[00] Now Entering Kill Town...

[Kazuya]

Continued from here

He was right. Her face slackened as she drunk in his words, its wisdom. Good and evil wasn’t as cut and dry as the majority of the world was led to believe. Perhaps she had been duped, she was made to believe that Chung and his people were the victims, when it could very well be possible that it was the other way around. Perhaps he saw in her a way to rid himself of his enemy. She was being used, but with this new realization, no longer. She was nobody’s tool.

“Fine,” she replied. “You’re right, Gabriel. I was being used. Show me that Chung was wrong, and I will leave in peace, or I will help you in meting out whatever punishment you feel is necessary for him and his people.”

“Just him.” Gabriel corrected, rising from the couch and approaching the Halfling female. “I shouldn’t punish a people who are simply just as innocent as mine are. They are at his mercy for everything, and shouldn’t be killed for the stupidity of their leader.”

“He seemed so sincere;” she sighed, her eyes wavering as she began to understand what this meant. “I trusted him, just a little bit. I haven’t trusted anybody in a very long time.”

“I’ve known Chung for many years, Kazuya. Trust is the last thing you want to give him.”

“I want to hear your side of all this,” Kaz demanded suddenly. “Before I pass judgment, I want to know everything.”

“In the morning, we’ll discuss it over breakfast;” he replied. Gabriel flashed her a terse smile, and walked off into the ominous dark room she’d been wary of when she first arrived. A light came on, suddenly illuminating it, and what she could see was far from dark and scary. Curiosity piqued, she slowly moved towards the room.

“Why not tonight?” Kaz asked him as she entered the small, brightly lit space. There was a bed against one wall, big enough for one person, maybe two, depending on their size and how comfortable they were sleeping nearly on top of one another. The only other piece of furniture besides the bed that was in there was a little chest of drawers and a lamp. Simple, yet inviting.

“Because it’s been a long day for both of us;” he replied. “This will be your room until we decide what will happen next. It’s protected by wards, stronger ones than what protect the village. The walls are outfitted with Kachin, a very special metal that will keep things in, or keep them out. This is for your own safety, as well as those of my people. When I am able to place trust in you, the locks and wards will be removed. Until then, they stay in place. Do you want something else to sleep in tonight?”

Ignoring how he had so seamlessly went from one thing to another, she looked down at her garb, and nodded. “My kimono has definitely seen better days.”

“Looks like you haven’t washed it in…ever.”

She shot him a glare as he opened the top drawer of the small dresser and pulled out a crisp, white shirt and a pair of striped black and charcoal grey boxers, and laid them on the edge of the bed. “That door over there leads to the guest bathroom, it has a small shower in it, but you should have no problem being able to wash up in there.” He cracked another smirk. “Unlike myself, or most of my other guests, who can barely even get into it.”


“Lucky me,” she sighed. “Well, thanks for everything, Gabe. Guess this is where we say goodnight.”


He nodded, and headed off towards the door. “We’ll have that talk in the morning, I promise.” Before the door closed behind him, he leaned in, and said, “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had to lock a woman in this room, and I am hoping this doesn’t become habit.”

She stared at him wordlessly for several moments before he closed the door. She heard the locks bolt shut, and something within in her moved. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

An hour later, she was washed and changed, and laying beneath the soft blankets of the small bed. The darkness closed around her like a tight fist, made even tighter with the lack of windows. Although the bed and the room was by far the most luxurious she’d ever slept in, she still felt like it was only a glorified prison cell. Just brought the whole experience down a few pegs.

Sleep crept over her, and reluctantly, she surrendered. She never noticed the locks unhinge, nor did she feel the cold stiffness of metal as they slid beneath her, lifting her from the bed and through the door. Just like that, her escape was made, and she didn’t even know it had happened.

[Alexander Trafford]

From a booth in the rear of the diner, Alexander watched the usual suspects filter in and out of the small coffee shop. It was the same mom-and-pop venue that he had taken Alice to on their first date; a local, out-of-the-way dive hidden behind the fast-paced backdrop of midtown. All the yuppie university students in their collared shirts and sweater vests slipped in between their classes and bumped elbows with the artsy youth, who were always dressed in their faux-poverty, ‘bohemian-bourgeois’ style that generally consisted of loose sweaters or flowing sundresses, ugly boots and unnecessarily large sunglasses.

He stirred his ‘venti’ mocha-latte with the small wooden instrument that the cashier had so graciously given him and stared at the swirling tanned fluid. A silent sigh escaped his lips.

“She’s really gone,” he whispered. He’d just returned to West City from the forest and the reality of his situation had only now started to sink in; the euphoria that had surrounded their reunion was subsiding. She was gone forever. There would be no more ‘next times.’

Trafford removed a single Marlboro cigarette and slid it into the corner of his mouth. He glanced at the ‘no-smoking’ sign that hung on the far wall of the small restaurant. Shrugging, he winked and lit the end of the white cylinder anyway – ignoring the disapproving glances from the shop’s wait staff. He returned to staring at his ‘mocha-latte,’ which, apart from the wooden instrument, remained untouched.


The world faded into the background. Everything seemed so distant. The shrill voices of the wait staff faking kindness to improve their tip, the clustered chatter of the university students discussing shit that didn’t matter. It all separated itself from reality. Nothing here really mattered; everything was so dull and normal. How could he ever come back to a life such as this after what he had been through?

He shook his head, it was more than that. How could anyone desire this, this concept of normalcy? These students came here with their ‘friends’ to enjoy mediocre coffee and talk about lectures and assignments that everyone hated – and they only do it because they want to fit it, because they think that this is normal. And when everyone falls into that mindset, when everyone settles for conformity, what is left? A generation of zombies studying subjects that they dislike so that they can work miserable jobs and achieve this notion of the ‘normal life’.

Fuck that. The ‘normal life’ was just ambient noise to those who were like him; the people who were different; the men and women who were forced to perform like circus freaks for the entertainment of the ‘normal’ people. Some who were like him even held this misplaced sense of obligation to help this society – as if their curse was a gift for the benefit of civilization (the same humanity that used them for television programs and for enjoyment, mind you).

“Fuck that,” he repeated, this time aloud, before inhaling deeply on his Marlboro cigarette. He kicked the used cancer-stick and dropped it into his latte.

In the background, the tiny bell that rest on the door shook and consequently rang as another patron pushed the open the wooden entranceway. Alexander scarcely heard it, and that was only because the entire shop had gone silent. He could hear whispers escape the customer’s mouths, and briefly wondered if they were referring to him – if they had heard the tail end of his internal contemplations.

As he lifted his head to view the origin of the commotion, he also lifted his mind from his thoughts – allowing himself to be interrupted by reality.

“Target: Alexander Trafford, Objective: suppress and collect.”

And he’d thought that he had seen everything, but this was . . . something new.

The mechanical voice originated from nothing less than a giant, metallic humanoid creature that he could only assume was a robot. The funny thing was, he thought to himself as he chuckled softly, was that the robot looked exactly as how he would have imagined a robot to look. Usually when you encounter something for the first time, like an alien for instance, they look nothing like you’d expect. The Mershikali creatures on Mercy-Sei, for example, they had not looked even remotely similar to the short aliens that are so prevalent in sci-fi movies, with grey skin and huge heads.

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts and move past the bionic appearance of the mechanical humanoid, but after he had he realized that the term ‘collect’ did not exactly sound friendly.

There was never any rest for the wicked, he thought to himself.

Trafford reached inside his suit and gripped the handle of his gold-plated Desert Eagle and removed one of the deadly pair. Simultaneously he reached into his small, leather satchel and removed a clip of .50 calibre bullets and slapped the ammunition into the base of the handgun.

He levelled the weapon at the oncoming machine and wisps of golden power began to slowly pour from the hand-cannon’s thick barrel. It quickly dissipated, however, and another silent sigh escaped the young psychokinetic’s lips.

“Whatever man, just get it over with,” Alex released the cocked hammer and slid the massive handgun back into its holster. His body relaxed and he lit up another cigarette as the robot advanced.

He remembered two more things before he went under. First, the cold steel of the machine’s fist crashing against the side of his jaw that sent him, and his cigarette, sprawling across the tiled floor. Second, he felt a tiny pinprick and, although he didn’t know it at the time, a long needle entered the side of his neck and released fluids into his bloodstream. After that, it was lights out.