpal had disappeared behind. From their hiding spot a few machines down the row, Vorpal could hear his steps shuffling in confused circles.
Vorpal didn’t wait for him to orient himself again. Estimating his position based on the sound of his steps and heavy breathing, Vorpal vaulted over one of the machines—landing just in front of him. A dumbfounded expression unfolded across his face. As he twisted the gun toward them, Vorpal’s hilt struck his wrist. Bone cracked. He shrieked. The impact flung the weapon out of his hand. It clattered uselessly against the floor.
He started to shout something when Vorpal pressed the hilt against his throat, using both hands to overpower him. Although he stood some inches taller than them, his weight relented against their lean frame. Vorpal pushed him toward the closest arcade machine. A pathetic squeak escaped his throat as Vorpal pressed harder on the hilt, forcing his head against the screen. The skin of his throat reddened as they continued to press the hilt against it, while his arteries pulsed desperately.
Vorpal had more time to study his face than most of their opponents. A small scar interrupted the arch of his brow, while a tattoo of a ram’s head peeked out from the collar of his shirt. His eyes bulged to unnatural proportions as he gawked, gaze locked onto the keychain attached to the hilt. The fluffy rabbit figure rattled while he struggled weakly against Vorpal’s grasp. On the screen behind him, the arcade game progressed.
Vorpal realized it was Pac-Man. The game let out a sequence of beeps as the quartet of ghosts steadily approached the circular protagonist, which waited like a sitting duck. The man’s body went through the motions of heaving for air, letting out croaky sobs as no oxygen came through.
Until the final moment before unconsciousness hit him, his stare remained fixated on the rabbit keychain. Then, after drawn-out seconds, his eyes started to roll back as his body fell limp. Vorpal let him go, and he slumped to the ground. “INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE” flashed across the arcade screen, blinking in a rhythm steady as a heartbeat.
Vorpal continued down the row of arcades, some of which beeped 8-bit tunes as they passed by. They entered a new door, encountering the next staircase.
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Pushing the door open, they found themself instantly engulfed by a roaring cacophony of music and shouting. In front of them was a room full of flashing arcade machines, and six—no, seven—goons laughing while they aimed for new highscores. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and Vorpal immediately dived behind one of the machines, rolling into a crouch behind it.
Only to be face to face with the eighth goon, who was messing with the machine’s surge protector.
He shouted in alarm, only barely audible over the music. Vorpal put him down in one swift blow, but the laughing from the others had turned into agitated shouting. Hiding wasn’t an option anymore, and Vorpal vaulted the machines they hid behind—just in time to tackle one of the nearby goons to the ground. He struggled but couldn’t overpower them, despite being twice Vorpal’s size. They put him down with a solid blow to the head, just in time to roll away from the reckless kicks from a quickly panicking goon. They leaped to their feet, striking one man in the chin with their knee as they shot toward the ceiling. Vorpal rebounded off it, only to tackle another into the machine behind him—his head shattering through the glass of the screen.
In the reflection of the broken glass, Vorpal saw a man twisting a gun toward them. Before he could get them in his sight, Vorpal bolted toward him, zig-zagging across the striped carpet of the arcade floor. There was a gunshot, and a bullet just barely whizzed over Vorpal’s shoulder—but it was too little, too late for the gunman. Vorpal threw a series of punches into his torso that sent him sprawling. He struggled on the ground, but before he could even get on his knees, Vorpal knocked him out with a kick to the back of the head.
There were three left, all of which moved to surround Vorpal before they could act. But before the Yakuza members could close in, Vorpal ducked below the arms of one man, throwing a punch into his side that shattered ribs. He fell, and the others advanced—one armed with a knife a few inches long. Vorpal dealt with him first, knocking the knife out of his hands like it was a child’s toy, before putting him down with a right hook. The other gaped at this, arms raised. “O-okay you wi-” he started, but before he could finish Vorpal socked him in the gut. He doubled over on himself, and Vorpal finished him off with a kick to the side of his head.
The goons defeated, Vorpal almost stopped to catch their breath—but something moving from the other side of the room shocked them back into action. They could see a man emerging from the door, mouth agape, before noticing Vorpal and leveling a pistol in their direction. Vorpal dived behind a row of machines just in time to avoid the shot. They searched for a nearby distraction, and discovered a folding chair—which they swung like a frisbee at the advancing gunman. It took him down with a metal clanging that just barely sounded over the pounding music, and Vorpal quickly crossed the distance to finish him off.
Looking up, Vorpal saw another goon standing in the doorway, and the faint shadow of another behind him. They didn’t give the men an opportunity to move, and Vorpal was on top of them within an instant. There were four of them in the hallway, and the later two retreated, too late, as Vorpal—using the close quarters to their advantage—pressed the attack. They tore into the goons like it was a dance, striking with precise blows that sent them sprawling.
The next two levels were almost empty. Maybe everyone here had been called into action? By the time Vorpal finally arrived at the garage, they almost believed that, and had slowed to catch their breath. The Sakana Shimai truck, parked in the center, immediately drew their attention. Aside from the delivery vehicle, the parking garage was mostly vacant—with the exception of a couple of cars and motorcycles.
Another Yakuza member stood leaning against the side of the truck, smoking a cigarette. Armed with a gun and katana, Vorpal realized they had seen him before—from atop the roof. His eyes darted somewhat nervously around the parking garage, settling on Vorpal at the sound of the door opening. Music from the arcade rooms trickled outside.
The man let go of the cigarette, stomping it as he reached for his gun.
Vorpal rolled behind a nearby motorcycle, bullets whizzing overhead. Without waiting, they lunged behind the semi-truck, just opposite of the man. He continued to shoot blindly, puncturing the wall behind them and then the truck itself. But, as Vorpal hoisted themself up the side of the truck, a clicking noise replaced the sound of gunshots.
The clicking from the trigger of a gun out of bullets.
Vorpal slid across the top of the semi-truck, gripping their hilt as they dropped themself on top of the man. But he had prepared himself, now wielding the katana. The blade caught a sliver of light from the fluorescent tubes above as he pointed it toward Vorpal.
Vorpal parried the sword with their hilt, the blade leaving a scratch in the metal rod. But, with the momentum of their descent, the man couldn’t keep the katana steady. Vorpal effectively pinned him to the ground, the flat end of the blade now pressed against his throat under the force of their hilt. He let out a strained groan.
With a flick of the rod, Vorpal disarmed him. The katana clattered against the concrete. Then, they struck him over the head, and he fell unconscious.
Taking a deep breath, Vorpal turned their attention to what actually mattered here: the truck. They hoped it would be a smoking gun for Yakuza’s whole operation, but was only somewhat surprised when the truck was empty. That could mean a couple of things. Maybe it had just completed its delivery, and the Yakuza had already brought the goods inside. Alternatively, this could be the point of origin—a pickup location for Sakana Shimai. Which would confirm Vorpal’s suspicion that they weren’t strictly dealing in fish. And, considering the hornets nest Vorpal had stirred inside, this option seemed more likely.
Either way, they were going to make sure the truck didn’t make another delivery.
Vorpal adjusted their grip on the hilt, now stained red with blood. As they looked the truck over, they thought about slashing its tires. Their power tingled at their fingertips…
They shook off the feeling, deciding against it. Instead, Vorpal popped the hood open—scanning the jumble of metal parts, one feeding into the other… And, without seemingly any rhyme or reason, Vorpal twisted a couple of wires, unscrewed a cog, and tore a compact hunk of metal out of the engine. They paused for a moment, as if deliberating something with themself. Then, they smashed the metal part against the ground.
Vorpal stood still for a moment. Echoes of drunk laughter carried from the streets through the parking garage, then grew fainter as the night turned into eerie silence. They couldn’t hear any sirens, so either no one heard the gunshots, or no one was willing to tip the cops off to something this deep in Yakuza turf. Aside from the moths gathering around the weak lights, the garage was devoid of life.
As Vorpal searched the parking garage for any other signs of the Yakuza, they noticed something else. The door to the basement stood cracked open.
Vorpal entered. They tiptoed down the stairs, listening for any sounds from the basement. A distinct but unplaceable smell tinged the air, like a herbicide, or chemical of some sort… but nothing truly recognizable. Reaching another door at the bottom of the stairs, they gingerly pushed it open—revealing a room poorly lit by flickering fluorescent lights. Pipes and shelves surrounded the walls to the left and right, with barrels three feet tall almost completely filling each shelf. On the far side of the room stood a mess of what appeared to be chemistry equipment. Vials, beakers, Bunsen burners, refrigerators, ovens, and an assortment of high tech tools Vorpal couldn’t even begin to guess the purpose for.
More concerning, however, were the people operating the equipment. Two men in yellow hazmat suits frantically stuffed beakers of brightly colored chemicals into some kind of steely cooler. One man—an older guy, bald and almost sickly in appearance—shouted orders at the other. “Jimmy!” he shouted, “We need the fucking xanthomene in unit A, not B!”
The young one, presumably Jimmy, looked on the verge of a breakdown. “Yo, Mr. Black, I’m doin’ my fuckin’ best here!” he shouted back. His hands trembled, and for a moment the beaker slipped from his hands before he readjusted his grip again.
“Shut up!” came a third voice—a deep and accented baritone. A huge man stepped into view, out from behind some of the piping. He was at least seven feet tall, nearly twice Vorpal’s height, and—other than his finely tailored suit—he looked almost exactly like the pictures of sumo wrestlers Vorpal had seen before. “Move your asses, before the threat appears,” he ordered. The pair in the hazmats doubled their pace, stuffing vials into boxes at even faster than before.
Vorpal moved to quietly shut the door, articulating a plan in their mind to ambush the Yakuza once they evacuated the lab. But, before they could, the huge man suddenly stopped. His head jerked toward the door—toward Vorpal—and he smiled broadly. Pulling out a pistol, he leisurely advanced toward them. “Never mind, they’re here,” he muttered to the men behind him.
They gaped at him, then Vorpal, before the older man—looking at the big guy’s pistol—shouted out, “Throw that thing away! Hit the wrong thing here and we’re all dead!”
The big guy shrugged and tossed the pistol aside. “Don’t need it,” he said, still smiling at Vorpal.
Vorpal didn’t let him get the first move. Within a heartbeat, they crossed the space between them. They unleashed a flurry of blows into his torso, then leaped into the air to finish him off with a firm blow to the head.
The man struck Vorpal mid-jump, knocking them sprawling across the room. They wheezed in pain as they hit the ground—the man hit like a truck. Glancing up, Vorpal could see him advancing on them, cracking his knuckles. “I must admit,” he said, “you’re stronger than you look.”
They scrambled to their feet. As the man neared them, Vorpal dived between his legs before launching a kick into his shin.
He flinched, but didn’t topple. He shouted something in Japanese, and kicked back—into Vorpal’s side—before they had a chance to dodge. They skidded across the concrete floor of the basement, and came to rest at the bottom of a shelf.
If this guy didn’t have powers, he was the strongest baseliner Vorpal had ever fought.
“Is that all you got!” the man shouted, now charging toward Vorpal. “You really the one that dealt with my boys upstairs?”
Vorpal didn’t answer, rolling away from the man just before he could stomp them. They tried to get up. He swung wildly, managing to wing Vorpal with a strong right hook. They spun at the impact, and found themself on the ground again. They rolled to avoid another stomp, and scrambled away from the man before he could hit them again.
Vorpal winced as they rose to their feet. Something had broke, or fractured maybe, and each breath sent a shot of pain through their body. The big guy didn’t look hurt, but he gasped for breath as they stood staring at each other. If Vorpal was lucky, they might be able to tire him out.
If they were unlucky, another punch would put them down.
They had to finish this fight sooner rather than later.
“Who are you, anyway?” the big guy said, after a few moments of silence. “New hero, villain? What?”
Vorpal didn’t say anything. Instead, they grabbed the hilt. The cold, hard metal felt heavy in their hands. They took a deep breath, and channeled their power through it. The rod vibrated, and from one end burst forth a blade of pale white light. Stretching three feet long, it looked ethereal—like fog turned into something solid. And, as it cut through the air, it was eerily silent. Vorpal pointed it toward the man.
He shouted something in Japanese and ran toward the gun he had discarded before. Vorpal charged him, crossing the distance in an instant.
He didn’t even make it halfway before they slashed. Blood splattered onto the floor and ceiling. The man collapsed to the ground.
The fight was over.
Vorpal stood up straight and turned their attention toward the two guys in the yellow hazmats. They turned their power off—the blade evaporating like steam—but did not stow the hilt. They marched toward the men and, despite being at least a foot shorter than both, seemed to tower over them.
They both raised their hands, cowering as Vorpal approached. “Y-yo dog,” the young one—Jimmy—said, “d-don’t fuckin’ kill us or nothing, man!”
“W-we’re not with them, the Yakuza, we’re just…” the older guy, presumably “Mr. Black,” started.
“Employees!” Jimmy shouted.
“E-exactly! Employees. We’re not part of… whatever this is,” Mr. Black said, nodding vigorously.
Vorpal surveyed them carefully. After a few moments of silence, they spoke, “What are you doing here?” Their voice was small, yet gruff.
The two glanced at each other before the older guy suddenly spoke up. “Brewing. P-powerchems,” he said.
His partner looked shocked. “Mr. Black! What the fuck, yo?”
“Shut up, Jimmy!”
“Shut up both of you!” Vorpal ordered. They both fell silent, but continued to stare daggers at each other. Vorpal motioned at the unmoving body behind them. “Unless you want to end up like him, get the fuck out of here,” they said.
“Y-you a hero or somethin’?” Jimmy stammered.
Vorpal glared at him. “If I ever see you guys again, I won’t give you another chance.”
They both gulped, but nodded. They ran out of the basement, not even bothering to grab any of the boxes they were packing when Vorpal showed up.
Vorpal surveyed the scene: the assortment of abandoned equipment, the halfway packaged powerchems, and the pooling blood from the man on the floor…
They couldn’t just leave the powerchems, but the question still remained: how could they quickly dispose of them? How long until the Yakuza brought reinforcements?
As if an answer to the question, a faint song of sirens sounded. Even so, Vorpal realized the source must be fairly close to reach all the way to the basement.
Without waiting any longer, Vorpal fled up the stairs and ran through the parking garage. There wouldn’t be enough time to do anything about the lab before cops or heroes finally arrived. Vorpal forced themself to run through the lingering pain from the battle, their breathing hard. But, now that they had dealt with the Yakuza, maybe the cops could actually make themselves useful for once and clear out the powerchem operation. In the crisp night air, the sirens howled even louder—they couldn’t be more than a few blocks away now.
As Vorpal reached an alleyway from across Wonderland, the pain of their wounds forced them to slow down. Out of breath, they crept along the walls, hiding in the shadows.
As they leaned against a graffiti-covered wall, something prompted Vorpal to glance up. Far above them, a quiver—barely noticeable—rippled through the air. A loud booming sound followed the sudden vibration. Then, a figure armed with a spear soared across the sky, leaping between rooftops.
A hero, Vorpal realized—Ripple.
With another shock, the figure bounded from the rooftop and toward Wonderland. A chorus of sirens wailed outside the arcade.
Vorpal turned away. Hugging their bruised ribs, they disappeared down the alley and into the night.