A/N: GAH! Parts of this story are written under the influence of writer’s block, so bear with it a little.

Intro/Epilogue

January Eighteen, 2029

“Tell me more about bullfighting.”

Nero stared at the clear surface of the vodka, contained within the small glass. The conversation had been long, and the tavern was near closing time. It had been almost ten years, if he could remember, sitting in his favorite bar stool drinking while talking to a familiar face: the bartender.

He emptied the contents of the glass before he spoke, “In the final stage, tercio de muerte, the matador would re-enter the ring alone with his muleta, using it to attract the bull into a series of passes. That demonstrates the matador’s control over the bull as well as his bravery in risking his life.”

“He’d kill the bull after the demonstration, then?” the bartender said, cleaning a glass.

“Not quite. In the end the faena, or work, the matador with his muleta shall attempt to maneuver the bull into a position where he could stab it. It has to hit the aorta or heart, then, for an instant kill. Otherwise the matador would prolong the suffering of the bull causing dissatisfaction from the crowd, if he fails.”

“That’s pretty interesting.” Without being asked the bartender filled Nero’s glass again.

“Hemingway mentioned bullfighting in Fiesta, but it’s much more interesting to look at it closely, though…”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I find it funny that people, those aficionados of bullfighting consider the murder in the sport glorious.”

There was a sound, something like a surprised snort that came from the bartender. “That’s something to hear, coming from a guy like you.”

“Bullfighters and assassins view death differently.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, lasting for minutes. Nero was staring at his now empty glass while the bartender continued washing used glasses.

Finally, the bartender spoke again: “I’ve said too much. Sorry about that.”

“I’m not offended at all.” Nero pushed his empty glass slightly toward the direction of the bartender, indicating the desire for another drink.

“Honestly though, it’s been a long time since you’ve visited here. How many years has it been?”

“Eight years.”

“Eight years, eh?” the bartender repeated. “I guess that’s enough time for people to change, even you.”

The bartender, looking at Nero took notes about several changes. There was the eye patch covering the left arm, not to mention the space where an arm should have been on the same side. Nero was already twenty-seven, while the bartender was near forty. He felt old, and was sure Nero felt the same way. Somehow.

“It does feel nostalgic.” Nero said after being given his re-filled glass.

“Remember Alice?” The bartender said, smirking a little.

“Her? What about her?” If only for a split second, maybe less, Nero stopped in between drinking the vodka before continuing without skipping a beat.

“I’ve been wondering about what happened to her; leaving here weeks after you disappeared.”

Nero placed the glass on the bar counter, eyes closed. “I wouldn’t know. It was only a one night stand anyway.”

“Living with her for three months ain’t a one night stand, buddy.” The voice of the bartender was much more cheerful now, if not somewhat drunk even without taking any drinks at the moment.

“I’m talking about the relationship; nothing else happened between us after the fling.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn something was big between the two of you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Nero said, “Another glass, by the way.”

“You two would share drinks whenever you drop by here years ago.” The bartender said while looking at the clear bottom of Nero’s glass, before filling it with more vodka.

“Everybody shares drinks, these days. Besides: I’m cheap.”

For the first time since entering the bar for a drink, Nero smiled, albeit slightly drunk.

“Not in the same glass.”

And it was silent again, for a second. From the pocket of Nero’s jacket came the high-pitched ring of a mobile phone bringing messages. Nero took out the phone and began to read the message.

Nero stood up, smiling “I think I’m drunk—which would be bad considering my current job at the moment.”

“You’re leaving?” The bartender asked, watching Nero walk toward the tavern’s exit.

“Yes. Maybe I’d return, maybe I won’t. Life’s a lot like Russian roulette sometimes—or bullfighting. There’s always a chance that the bull would be goring you instead of the matadors.”

At the exit Nero turned around to face the bartender one last time before he left, smiling the same way he had done over many years. The bartender was smiling too.

“Then, I guess it’s farewell again. Goodbye, Nero.”

“I prefer au revoir.” Nero said as he made his exit.

.:… … …:.

Axis Theater

-Bullets, Mass Murder, Flowers and Noir-

Reel 1

That Crazy Bitch

.:… … …:.

:December Six, Twenty-Twenty-Two:

Gravity: What goes up must come down, as it was always true in earth. In Babel City, what fell off from the rooftops of tall buildings always fell straight down, like all other cities.

Paul Enko, homicide detective of Babel City Precinct One, scowled at the sight of another dead body. He was thirty-three, had always looked his age adding the factors of smoking and walking through hell with a gun and the book of law. Large, dark-skinned; he was built like a brick wall with the figure of a gorilla. He was without a doubt, an imposing presence to everyone—even more so wearing his black trench coat, with the holster of his gun clearly visible for all to see.

He made the magnum look like a puny derringer in his hands.

“Damn it,” he grumbled to himself, and then to the other officers: “What do we have here other than the exceedingly obvious?”

“Pushed off the window, sir— sixth floor.” one officer near the body said. It was a gruesome sight, which, as pointed out by eyewitnesses; the body of the victim fell head first. Worse: a crowd of spectators had begun to form, surrounding the crime scene with stares and poorly hidden whispers.

Even in a simple crime scene, the police officers of Babel were in full battle gear. They wore bullet-proof vests and riot helmets, while brandishing metal rods for self defense and a variety of guns for apprehension. The group, Paul Enko included, stood in contrast to the colorful crowd, wearing things that was mostly black or at least made for urban camouflage.

The crowd was made up off a variety of pimps, dressed like colorful peacocks in shades of purple and red, while the prostitutes, though colorful to a lesser extent, had compensated by revealing much more skin. The drug addicts, and possibly the average citizen stood out less with their much plainer clothes, though some would vary from cultural diversity.

It was Cider Street, after all. Notorious for its crime and violence; it was the symbolic background of the battle between the police and the criminal organizations.

Luke Morales was the long time partner of Paul Enko and was generally considered to be the brains of the duo. He was smaller, much leaner that his partner, not to mention the lighter skin tone; along with a face that could only be described as a rather handsome boxer who rarely got hit in the face. He was in fact suited for boxing, but he was too cunning for a job involving fists. And for ten-plus years, was the one of the top men in Babel’s police force.

Always relaxed, it was Luke’s description and calling card, looking at the dead body with sleepy eyes.

“Not a bad start for a night,” he said to himself, and to the Paul who stood by his side: “Though it seems like our little victim out here seems to be the result of a little spat.”

Paul, not looking surprised was still scowling, “How should you know?”

Luke took out a pack of cigarettes from his trench coat, lighting one for a quick smoke, “Asked the folks inside; said the two rented a room for one night. Two hours later some people hear the windows crash which leads us to our little canvas of blood and brain goo.”

The large detective kept quiet, waiting for Luke to continue with his own observation.

“I’d doubt the couple thing, though. Establishments like this building are hot spots for whores looking for quick cash. They’d fuck the customer for less than an hour and come out fifty bucks richer.”

“You said the victim was pushed off two hours after renting a room.” Paul replied.

“Forgot about that,” Luke said with a lazy grin. “Also forgot to tell you the girl who came with the victim could only be described as… hot with big breasts.”

“And that makes her a prostitute?”

“Whatever. The only theory we have at the moment is some hooker with big tits pushed some unknown guy off a window. Pretty simple, eh?”

And then, there was the moment which made the inner world of a human being turn.

“Holy shit.” The officer next to the body had said, as he knelt on one knee to pick up an item of dangerous meaning. It shone like a combination of brass and gold in places where the blood and dirt could not reach. It was, in complete accuracy, the badge of a police officer.

“Listen up!” Paul commanded the officers in a voice very much in the levels of animal fury; a growl that had sent many unarmed men running over the years. “All of you report back to headquarters, confirm if the body’s one of our own—now!”

The fire in his eyes was a blaze of fury; and it sent one simple message to the crowd around him: move.

And so the crowd did, like the red sea and a biblical event put together.

“What do we do now?” Luke asked without much interest in the situation, calm-headed as he always was.

“Visit a few punks,” Paul said, the growl in his voice subsiding. “Send a message.”

..:Ø:..

“Your initiation is a success, Alice.”

He was the Ninja. What he wore was not necessarily black, but more of a combination of dark colors suited to make one blend to the background of, say, a dark alley. The skin, in the areas not covered by the uniform, was coated in charcoal. Even the eyes were hidden, through dark goggles and something that could be bandages or duct tape.

And she was Alice, the new assassin.

“I have to say,” the Ninja said in a lazy voice, “Making sure the condom remain was a nice touch.”

She, Alice, stared at the starless night sky. The sight was beautiful, compared to the trash and graffiti of their current surroundings. Not to mention peaceful; the streets of Babel city, despite the peace brought by the police, were never asleep.

“I need a drink.” Alice said curtly, the memory of the kill still fresh in her mind.

The Ninja had disappeared, just like that. From where he stood was a small disk—green, and shiny.

His voice was whispering commands into her ear: “This is your new mission… Iron Maiden.”

..:Ø:..

“Looks like it’s true,” Luke said as he put the radio down. “Officer Alex Tanner, Babel Police Precinct One—he’s the dead guy.”

The black Cadillac kept accelerating through the city streets, avoiding incoming traffic despite its speed. Only identifiable as police property with the words Babel PD in white bold letters painted in the sides, detectives Paul Enko and Luke Morales inside.

“We should send flowers for the funeral.”

Paul grunted. He and Luke had been partners and something resembling friends despite a severe clash in personality. It was due to two striking similarities: animal ferocity and human cunning. Also, there was no ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine.

It was more like to bad cops trying to outdo each other.

Ten minutes driving through light traffic and dark streets was all it took for Paul to reach his destination. The other side of Babel City, the area past the borders of Cider Street: Crime Town.

The car had stopped at the entrance of Crime Town, the two detectives exiting their car instantly.

“Should we take some backup?” Luke asked as he surveyed the array of older buildings and, not mentioning, the denizens. They were everywhere: the homeless, the addicts, the thieves and whores; all staring at the duo of officers.

Paul stared back; which was more than enough against all the others.

“No,” he grunted, “We only need a few minutes.”

Paul walked first, followed by Luke, going toward a nearby building. It was an out-of-business convenience store, though it was far from abandoned. Entering inside was like a step into another world; smelling like booze, drugs, sweat and semen.

From the faint lighting came the figure of a slightly middle-aged man, dressed in full pimp colors, trying to identify the two intruders.

“Who the fuck are you two?” Paul smiled inside, he recognized that voice: White trash, trying to be black, and smelling faintly of cocaine and bravado; the type of thug to resist arrest to act tough.

And he was high. It made it better for Paul who stood like a statue in the entrance.

“Me?” Paul said rather sarcastically, “I’m Dirty Harry.”

The pimp stood close enough to study the officer, only to sneer. “No black ass cop ain’t no Dirty Harry!”

“You’re in big trouble, kid.” Paul said, “Seems like you and your ass-peddling friends caught some trouble with us. Hopefully, you’d come with me for some questioning.”

“Fuck you, asshole.” By then it was noticeable that the pimp held one machete, which shone brightly like a weapon forged by gods. He was armed, and Paul knew what he had to do.

One hand went for his gun.

…and the pimp ran toward the detective, machete held overhead with both hands. It was an extreme misconception to believe that Paul, looking slightly overweight, was slow. The majority of his bulk was like hard muscle, and his legs moved with unusual agility that, in a second, he was standing behind the pimp with one large hand holding the hands which held the machete.

With one squeeze, bones were broken. The pimp screamed in pain as he felt his grip on his weapon disappear. Paul took hold of the machete with one hand and stuck back; the blow very much like a picture from a samurai story.

The machete was very sharp. The blade had passed through bone easily, creating a small fountain of blood as the arm had fully separated from the body.

Several others came from the store’s shadow to defend their friend, only to stop at the sight of Luke’s weapon, which was a simple nine millimeter with a silencer attached. He smiled at the group of stunned opponents.

“Listen up!” Paul said loudly to everyone in sight, “I want each and every one of you pricks to spread word that the city’s in lockdown! Anybody who gets caught selling drugs or ass in the street gets shot until somebody confesses to the murder of Officer Alex Tanner, got that?”

Luke grabbed one leg of the pimp’s body, alive and still bleeding through the massive wound, dragging the pimp outside. All that was left inside was Paul; as the people he warned made a hasty retreat through the shadows. It was only a matter of time until the message was spread.

It was the beginning of Babel City’s lockdown; though the world turned, just like any other day.

c h a p t e r/ one /e n d

Next Chapter: Cat and Mouse

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:..--..:

Reel Preview

Gladiators of the Atomic Age

“This is your new home. For the next ten months you delinquents will train, grow, and evolve surrounded by the wasteland around you. In the free time between practice you can rest, you can read, you can fuck anything that would give you proper consent. Or you masturbate; but you will never, ever, consider an attempt to take away the life of your fellow brothers until the final test. Is that clear?”

“Welcome to Deep Anal, kids.”

A/N: GAH! Parts of this story are written under the influence of writer’s block, so bear with it a little. I’m actually kinda disappointed in how it turned out a little; which means after a few more chapters posted I’ll get down to re-editing this (nothing major; so it won’t conflict with storyline/s). On the bright side, my writer’s block would disappear after posting this and letting it off my mind. Aaaand, expect later chapters to be much longer, kay?