Neon Mire
Deep night. Unlike the dark sky above, the city's streets blazed with raucous lights.
Red, blue, green, and every garish hue imaginable flashed in chaotic frenzy, silently screaming to be seen. But the cars and pedestrians streaming past paid no heed to their desperate glow. The brilliant neon signs seemed little more than a hazy backdrop flickering in the corners of their everyday lives.
Towering holographic ads glided silently overhead, while below stretched cold gray walls. Rusted railings clutched decrepit outdoor units; tattered awnings fluttered amid blinking neon strips. Damp asphalt gleamed under soggy, shredded flyers and newspapers. Shabby street stalls steamed with greasy vapors. Sour, humid stench hung in the air. Cars crawled lazily down the road, their blacked-out windows reflecting nothing.
And amid that filthy street sloshed a throng of people.
Big-eared elves, stocky dwarves, rain-soaked lycans looking bedraggled from the recent shower, orcs fiddling with protruding tusks. Even a goblin, curled in an alley corner—drugged out or something—shuddering and hacking fits.
Countless other races, crawling from who-knows-where. Yet humans outnumbered them all, swarming the scene with cold indifference to their fellow passersby.
Roque leaned on a street vendor's stall, arms folded, staring blankly at the spectacle. Just a fleeting slice of urban life, yet it pulled him into a cold, bottomless black mire.
Someone tapped his arm. He turned to see the vendor thrusting out a hotdog piled with cheese and condiments—the one he'd ordered.
Roque snatched it, took a big bite, smacking his lips.
His face twisted. The torch-grilled cheese scorched his gut while the bottom stayed half-melted; the bun was tough as leather. Worst of all, the sausage reeked—artificial meat or melted plastic, some vile mystery.
"Tastes like shit."
The vendor eyed him sourly.
"No refunds. You already took a bite."
Roque chucked the rest into a nearby trash bin and spat out what was in his mouth. He dusted his hands, shot the vendor a glare, then turned away. He'd only wanted a quick snack to tide him over, but now his appetite was ruined.
His steps halted before a car parked on the roadside. An angular, vintage muscle car with a boxy hood. A '77 Black Knight. His ride.
Roque yanked open the door with a creak and slid into the seat. A musty funk wafted in—maybe from the open door, or seeped in while parked. It smelled like evaporating filthy puddle water off the asphalt.
He snorted, jammed in the key, and turned it. The engine growled to life with a heavy rumble. He cranked the radio volume and stomped the accelerator.
"Smells like shit."
As if agreeing, gritty orc ballads blasted from the speakers. Fanged bards wailed of dead gods, burning skies, and naked valkyries weaving inscrutable ancient magics across those heavens.
His Black Knight sliced through the wet road, streetlights gleaming off its sleek hood.
The city's outskirts. Where even the garish neon faded to a dim fringe. The Black Knight glided slowly down the murky road, halting before a construction site.
Roque killed the engine, popped the door.
He stepped out with a rustle, glanced around. The gloomy site sprawled: piles of rusted rebar on the ground, gaping concrete voids half-hidden by flimsy tarps. It screamed abandoned for years.
Roque smirked faintly.
"Nice vibe."
He slammed the door hard enough to echo, then strode toward the site. His hand swept aside a ragged tarp without hesitation, ready to plunge in.
But a black gun barrel thrust out, freezing him.
"Don't move."
Roque didn't. The gunman faltered at his utter stillness.
"Uh, who... who the hell are you?"
"Who're you?"
The wielder was a skinny blond elf. He chewed his lip at Roque's flat stare, lips barely moving. Despite holding the gun, the real ice came from Roque.
"Ah, fuck! I asked first!"
The elf shook the barrel wildly, pissed. Roque didn't blink, just murmured:
"Guy with a meet-up with Kemal."
"What? With the boss? Then... you're Roque?"
"Yeah."
The skinny elf muttered curses, spat aside, lowered the gun.
"Fuck, should've said so sooner. No need to point it then... makin' me jumpy."
Street-rat style, ignoring his own overreaction, he holstered his pistol and spread his arms mockingly.
"Arms out. No weapons inside."
Roque complied. The elf patted him down, pulled a revolver from his side. An antique, straight out of the old American West.
"What the? Who carries this relic these days..."
He grumbled, finished the frisk. No other guns, but a weird stick hooked to his belt—palm-sized, a bit longer.
"What's this?"
"My sword."
The elf snorted.
"What the fu—"
To him, it was just a hand-friendly wooden rod. But wary of a hidden blade, he confiscated it with the revolver.
"Follow me."
Unarmed, Roque trailed the elf deeper into the site. Past jagged, unfinished concrete pillars, they reached a tarp hung as a door. The elf glanced back, swept it aside, jerked his chin inside.
Beyond: a vast, open-ceilinged space. Scaffolding everywhere, rebar scattered—work halted mid-job here.
Center: a drum barrel flickering with fire. One man warming himself. Nine shadows half-buried in darkness beyond the firelight, silhouettes bristling with heavy arms.
The fire-basker lit up at Roque's entrance. Chunky sunglasses in this gloom.
"Oh! Roque! Right on time. So I can assume you've brought the goods?"
Roque trudged over, fished a small disk from his jacket pocket.
The man grinned wolfishly at it. Red pupils gleamed behind dark lenses—his electronic eyes scanning the data.
But with a click, the disk vanished from Roque's hand like a trick. He halted, raised his index finger at the sunglassed man. The face stiffened.
"...What’s that mean?"
"Pay up."
Red eyes locked on Roque's black ones.
The sunglassed man smirked after a glare.
"Pay up? Talk to the middleman."
Roque shook his head slowly.
"He says he hasn't been paid."
"Ah, you checked already."
He stepped back. A shadow at the fire's edge racked a round—chunk.
Roque's brow twitched.
"What’s that mean?"
"No payout for you."
Roque lowered his finger slowly.
"Ditching city cred over some cryo-factory server data?"
The man licked his teeth, amused.
"Some cryo-factory? Ha, if you knew what’s underground there—"
"Romanos's drug lab. But this city's crawling with ten more of that Soviet psycho's spots. Raid one, and in 24 hours you'll be dodging rabid Siberian bears in a shootout."
The man's grin faltered. Roque stared stone-faced, continued.
"Corp guy, huh. Not Isumi. X-Techno?"
"...Heh, sharp merc. Take a guess."
Roque's lip curled.
"Just a subcontractor."
The smile vanished. "Subcontractor" hit a nerve—red eyes blazed behind lenses, glaring. Roque's faint smirk held.
"Figure it's adding up. HQ keeps you in the dark, just 'do this, do that.' Cash hits your palm, greed kicks in. Shoot a few rounds, swallow the prize. Pathetic plan from pathetic players."
The man's face went blank, pale synthetic skin emotionless. But his eyes gleamed manic.
That red glow flicked behind Roque. The blond elf nodded subtly. The man’s lips split in a sick grin.
"Ha. Insightful merc. But knowing changes what? Unarmed?"
Roque’s smirk faded.
"You frisked me already."
"Damn right. Think I shelled out for these peepers for fun?"
He chuckled, backed up. Shadows emerged—shotgun-toting elf and human thugs. Barrels trained on Roque.
"First time I saw you, thought my eyes glitched. No implants? Not even an old fart of eighty—they'd chrome head to toe."
Chuckling, he shook his head.
"Great insight, but shitty survival, merc. In Midland, disarmed you're a whore strolling thug central. Every hole plugged, guts and skull looted—left a hollow shell."
He smacked his lips. Roque's pure flesh—no implants, not even a net socket—could fetch top dollar preserved. A natural body was near-mythic here.
But Roque, who should fear those sights, scratched his brow casually with a thumb, bored.
The man paused, thrown. Why so chill? Given up? Hidden implants? Nah, these 20k eyes would've caught it.
Short deliberation: bluff. He drew his pistol, aimed, sneered.
"Hey, merc. Get the picture?"
Roque lowered his scratching hand.
"Yeah. Better than you."
The man's smile froze, meeting Roque's abyss-black eyes. A chill thought struck.
After millennia of races battling supremacy, this equalizer: a gutter goblin dying on dope could shred elf or dwarf with a trigger pull. Bullets ended dragons' era. Implants head-to-toe? Still suicide against lead.
Yet there stood a pure human, unafraid.
Roque's right hand shot back, eyes locked.
"Shit! What the—!"
The distant blond elf yelped. Roque's confiscated rod flew magnet-like to his hand.
Next instant, gray flash erupted from concrete shadows—a blade of light from the rod.
Sunglasses man screamed.
"Fire—!"
The scene devolved into a strobe-hell nightclub.
Triggers yanked in panic, ten barrels unleashed. Sparse bullet tracers webbed the air; gray light cleaved darkness. Shrieks blended with gunfire symphony.
Stray muzzles gouged yellowed concrete pillars deep. Ricochets flew wild. Soon, friend-or-foe meant nothing.
The fireworks died quick. Triggers pulled no more—bodies in six chunks littered the floor.
Quiet returned. Or not quite—the living's breaths now faint sizzling meat.
Roque wrinkled his nose at the char.
The sunglassed man muttered hoarsely.
"...Fuck... Aura... Mas... why..."
"What?"
Propped on a pillar, gurgling. Right arm gone at shoulder, legs mid-thigh. Pieces rolled amid corpses. Sunglasses lost; no longer "sunglassed."
His electronic eyes spasmed wildly—pain overload.
Roque eyed them.
"Fancy eyes."
The man hacked a laugh.
"Crazy... fuck... Aura Master... slumming as merc...?"
"So? Wiping corp assholes or assassinating opposition for shithead gov—same gig."
Head lolling, the man cackled.
"True... fuck... yeah..."
Roque stared, flicked his right hand. Irremovable slash carved the pillar. Faint char-smell; head thumped, rolled.
The gray blade retracted to rod-size. Or rather, dormant in Roque.
Dusting his jacket, Roque turned from the street mage and nine gunslingers. Faced the blond elf, trembling, madly trigger-pulling at distance.
"...What're you doing?"
"F-fuck... fuck..."
Far back and using Roque's revolver—not auto—saved him. It needed manual hammer cocking; endless dry pulls did nothing. Half-mad, oblivious.
Roque sighed, snatched the revolver. Elf froze, quaking.
Bang—no warning.
"A-aaah!"
Elf collapsed, pants darkening in the gloom. Hands patted frantically—thought hit.
No wound.
"Wha... huh...?"
Roque met the dumbstruck gaze.
"Scram."
"...Huh?"
Roque cocked the hammer, aimed at empty site. Muzzle flash. Elf bolted—stumbling scramble. Roque holstered as the elf flailed away.
Elf vanished; Roque strode out. Concrete, rebar, scaffolding, trash—now bade him farewell.
Back at his steed roadside. Door thunked shut; sigh escaped. Staring ahead blankly, he raised his right hand. Flicked fingers card-trick style; disk slipped from sleeve to grasp.
"...Wasted effort."
He tossed it to the passenger seat, turned the key. Engine snarled. The Black Knight roared to life.
This time, toward the chaotic neon sea.