So I'm writing for the Arkham monologues, really I am, but this chapter is harder to right than I thought. That and I'm busy with school work and all that. But any, new fic. I'm not doing a series with this, because two going at once would likely kill me. Oh. And I don't own No More Heroes. Credit to Suda 51 for making two (and, hopefully soon, three) kickass games!
Seriously though, as always enjoy.
Alice Twilight no longer saw the point. Truth be told, she'd stopped seeing the point a long time ago. But in the dying hour before her death, the point became even clearer, almost illuminated to her. As she sat down on the roof, tossing photograph after photograph into the crackling flames, a sense of overwhelming futility came over her. She would die here. She would fight, sure, she would fight hard. She would fight well. As she always did. Her swords were her life. Not so much highly advanced and deadly weapons, but extension of herself. She'd used the six blades so much that it felt strange to move without them.
She wasn't a person anymore. Just a bunch of bodily functions and some swords. She didn't get that same heart pumping adrenaline that she did when she first started to descend into this madness. There was no thrill to the fights. No fear.
Not even much pain. After three years of fighting she'd felt every possible punch, kick and throw. Her cuts and bruises felt superficial. The aching of her limbs distant. She was just a shell. She didn't care for the fame, or the money or even life.
She wanted to get to get to rank one. For no other reason that she had started this whole mess, and therefore believed it was only fitting for her to see it through to the end. Everybody did. Everybody wanted to get higher. Because getting higher meant fame. Fame meant money, power, and glory. If you got higher in the ranking you became rich. Alice had more money now than she ever did. Enough money for cruises, home entertainment systems, the best weapons and the best trainers in the business. She also had an even bigger target on herself. Every blood stained, broken body she left after each battle meant that more and more people were after here. More people lurking around the corner, just waiting to gut her. It was enough to drive anybody insane. Then again, you'd have to be insane to agree to this fucked up mess in the first place.
She took one glance at a photo, before casting into flames, where it was quickly engulfed and burnt. The photo was of her husband and child. Now both dead. Killed because of revenge, killed because she had killed his brother. She couldn't blame the man, even as his guts fell out onto the floor. Could she really blame him for killing them? It was her fault. You can't kill hundreds of people without consequence. You just can't.
Margaret was also dead. Her friend. The woman with the beautiful voice. The woman who moved with such grace. Wit, passion and charm. Why had she chosen to join this madness? Because it was cool? Because it was a challenge?
Alice would never know why such a nice girl would take part in such a game. But she was rank four. Four is death.
Even she had to chuckle a bit at that one.
She'd seen the hero's face. A man in sun glasses given off a cheery grin with spiky black hair. A giant portrait, painted on one of the many boring, lifeless buildings here. She knew that nobody had lived in these houses; they were merely an illusion created by the point, but she wondered who had painted it. Did somebody control the points? Was Matt far more powerful then she had previously thought? Was Chloe locked away that good for a reason. She didn't know how the points worked, she just lived here.