I'm honestly quiet impressed with my old self. I really, honestly, don't remember ever writing half of these, and yet they're actually all... pretty good enough for me to want to publish. At least I'm not ashamed of them and finding them is really doing good things to my self-esteem.
XxXxXx
"-another typhoon, that town's unlucky-"
"-earthquake, then a tsunami-"
"-hurricanes!"
"-tornado-"
"-volcano-"
"-cyclones-"
"-monster blizzard up in-"
Rafaele sips his coffee, entirely uncaring about the words buzzing around except for perhaps a cursory acknowledgement.
It is 1979 and the world is ending.
Or at least, the voices declaring such are getting louder in the wake of the disasters wreaking havoc around the world.
Another 10 magnitude earthquake in Australia and Europe almost simultaneously, tsunamis trailing not far behind, typhoons after typhoons in the South East Asia together with their volcanoes erupting one after another, and a star that shouldn't have exploded about a few million years yet had exploded, the colour still staining the sky.
The collateral isn't small, higher still are the number of deaths.
Fortunately for him, even as it is, there are no lack of individuals that want even more people dead.
He isn't going to run out of racket.
Hot bitter liquid tease his tongue and warms his throat. He sighs blissfully.
At this rate, humans are going to go extinct but he doesn't particularly care.
Not like he can do anything about it anyways. He's a hitman.
Preserving life is the opposite of his job.
He stands up, set the empty mug with some tip, and saunteres out of the cafe, pointedly not looking at the man he is tailing through the bustle of a Sicilian afternoon.
The man turns the corner, a narrow street that is almost an alley, cables criss-crossing overhead, pieces of clothes hanging to dry and narrow windows open to air the hot and cramped rooms. He raises an eyebrow.
This guy is making it easy for him.
Almost too easy.
His eyes narrows.
Did the man actually happen to notice him? Impossible.
Contemplating so while he nonchalantly follows him down the isolated nook, he rests a hand over the shape of his gun under his suit.
Then he abruptly stops in his tracks, tensing.
A Mist.
That must've been why the usually -from what he'd observed these past weeks- paranoid man walked straight to his death.
He's now slumped on the ground, chest unmoving, eyes absent of any life.
There is a shimmery piece of card on his chest.
After a beat, Sun Flames gearing under his skin, he approach, retrieving a handkerchief from a pocket to pick the 'gift' up.
It's a piece of hardy card in yellow gradient and he has a feeling that isn't just a coincidence.
Somewhere behind him, the draft brings to him the scent of detergent.
In bold silver cursive, it says:
Want to save the universe?
Come to Prince's Palms Hotel, Tulsa city, Oklahoma at February 1.
-Checkerface.
...huh?
Come again?
_
"So..."
Rafaele appraise the six other occupants of the room. Some he recognizes, some he doesn't.
The COMSUBIN Ace -ah, memories of bullets and chances too close for comfort-, the Triad martial artist -The martial artist, apparently-, the Immortal Stuntman Skull, Luce of Giglio Nero -who happens to also be very much pregnant, by the way-, Verde Il secondo Da Vinci, and some person under a cloak that he might know but there's something in his head that refuses to connect it to any character.
They sit around a round table, the room they have been led to by the staff completely bare and a stark contrast to the opulent halls outside, looking more like a broom closet in comparison and if it isn't for the plaque number on the door, they might've really thought so too.
It is the stuntman that breaks the complicated silence with a complicated frown.
He clears his throat, "So, um, I'm just confirming, but this is the place for that 'save the universe' thing... Right?"
Fair enough. This is not the crowd that comes to mind when thinking of saving anything. Except maybe the soldier, but even then her squad is more renowned in the battlefield and there is less saving happening there and more slaughtering the other side.
Even Rafaele has his doubts.
After all, he himself has just come out of curiosity and honestly no actual desire to live up to the enigmatic and probably scam recruiting.
And these people... To have invited such renowned names, the mystery guy was now relocated from probable delusional and into highly suspicious -if that is a good thing, he has yet to see but definitely doubts it.
But what really piques his intrigue, was that this convention meant that these specific people of varying backgrounds, had answered to the call of saving the universe, nevermind that they probably had their own different motives like he himself.
"En. At least that is why I am here. You may refer to me as Fon by the way." Triad guy speaks up after a silence that lasted a bit too long. He smiles so peacefully Rafaele almost immediately pegs him as Rain.
Arms crossed and peering at them through one eye, the other one closed in a relaxed manner, the blue haired COMSUBIN hums, "Call me Lal."
The stuntman grins obnoxiously, the chain linking the piercings in his lip and ear clinking, "Well, I'm sure everyone here knows me. Skull De Mort! The man hated by the Grim Reaper himself!"
Lightning. Probably.
If he is a Sun, Rafaele will have to come up with a way to convince the Grim Reaper to keep him permanently.
"My name is Luce."
She is the first one to introduce herself with her name and not just a designation. Blue eyes curves with her smile.
He doesn't need to guess since he already knows she is a Sky.
"Viper." That's textbook Cloud.
"I'm Verde." He shrugs, nudging his glasses higher the bridge of his nose.
He briefly inclines the brim of his fedora, "I go by Reborn."
There is a knock on the door and everyone's attention is pulled to the woman that opens it.
"Good afternoon madames and sirs, someone named Checkerface had this brought to your room."
She pulls behind her a trolley, with what looks like seven jewellery boxes and a black letter.