Chapter 1: Eat S***

The “New Angels” mega-city's wail had become my blaring soundtrack, a relentless reminder that with every bloody crescendo, I was both the maestro and the chaos. The high from the coke was fading, the adrenaline waning, and the reality of what I'd become was settling in like the early morning fog that blanketed the lower streets.

I was no hero,

no vigilante with a righteous path.

I am a fucking addict…fiending for the next bloody fix,

the next sexy cut, the next self-granted massacre I've marked my quarries with.

But as the blood dried on my hands and the sirens melded into the ambient noise of the city that never sleeps, I grappled with a fragment of hope that maybe, just maybe, my actions tonight had shifted the scales in my favor…

I knew with that Fuckers death the gang leaders would scramble–slowly picked off one by one–no matter what decrepit recess they cling themselves to like lustful slugs, the salt of my cleansing will rid this garden of Eden for the next generation to not become me…

The makeshift cracked phone in my hand buzzed to life, the screen illuminated a message that cut through the haze of my mind with its piercing clarity:

"Meet at the pier. 12:30. It's time to end Lucas's hold over Venice." – Traygor

Fucking Traygor…he was the leader of some Yakuza offshoot who decided that he would “help” me take out his rivals–the one contact I had left in this godforsaken place, the one who still believed in something more than the next score— or so he preached as he was running heroin through his 5 megachurches. It's funny how god can forgive all sin for profit…

I knew what this meant regardless–The Cutta Gang's remaining members would be there, ready to snuff out the threat I posed. But there was no turning back now. I had set myself on this path the moment I let the bloodlust consume me…Im killing Traygor, Luca, and any scumbag who shows up to the fucking pier.

My eyes shifted from my phone to the window of the ledge I had been resting on–a wonderful but poor family pretended I wasn't there behind black barred windows. Their laughter reverberated through my bones like shards of glass. Kiryi’s sleeping face was the largest blade to pierce my memories. I couldn't see anything but rage…Im numb

As I scaled down from the balcony, my movements were mechanical, driven by a purpose that was clear for the first time in weeks. I would face them, the embodiments of the rot that had taken hold of the city's underbelly since the mayor decided to go “anti-police”. Really he was in the pocket of 6 major players in the New Angels’ most disgusting criminal enterprises.

Because if there was no chance of Kiryi returning to the world of the living, then I would carve out the corruption that had put her in that hospital bed, even if it meant descending further into the abyss that had become my soul's residence.

I felt the balanced weight of the blood-crusted Tsurugi katana in my hand, the ice-cold resolve rumbling in my soul. Like Prometheus fire to the first humans, I felt autonomous from God's light; bereft of any fucking salvation but through the blasphemous cinder and ash of my SLAUGHTER.

I put it sheathed into my modified pants leg I made lined with Syth-leather supposedly that makes things undetectable by metal detectors–I don't trust the dark web, but fuck it right?

The reckoning was at hand, and I was its harbinger… Okay enough riding my own dick–I started running through back alleys and side streets on my way to the rendezvous at the pier. As I made my way into a crowd of people.

Santa Monica pier had been closed off to the public and privatized for the last 4 years…Rich Private events now were held there with pricey restaurants and a 30k asking price to get in–Obviously, as a raging 24-year-old with no real job, I wasn't getting in without Traygor

*BzzzzzZ* I nearly jumped at the vibration of my phone against my concealed sword.

*BzzzzzZ* “What? I thought we were just meeting up…” I felt like something was off already and it hadn't been 3 minutes. I made my way through the crowd of people to the 15-foot wall separating the Santa Monica pier and the beach guarded by what looked like androids.

Ever since Mayor Brown made all low-level police work done by these glorified chatbots with a beatdown feature; tensions between the public and the police force have died down. For some reason, the idea of lifeless killbots killing over misdemeanors is better than “racism”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Calm down FK, you need to just tell the man at the gate: Damp nest” I heard a slight rattle in his annoying voice.

What the fuck kind of code is that…THE MAN–how godamn vague this shit is going belly up.

“Eat my ass Traygor” I hung up the phone and strode across the cold cement. The foggy air clung to my raw coke-burned nose like acid on a tissue sample. I could hear the sound of a party going on behind the fence as I nervously approached the closest PObot.

“Damp Nest” I tried to keep what I said just under a hushed whisper in case there wasn't any failsafe; These things were armed with a twelve gauge neatly placed in the center of their hand like a fucked up Judge Dread + Iron Man.

“Entry is prohibited without an access key; move along.” the mockingly high voices made me even angrier than my rising need for more coke– “Hey stupid…not the fucking bot! Jesus”

I turned to see a stupid-looking goon in a white-pressed suit. He had tattoos all over and a barely concealed pistol. “I already heard you–Come on they are about to start the ceremony”

The bots stepped to the side like he had anything different than me–that's what it comes to…a little godamn microchip.

Implanted when you're born in your wrist it determines by how much money you have where you are allowed to be and where you can't be.

Level 1 or Civs: anything under 50k a year meant no jobs above slave labor and begging while you die in dilapidated housing waiting to be gentrified.

Level 2 or Nobles: Anyone who can't break that sweet 200k a year was ironically named a noble. You get some little house and are forced to breed for better IQs while they tax the shit out of you to keep you under.

Level 3 or Senate: not many of these assholes running around but basically no laws apply to you. You don't need to work due to everyone technically working for you or already part of a system. And free access to travel out of the megacity.

Somehow this was seen as a good thing to protect people from overspending…Really it’s resegregation with new friends added to the mix–Gotta love America.

I followed this Senate asswipe into the colorfully lit and sleek Santa Monica pier. Everything was so reflective and modern it made me want to throw up; I felt like a grimy little cockroach in a freshly cleaned Michelin restaurant.

Everyone I passed either was a Senate or someone affiliated with them. Their strange fashions were like stepping into a new world. Vibrant neon colors clung to barely colored strands of clothing fitting each person differently–Syth Tech had made a killing among the rich and clout-hungry shitbags from the looks of it.

“I don't know why my brother Tray was being so secretive about who was gonna be here…Some Civ slave wont make Luca and Cutta Gang think anything” He turned to me and flashed a sadistic smile that stretched to his ear, framed under his wavy black hair.

“I mean you do have a plan though right?” I felt my face harden as I looked past him at a heavily armed gang member with bullet bulletproof vest.

“Just tell me where Luca is.” I stopped walking to scan my surroundings.

Seeing a group of Senates walking into a small chrome Gala building. The way it was placed slightly under the metal pier made it seem like it was floating over the water. Really it has cemented straight to the seabed like a fucking vapid barnacle.

“Dudes in there accepting his now. *chuckles* dead as shit uncles place as leader of Cutta gang…Im gonna head in. Tray’s gonna invite him and his two best friends to have a drink at the edge of the pier after it's over” He raised his eyebrows at me then made his way in like he was on the red carpet.

Why do all Senates walk like they have a stick in their ass? I heard Kiryi’s soft voice in my ears like she hadn't been in a coma for almost 2 months now. I made my way to a bathroom trying to kill time as i waited for…well KILL TIME.

I stepped into the over-polished gray bathroom thankfully alone as I went into a stall and closed the door. Sometimes I like to torture myself with my past–Twenty minutes before I kill some rich fuck-bags seems like a good time to flip out my phone and see what led me here.

Text from Kiryi:

Hey, I know you don’t care anymore about what happens to me but…we should just see each other–even if it's as friends.

You:

Nah it’s fine KI, but no I’m doing something…just be safe okay?

Kiryi:

Why are you like that? We spent 8 years together and now all I get is phone tag?

You:

That's not really fair when you act like nothing happened…

Kiryi:

I miss you so much… I’m sorry if you thought I didn't want you around

FUCK YOU, I WAS SENDING THIS WHEN I GOT YOUR LAST MESSAGE

If you think it is my fault you could still be around…

A sharp rattle at the stall door sent me back to reality like a crackhead cannonball as put the phone away.

“Oh shit sorry…I didn't realize anyone was in there” I recognized that voice…Luca FUCKING Cutta

“Aye no problem dawg” I felt like it was on the twenty-third lap in a NASCAR race.

This was not a part of the plan–But I knew right then. I was going to gut this fucker like a pig right here and now.