Match 4
#48 Nimia Altamirano
vs
#47 Vicente "The Sunrise" Kanashiro de Magalhães
A motorcycle pulled up outside Nascer da Lua only about a week after what was being called the “Rankings Broadcast”. It was an ugly bike: massive, covered in spikes, and roughly painted the colors of rust and dried blood. Its engine roared into the surrounding district, disrupting the nightlife for many on a street lined with clubs.
Many were shocked to see such a horrific thing within the boundaries of civilized society, but more quickly realized the significance of its presence. And when the woman on it got off, people parted before her.
The line wasn’t for her, and the bouncer at the door let her through with a stoic silence. She was expected.
The interior of the two-story club was loud. Bumping, rhythmic music sounded out of massive speakers all around the room. An oblivious DJ played atop a stage above the dance floor where dozens of patrons partied without worry, their figures alternately obscured and illuminated by the flashing lights, fast enough to kill an epileptic soul in seconds.
The second floor was her destination, but not the curved platforms locked into the walls over the lower floor. No, she was headed to the office taking up the left wall, in between the upper walkways. Three large windows marked its location, and Nimia couldn’t help but smirk as she saw her target, obscured by tinted windows yet obviously staring down at her.
Better not keep him waiting.
Soon enough, after a quick walk up the stairs past a door marked ‘staff only’, she saw the other side of that glass.
The 47’s office was wide. Multiple couches around, yet all his suited men stood. Some in black, some in dark blues, most pinstriped with red or yellow ties and open collars. Records lined the far right wall. Weapons lined the far left. They were decorative weaponry mostly, beautifully crafted and displayed as ornaments. Or maybe trophies
47, de Magalhães, sat in a leather swivel chair near the windows, a lit cigar in hand. In many ways, he seemed the archetypical crime lord. He wore a similar suit to his crew, though his was a dark indigo and he wore an open violet shirt under his jacket. Instead of a tie, he had a gold chain around his neck, and his skin was a light-tan. He was also entirely bald, and had dark, dull eyes.
“Haaaaaahhh…” Smoke spilled from his mouth as he exhaled. “Hello Miss Altamirano. Or would you prefer Miss Forty-Eight?”
“Forty-Eight’s fine, Mister de Magalhães,” she replied with a grin, “Or would you prefer Forty-Seven?”
He smirked. “Cute. Vicente is fine.” And then he stood, pushing up from his desk. “Let’s not waste time on banter. You know who I am, girl.”
“Okay, went from ‘Forty-Eight’ to ‘girl’. Interesting. And yes, I do know about you. You’re the Forty-Seven.” She grinned back. “Does anything else matter?”
“Disrespect for disrespect then.” He scratched at his chin, still amused. “Macedo, sword.”
One of the goons went over to the wall of weapons and pulled a katana in a heavily decorated, red and gold sheathe from the wall. “Huh. Y’know, when I heard you were kickass assassin, I was picturing more double-pistols, syringes, and fancy gadgets. Maybe a garrotte? Not really a sword.”
His smirk widened as Macedo handed the blade to him. “Ha! So you have heard of me! Cheeky girl!” Vicente chuckled and looked over the sheathed sword in his hands, one hand already on its black hilt. “I used whatever was available for a great many years. Syringes, garrottes, derringers. Then I fought a swordsman who would not die. Not until I split his head from his neck with this very blade.”
And then he drew it. Despite the decorations on its sheath, the sword was simple. A katana, single-bladed, long, and sharp enough to cut straight through the shocked mook’s neck, dyeing half its shimmering steel crimson in a second.
“Wh-BOSS! WHAT ARE-” The sheath was heavy enough to smash straight through a second man’s skull though, tossed with a sharp, inhuman precision.
“Haaaaaaah…” Vicente sighed, smoke spilling from his mouth again as Macedo’s head finally dropped, his body crumpled to the floor. “It’s been...far too long, Querida~. You still sing so sharply…” He smirked, tilting his head at Nimia’s frown and raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, girl? You feel sorrow for the men I slay?”
“They weren’t involved here.”
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“Haaaaaah, silly, sentimental...I once butchered a villa full of partying fools to kill five targets.” He chuckled. The rest of his men were starting to inch away, desperately trying not to catch his attention as they tried to escape. “I’ve done similar. Many a time. My favorite manner is to do so so subtly, none notice the deaths until it is their turn. Though, often still, I have limited my hunt to only those assigned. It depends on my mood, girl.” He chuckled again, low and dark. “You have killed many. Why do you flinch?”
“I’ve killed everyone in my way. They weren’t.”
“Ahhhhh, I see now. Men, kill Altamirano. Two million to the man that does it.”
Nimia sighed as the goons all immediately paused. Then she smirked. “Everyone that pulls a gun dies-” And immediately snapped her arm out and shot the first dumbass that pulled a gun, his head snapping back in a spray of blood. “-like that.”
Suffice to say, most of them weren’t any smarter, and Vicente’s laughter sounded out through his room as submachine gun and handgun fire echoed along with it. Nimia ducked down, both arms extended with her pistols out, and–one, three, seven–shot all eight of the men firing at her while the remaining two booked it straight out of the office.
“Ahhh, just goes to show, the craven live long and the bold die young.” Vicente chuckled as he swung his arm forward, pointing the katana straight at Nimia. “So what will you do now, bold girl?”
“Kill you. Duh,” she replied as she stood back up, leveling both pistols at him.
He barked a loud laugh, then snapped his leg up and suddenly his desk was flying towards her. She slid under it, already firing as Vicente jumped for her, stabbing down. They missed each other by a hair, his katana stabbing through the floor, and she whirled to shoot and caught his foot straight in her stomach, driving the wind from her lungs and sending her flying straight through the glass windows behind her.
Confused shouts and shocked screams filled her ears as she flew, but she managed to raise her pistols and keep on firing, adding to the sudden terror enveloping the club. Then she was out of bullets. Well shit–
“Gkh!” And that was her back against the floor, breaking into the tiles below. Shit, alright, ammo was in her jacket-
“Haaaaaah...You lived through that? Good, good, you’ll need that durability.” He cracked his neck, then abruptly tossed down another katana, this one in a simple black sheathe. It landed right on her chest, and she blinked.
“You know how to use that?”
“...Yeah. Had some training,” she replied, glancing up at his smirking face.
“Good, better than I had.” Then he jumped down, cracking the floor as panicked patrons scattered through the club. “Haaaahh…” Smoke billowed from Vicente mouth as he stood, raising an eyebrow as she finished reloading one pistol, standing too. “Really now? I’m offering an honorable duel, and you’re loading a gun?”
“You saying gunfights aren’t honorable?”
He snorted. “Heh...Alright, cute, I can accept that. Draw then. Sword or gun.”
She smirked. “Funny. You’re really discounting me using both?”
“...Heh. Careful now.” He cracked his neck, and settled in a stance, his blade held straight. “The bold die young.”
“And the craven die old.” She slipped the gun in her jacket, and pulled the sheathe free, setting it on the counter.
The music was still bumping when they charged each other. He had a blatant advantage of experience and definite skill, but damn if Nimia didn’t hold her own. Still, he was pushing her back as she weaved and thrust and deflected until she ducked a hard cut that shattered an entire row of drinks and pulled a pistol from her jacket with her right hand when his foot caught her in the chin. She went back, raising the handgun, and his swing back cut the barrel straight off.
She spun, using her hands to push herself onto the counter and he followed, swinging in a dance of singing steel, clashing in sharp rings. She backed and backed and kicked a bottle up towards him and he sliced through it in a spray of alcohol. She took the chance and stabbed forward but he moved and suddenly tossed more bottles, cutting through them all.
A spray of alcohols filled the air and she stumbled back before just barely dodging the shot from the derringer in his sleeve. He laughed, loud and happy as she backed, slipped, fell and he immediately thrust right as she did the same, catching her in the right shoulder in a burst of sparks as she caught him deep in the gut in a burst of blood.
“GAKGH!” He coughed, then started coughing louder and longer, wracking hacks as she held the blade piercing his abs, smirking up at him. “F-Fuuuuuck, that’s a bad pain...Ha ha ha! Ahhh, cocky of me, very cocky, a damn stupid mistake…”
“Fortune favors, but life hates, Mister Bold,” she replied with a cheeky grin.
“HA! Ha, ah, what a good wisdom you have...Damn, a cyborg arm…” He chuckled. “I didn’t even manage to draw blood...what a waste of good booze…” He chuckled again, blood leaking from his mouth. “Ah, and men, of course...well, whatever. I never really cared for people, you know?”
“I could tell.”
“Heh...I have killed many people in my long career...Miss Altamirano...four hundred and seventy-three...seventy-five, counting the men I’ve slain today...Many were targets. Most were not. When I reached this point, you see, I lost that drive for wealth...What need did I have, when I was all but immortal? I did as I did...for the love of killing. And yet...I did not even reach half of the first…” He licked his lips. “...And yet, there are those above me who have slain less...it...it works funny like that, Miss...you work, and work, but not all deaths are equal…”
“Yours was a good one.”
“Was it…? Kind of you...to say so...Never wanted to go slow though…”
“Good thing I’ve got you then.” She smirked, and pulled her second pistol, the one she actually loaded.
“...Ha...Ha ha ha...Clever, while I was careless...T-Take…Take her...my blade...She still sings for blood...and will, until her own death...in battle…” Vicente Kanashiro de Magaelhães laughed one more time, blood spilling from his mouth and down his chest, soaking the counter and his killer. “Ahh...Querida, meu amor…”
And then Nimia shot the 47th ranked straight through his head, blasting his brains out and sending him crumpling back onto the counter.
48 -> 47
She sat up as her new number burned on her neck and got off the bar, glancing over the loaned blade. “Hm...thanks for your help, but I have a last request to fulfill. Let your own legend start with who takes you next.” And then she drove the loaner blade straight through the Vicente’s chest and deep into the bar. She took the bartender’s abandoned cleaning cloth, and wiped the blood from Querida, once the blade was freed from her sparking shoulder.
Vicente’s darling wasn’t in a fancy sheathe when Nimia left the club, but, really, the black suited her far better. She needed time to mourn, after all.