The year is 3030 G.S. (Greater Season). Energy sources have been simplified into two categories: Magic and Technology. Magical energy comes from the HEAVEN and Technological energy comes from the EARTH. Magical energy is harnessed by reading and understanding files called Ciphers which are written in numeric codes. While Technological energy comes from man-made, self-powered, cybernetically engineered structures and devices. The two energies are generally used for very different purposes but certain indivduals utilize the energies for violence, which is illegal for anyone not serving World Police Commission (the WPC) or the military. These individuals have been dubbed by the WPC as Delinquents. Recently an underground assassin group of Delinquents called the NMH working for an enigmatic, ubiquitous, mega corporation have been taking out select targets and collecting whatever bones they can from them.

That's good enough I guess. The young recruit thought to himself while closing up his green messenger bag. He figured he had picked up as many bones as he could find from the target's body. Honestly, this job isn't what I'd expected it to be. Not at all.His mind still trying to properly process what he had done. His heart hadn't stopped pounding since he infiltrated the building. A sick mix of excitement, anxiety, and curiosity had overcome him the second his first objective had been transmitted to him. From that point on he'd been living in a new existence. "I have to say though, it was a crap ton easier than I expected it to be," the recruit finally uttered. His first words he had spoken since started the mission. He heard a loud clanking noise from somewhere in the building. He'd been hearing them, on and off, since he got in the building and figured it was nothing.

He looked around himself. What used to be Mr. Chimney's executive office on the top floor had turned into horrid mess of blood and corpses on the top floor. The office was pretty nice for man who managed a paper company. While he was the CEO and it was a very major paper company, the recruit still wondered how, especially in this day and age, a paper company could become so large. It was very spacious with a large mahogany desk and behind it, an exquisite looking lounge chair. The wall behind the desk had two large windows, both of which were splattered with blood now. Opposite of the windows was the entrance to the office, a large elevator built with glass walls. On any other day someone would have been able to see clearly through its walls, but not today. Today the walls were crudely decorated with the blood, flesh, and intestines of the once proud CEO of a paper company.

One, two, three, four... He began to count. ...twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fift... More loud clanking noises had interrupted his counting....fifteen, sixteen, seventeen!The recruit had counted, for the sixth time, seventeen bodies, not including Mr. Chimney. Truth is, when he had finished his preparations to kill his target and decided to end the life of a paper company manager, there were already seventeen bodyguards ready to kill an assassin. Someone had obviously tipped them off before the little rookie could make his move. The rookie figured that they could've done a relatively good job with this kind of jump on him, except for the fact that Mr. Chimney was still in his office when the recruit was there to kill him. So when the recruit had quickly killed off the bodyguards, he learned from Chimney that his plan was to have the bodyguards apprehend his assassin so that he could find out who would want to kill him.

Again loud clanking could be heard. The recruit walked over to the glass elevator doors and stood there, staring at the remains of his target while waiting for his transport. "What a dumbass," the rookie chuckled softly to himself referring to the dead CEO in front of him. The loud clanking had gotten louder and hadn't stopped from the last time he had heard it. Using his hand, the rookie wiped away some of the blood to get a better look inside the elevator. What he saw was a hand bursting through the glass of the elevator and grabbing his shirt collar. Before he could react, the hand pulled inwards and smashed the recruit's head against the elevator door, cracking it slightly.

The hand let go of the recruit as he clumsily stumbled backwards. Gunshots burst through the elevator and shattered its glass doors. Walking out of the elevator was man in black boots, dark blue jeans, a black t-shirt reading "XTORT" with the "R" backwards in large, yellow, capital letters. He had brown hair, brown eyes and pale skin. And two arms, yes he did have two arms and hands. In his left hand, he held an assault rifle. In his right hand he held nothing. His right arm had fragments of glass stuck in them, but it didn't bleed.

"God damn it!" yelled the stranger. "That hurt way more than I thought it would, Jesus Christ," he said looking at his arm which was now decorated with tiny shards of glass. As the recruit regained his balance and came back to his senses, he looked at the man that had smashed his head in. He was curious as to who he was but for him there was no time to ask questions. It was obvious the man wanted to kill him, so there was no choice other than to kill. The recruit began to run towards the man in hopes of catching him off guard. A small whole opened up in his right palm, revealing a small notch as he was running. He made an attempt to palm the man's face but he immediately intercepted the blow with his rifle. A split second later the rifle exploded and the two quickly jumped back from the explosion.

The stranger looked at the shattered pieces of gun and sighed. "Shame. I really liked that gun. Not many left-handed guns out there," he said. The recruit ran towards him again in another attempt to palm his face. The man dodged right and threw a punch to the recruit's gut. As the recruit hunched over, clutching his stomach, the man grabbed the rookie's head and kneed him in the face. The man then threw a right uppercut to the recruit's jaw. The recruit hobbled backwards. Stepping in something wet, he looked down and found himself standing in a pool of blood right in front of one of the windows. He then looked up to find the man aiming a revolver at him. Before the rookie could react, the man shot him in his right shoulder and bicep and he groaned in pain. He started to slowly walk over to the recruit. Frightened, the recruit tried to run away, but he slipped on the blood he was standing on and lost his balance. The man then performed a leg sweep and the recruit fell on his back and into the pool of blood. As he tried to get up the man stepped on the recruit's collar to keep him down.

Outside of the building, the sky was an odd combination of gray and orange. The air was humid, uncomfortable and unsettling. Parked on the side of the street across from the building was a red maxi scooter. On it was a slim girl with red hair and dark tan skin. She was wearing a red tee and black shorts with black thigh-high boots. Her black leather jacket was resting next to her on top of a red bomber jacket on the end of the seat of the maxi scooter. She was playing a number of different riffs on her black bass guitar (a Gibson Thunderbird). She looked up from her playing and noticed the large number of people in the city walking and driving. Everyone was going about with their lives. They all seemed so busy with whatever it was that city people were always on the move doing. Next to the front wheel of the motorcycle was an empty ashtray on a box. Crudely written on the box in black marker were the words "Money not Butts please." She was originally going to write "Coins" instead of "Money" so as not to sound petty but realized that people might cheap out and give her their $$1 coins as opposed to any amount of money she could actually use. Looking back at the empty ashtray she realized her mistake. She assumed people would be kind enough to give her money in the first place. Most money these days were wired to people through online accounts and the such. Actual, physical money became rarer and everyone felt that it was soon going to be discontinued and that no one would have to use it anymore. However this didn't mean that people didn't still have their physical money. People always held on to as much money as they could. She looked up at the large paper company building. Jesus, Mod, hurry the hell up. It sucks out here.She thought to herself. She went back to playing her bass and as she was playing a man walked by, dumping something in her ashtray. Excited, she looked over at it only to find the filter of a cigarette, still smoking. "Read the sign you guzzler! Money only!" she yelled as he walked on by paying no attention to her. "Tch. Stooge," she muttered as she emptied the ashtray and went back to her guitar.

Back in the building, the man, with his foot on the rookie's collar bone, pointed his revolver at the recruit's face. The recruit didn't bother to struggle. He looked at his right arm as he mentally ordered his arm to begin the reparation process. Not being able to do much else, he decided not to struggle. Sensing the recruit's submission, the man smirked at him and he began to take a second look around the room. He had noticed the bodies earlier but as he studied the room properly he was finally able to see the real extent of what happened. Every body had either a blown up head or heart. Some limbs had been blown off too. The room was filled with violently exploded bodies. The man sighed, "I have to say kid, you were a lot easier to take down than some of the others. Which is terrible you know, because that means all these tough looking guys that are stinking up this room right now were killed by some scrub who can barely fight. I mean, I understand the whole 'Oh my hand can make stuff explode' or whatever, but really, you were not that hard to take down. Shame. A real shame," the man said with closed eyes while shaking his head. "However, that's not what's important right now," he finished, looking back at the recruit.

"How the piss did you get up here? I deactivated the elevator!" the recruit yelled, obviously bothered by his botched first mission. The man looked at the kid gave the kid a confused look. How the piss? Really? Did he really just say that?"I climbed the elevator shaft," the man replied.

"What? You climbed the entire elevator shaft?" the recruit asked, puzzled.

"Well yeah," the man responded.

" 'Well yeah?' What do you mean 'well yeah?' We're on the top floor!" the recruit exclaimed. The feat didn't seem possible to him.

"Shut up kid," the man said while waving his revolver in the rookie's face. "I'm supposed to be asking you the questions. What's with these people you guys kill? How do you choose your targets?" he asked. The recruit sighed. "I can't te-"

"No. You can tell me," the man interrupted. "You're just being a punk about it and not telling me. Trust me, I know. You guys always do this. Now I'm going to ask you again. How does the NMH decide their targets?" The recruit began to shake his head. "I really don't know man. We Egos just get our targets from higher-ups."

"Egos? You mean the bone collectors?" the man asked.

"I guess. If that's what you want to call us," the rookie replied. The man sighed to take a moment and think about what he had just learned. Damn. So the bone collectors don't actually pick the targets. the man thought to himself. He lowered his gun but did not step off of the assassin just yet. The recruit looked as his right arm. A message transmitting from the central computer in his brain was received from his right arm. The repairs were about 45% complete. Good enough for me.Not being able to continue repairs and use his arm, he ordered his arm to put the repairs on hold. The rookie then grabbed the man's foot and pushed the man off of him. Taken by surprise, the man wasn't able to react in time and fell in the blood pool that recruit had just been in. The recruit sat on the man's chest with both of his knees on both of the man's arms. "Who's easy to take down now?" the recruit said while placing his right hand on the man's neck. "I've always wondered what it'd be like to see someone's neck explode. Every time I imagine it, the head always goes flying and a fountain of blood sprays from the body. I hope this looks exactly like that," the recruit said slowly as he activated his arm.

Meanwhile outside of the building (again), the bassist's luck had not changed. Several people had passed by, dropping cigarette butts into the ashtray. The first couple times, she thought that people were just ignorant but after a while she began to think that people knew that she wanted money but were trolling her by dropping their finished cigarettes. The only actual donation she had gotten was a FunkStylee bottle cap given to her by some senile old man. FunkStylee bottle caps always had quotes in them from movies that no one had ever seen or even heard of. The one she was given read "The first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club." What the hell does that even mean? she thought as she read it. While trying to change the tuning on her bass she noticed a big white van roll up to the paper company building. Damn. They're here.

Back inside the building, the rookie was readying his arm to blow up the stranger's neck. "I really don't even care about who you are or how you know about NMH. I can infer that you're one of those bastards that's been hunting us down. Well I have a couple words for you, piss-head. We-" The rookie was interrupted by call to the central computer to his brain. "Hold on for a second," the recruit told the man. The man tried to think of a way he could get up from the recruit's pin but the only thing that kept coming to his head "What the hell is a piss-head?" The recruit answered the call in his head. "Hello?" he started.

"If you've finished then hurry up and get out of there. Now!" the voice on the phone responded.

"I'll be right down," he finished, looking back at his new victim. "Sorry but I've got to hurry this up." As the recruit activated the explosive notch in his palm, his shoulder and right bicep exploded, setting his torso ablaze. He began to scream and cry in agony as he backed off of the man's body. The recruit was flailing and yelling and the man didn't waste a second on his new opportunity to finish his job. He rushed towards the rookie, grabbed his face and threw him out of one of the windows. The recruit, still screaming and flailing, landed on the big van that had just parked in front of the building. A moment later, the man got a call to the central computer in his brain.

"Yo," he answered.

"You threw him out of the window?" the voice on the phone asked.

"Yeah, so?"

"So his transport just got here and the poor bastard landed on their van"

He looked out of the window and sure enough he found the recruit, severely burned and missing an arm, lying on top of a van. "That's pretty funny," he chuckled.

"Sure it is Mod, now hurry up and get out of there. I feel all sketched out being right across the street from them. Plus, this part of the city blows," she told him.

"Okay. Are you ready to go?" he asked her.

"Yeah, I got ready as soon as I saw those goons drive over here."

"Alright, I'll radio the Fat Man over here," he finished as he hung up. He looked outside and spotted the bassist girl on his red maxi scooter. He started up Program:FatMan with his central computer system and he warched as the bike approached his location. He jumped out of the broken building window and on to the maxi scooter. The bassist looked at his right arm which was still covered in glass shards. "Wow. That must've been some fight. Your arm is straight up filled with glass and the assassin you threw out of the window was on fire. Mind telling me what happened? This one sounds interesting," she said.

"You could've come if you wanted to Cafe. Your help would've been appreciated," he told her.

"Why? Did you almost die?"

"Yes actually."

"Oooh. Now I really want to know what happened," Cafe said, with a large grin on her face.

"Honestly it wasn't really all that interesting. He just caught me off guard for a second. Also, he had a pretty strange vocabulary. It distracted me," Mod replied.

"Where's my jacket?" he asked.

"I'm sitting on both of ours. It's too hot for jackets right now," Cafe replied.

While the bike rode through the city he put on his red helmet. It was a pilot helmet but it worked all the same. On the back of the helmet was written "Sh*t for Brains|Born to Kill" in black marker. He put the visor on the helmet down and whizzed through the city streets on the Fat Man, his red maxi scooter.