Chapter One: Shattered Dreams in Broken Steel
Journal Continued:
I walked. I'm not certain for just how long I walked, but it seemed like forever. I kept my head low, a rather stupid thing to do. Who knew how many objects might jump out in front of me or be standing there, waiting for me to run into it? I didn't care though. My mind was a raging turmoil, my heart a broken mess, and my body was bruised and tattered.
I needed help, a shoulder to cry on, a teacher to make me stronger, and someone to bandage the wounds, but I knew no one that could be even one of those things, let alone all three. I suppose that's a third curse in my life, no life, at least, no social one. Everyone I knew was in the area that I had just been exiled from.
That was when I noticed it for the first time. The ground suddenly changed on me, became different, distorted, almost mutated in a sense. I was always too focused on my goals before to notice it, I suppose, but now, without anything to ponder on for long and truly no real place to get to I had finally allowed myself to realize things were not as they should have been.
Perhaps literally having no place to go unlocked something in me that I had always been capable of doing, perhaps being truly directionless in spirit finally matched with being directionless in mind and body, creating something in me that I would never have imagined.
I looked up, to see what sort of environment would create such a disturbing ground of shattered concrete and broken metal. I was completely unprepared for what I saw...
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The boy was not like any other boy who had lived in the city in over seven hundred years. His clothes were completely foreign, as were his mannerisms and attitude. He was a complete outcast in a world of broken dreams meshed with metal and plastic. And despite these facts, or perhaps because of them, he was completely ignored.
The world that young Ryouga Hibiki found himself in was a strange world, as strange to him as he was to everyone else in that world. The buildings were all too tall and two ramshackle for anything he was used to. Not even the most rundown shrine he had come across looked as pathetic as every building around him.
The people were even worse, each one horribly misshapen by metal shells making up for missing arms and legs or even heads and torsos. They all trudged about in their daily grind completly unaware of how monstrous they looked. It was as if the metal parts were second nature, which was a completely ridiculous notion, of course.
The boy grasped his head with both hands, letting out a scream of agony unlike any in the area had ever heard before. The people, who did not see the horrors of cyberized parts, were used to screams of pain and rape, the shouts of dying men and anguished women, but they had never heard such a shattering scream of hoplessness as that which came from the boy.
This did not guarantee assistance, however. No, for that would be an action made in a far more civilized world. In this world a scream unlike any other merely meant that the screamer should be given distance, left alone to his own private misery. After all, it's his problem, not theirs', so why get involved in someone else's problems?
Perhaps it was the pain in his lungs, perhaps it was a gear finally clicking into place, or perhaps it was his self-preservation mechanism kicking in, but the boy eventually stopped screaming. He took in a few deep breaths of foul, polluted air and nearly choked on his own lungs.
"You know, screaming ain't gonna do you any good, kid," a voice called out from behind the boy, "Ain't like anybody's gonna care."
The boy turned his head to look at the speaker, images of horror creatures swimming in his head. He was not disappointed. The man looked like some sort of robotic skeleton, with a fleshy face hanging loosely against a metallic skull. In one artificially bony hand, the man held a short, jagged dagger, shaped crudely into a crescent, which fluctuated wildly in accordance with his hands shaky gestures.
"Who are you?" the boy asked, not an ounce of fear in his voice. Though the world around him was horrifyingly unfamiliar, did not mean the boy was a coward. His mind would not accept a freakish nightmare like that before him to be an actual threat.
"I am death, little man," the skeletal thing accosted, running the blade along his long, pink tongue, "My name is Greco the Swift and no one has ever evaded my blade."
The boy turned the rest of the way to face his opponent, his face full of anger and confusion. These emotions did not sit well with him, and his traditional method of relieving these feelings was always with violence. With one swift motion, the boy launched a repetitive pulse of pounding blows to his opponents skeletal abdomen, each blow strong enough to knock out a normal human being.
But the skeletal creature was far from a normal human being. His metallic body was admittedly dented, but no real damage had been done. He was completely intact. It laughed at the boy's pathetic attempt. "You pathetic fleshlings are all alike. You actually think you can beat me with such a miserable assault. Now you shall face my blade," and it struck forward with his dagger, hoping and lusting for flesh to slice open. The speed the creature was capable of was uncanny, and there was no way the boy could evade in time from such a precise strike.
And yet, this time the skeleton creature was the one to be dissapointed, for the boy had quickly dodged out of the way. It seemed near-impossible, what with his body still made of flesh and blood and his back-pack and umbrella providing so much debilitating weight. It was as if the boy had attained the strength of a natural body-builder without sacrificing his mobility, an impossible feet.
"How can you still be unscathed?" the creature demanded, "I know I cut you. I had to have cut you. No one evades Greco the Swift!"
The boy shucked off his back pack, letting it drop to the ground with a resounding thud, "I was taking it easy on you before," he said calmly, "I thought you were human. Now I'm not holding back," he reached up to one of the numerous speckled brown bandannas wrapped around his forehead and released the knot, letting it fall into his hand limply.
He struck out at the air with the loose bandanna, causing it to go stiff, long and straight, like a metal bar. He held it ready in a stance completely unfamiliar to anyone in the decaying city, and then, before his opponent even had a chance to react, he rushed forward, swung out with the bandanna as if it were a sword and struck the monstrous arm holding the dagger.
It was like a scene out of a cartoon. Time stood still for a moment as the strange weapon made contact with the elbow joint of the monstrosity's arm. The sound of straining metal tore through the air and thirty pounds of metal and wiring struck the ground, dagger still clenched in its malformed fingers.
The creature was awestruck, "My arm..." it sputtered, "You've broken the arm of the great Greco the Swift! You shall pay for this fleshling!" it screamed loudly, waving its remaining arm in the air like some mindless primitive. It rushed forward without thinking, hoping to score a quick kill on the boy who injured it so.
This was not to be, however. The boy was far faster than the cybernetic atrocity could ever hope to be. He stepped aside quickly and without effort, giving the appearance of barely moving at all, and allowed the skeletal thing to pass by him. But evasion was not his only plan. As the creature's back was passing by, he turned and slammed his free fist into its spine with enough force to incapacitate all but the most powerful martial artists.
The cybernetic thing was no martial artist, merely a creature existing off of luck and a speedy cyborg body, one seriously lacking in armor and density, strong enough to survive an occasional pounding, but by no means able to withstand a truly powerful assault. The boy's punch ripped through the creature's spine, and then tore out the plated front, effectively splitting its body in half.
The two halves slammed into the ground at speeds equivalent to twenty miles an hour, not much in the grand scheme of things, but far faster then either halves were prepared for. Sparks flew along the ground where the metal skidded along, tearing up what remained of a truly beaten opponent.
But more than merely beaten. Artificial organs spilled out of a once enclosed ribcage, spilling vital fluids, sputtering, pumping, and then finally coming to a stop. Everything that had kept the creature going was gone, and so was its life.
The boy was shocked at his actions. He did not realize just how much force he was putting into the punch. He thought the creature could stand up to his punch, considering how it was able to stand up to his first attack. He didn't know, he just didn't know...
"I'm... A murderer..." he whispered, staring at his hand, which was no coated in the artificial blood and hydraulic fluid of his now defunct opponent. This went against everything his moral code stated. To fight an opponent until they were unconscious, even bloody, was one thing, but to kill an opponent was another matter entirely. No excuse was acceptable, be it a mistake on the part of the enemy or a mistake made by the attacker. He was shocked to the core, to say the least. "I'm a murderer!!!" he screamed to the night's sky.
Everyone who heard the boy's scream moved away from him as quickly as possible. They saw what he could do with his bare, fleshling hands, and they did not want the same to happen to them if they should anger the obviously crazy boy. Life was not easy in the city of the scraps where these people dwelled, and not a one amongst them were eager to invite any more pain and suffering upon themselves.
Not a one, that is, except for the Hunters...
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It was an hour before the first of them arrived. His skin was sleek and shiny, speckled with a synthetic jewel here and there. His clothes were baggy and loose-fitting, yet locked beneath pieces of spherical armor. His eyes shone like emeralds, for that is exactly the tint of the polarized lenses he owned instead of true corneas, and his lips curled in a permanent smile on the mask he preferred to an actual face. This was another abomination, a product of too much science, and yet not enough heart.
He was not alone. Mere moments behind him, the others followed, each wearing there own distinctive style of clothing, armor, and cybernetic bodies. Not a one of them had more than fifty percent of their original , organic bodies , and most had even less than that. A few were almost completely inhuman, preferring an existence as only a brain and spine in a shell to that of a more human life.
They stalked along the pock-marked streets like a pack of wild dogs, or worse yet, rats, scrambling towards something they found valuable. Of course, there was little of value in this dying world, so mere money would have to do.
They came upon their target quickly, every ounce the efficient hunters that they claimed to be, at least in terms of finding what they deemed worthy. A single boy stood next to a ruined cyborg, his fleshling form draped over the ruined pieces as if he were in mourning. His clothing was strange, brown pants, and a light orange loose-fit shirt, a strangely patterned bandanna around his head. A backpack strapped across his back was perhaps the most normal of any of his accessories, and yet, strapped to that very same pack was what appeared to be an old-style oriental umbrella. All-in-all the boy seemed to radiate "outsider" like a plague.
"Whatcha gonna do with that, kid?" the leader spoke, tapping the boy on the shoulder with a jewel-tipped finger.
The boy turned to look at the man, knowing full well that he would encounter yet another thing that should not be. "I'm going to bury him," the boy said sorrowfully red marks linning his cheeks in the pattern that tears would have carved out, "It is the least that I can do for him, considering..."
"Considering what?" one of the others, a horrific image with eight legs instead of a lower torso, asked.
"I... I killed him. I hit him harder than I thought... and he just broke apart... I didn't know, I just didn't know," the boy answered, turning his eyes back toward the single monstrosity rather than to have to look at the multitude standing semi-circle around him.
The leader's eyebrow would have raised in curiosity if it were still actually capable of doing such a thing, "So you're the one who killed Greco, eh? Congrats, we've been chasing that psychopath for days. I'm glad someone finally put a stop to this bastard's killing spree."
The boy turned back to the leader, "Killing spree? Are you saying this man is a murderer?"
The leader laughed, "Well of course he is! He attacked you didn't he? He's killed seven people in the last few days. The Factory says they have unconfirmed reports of half a dozen more murders in his name. This was a real piece of work. And you killed him."
"I killed a killer..." the boy mused, "What does that make me?"
"That makes you a hero, boy," the leader responded, "And since your such a heroic type, you'll give me the head so I can confirm his death, right?"
"No, I get the head!" one of the others, an armored cyborg with a chainsaw blade for a hand argued.
"No, I do! I've been chasing him the longest!" another one cried out, this one smaller and more organic than the others, but with long, spring-loaded legs designed to leap vast distances.
"I'm the one who gets his head. I nearly had him two days ago. Would've caught him if my arm hadn't given out on me," a third, one armed man growled out.
One-by-one, all fifteen hunters spoke up, arguing their case in short, concise speeches. In other words, they started yelling at each other for ownership of the head. A few even started in with the traditional threatening of ones vital systems. This went on for countless minutes until a silent voice spoke up.
"No," the boy, who had spent the arguing time rearranging Greco's body into some semblance of its original shape. "You may not have his head. I'm going to bury it."
"The hell you are!" the leader of the Hunters growled, holding up a polished metal sword, one as jewel encrusted as his armor/body, "We get the head, and maybe yours too!"
"Yeah! We'll cut you up if you don't leave, little boy!" the chainsaw wielder shouted in agreement, reving up his fearsome weapon.
"I'll splatter your brains all over the street! I'll feast on your..." the third Hunter stopped dead in mid-speech. Something was happening that made his still organic eyes go wide in amazement. The boy was on fire!
It was impossible to imagine and yet it appeared as if blue flames were rising from the boy's body, licking at the air as if testing it for flamability. He got to his feet and looked around at the Hunters, "Touch that body and I will hurt you," he mumbled in a detatched voice.
The Hunters didn't care. Their primitive mental states blew the apparition off as some sort of trick and decided to push their luck farther. The chainsaw wielder reached out with his motorized limb in a threatining manner, only to have it snapped off at the elbow by the flat of the boy's hand. It landed, still revving, and managed to bury the blade six inches into the ground before the concrete ruined the chainsaw blades.
"I said 'Don't Touch'!" the boy screamed, the fire raging around his body now. He plowed forward, taking a group of Hunters with him in an amazing feat of strength impossible for even the strongest natural body-builder. The group smashed into the ground, suffering dents, scratches, damaged servos and concussions all around. All of them, that is, except for the boy.
With a push from his powerful arms, he leaped off of the pile of damaged cyborgs and landed perfectly, facing those left standing with a glare in his eye that would cause a normal man to faint at the sight of it. "Anyone else?" he growled, the fire aura peaking when he spoke. He raised his right hand and gestured for the Hunters to come and get him.
Foolishly, they did. Five Hunters decided to swarm him, figuring the odds would be in their favor if they all attacked at once. Under any other circumstance, this would be a good plan, but against this nameless opponent, it wasn't good enough. He jumped backwards, completely avoiding the Hunters sharp weapons. Their weapons ricocheted off the ground with resounding impact, forcing the weaker ones to let go, while leaving the stronger ones with a tenuous grip on their blades.
Seeing the disarmed opponents as lesser threats, the boy raced for the remaining two, holding out his arms in a tackle style stance, clotheslining the Hunters with strength surpassing their own. The crumpled up on the ground, groaning and moaning in agony, perceived or real. The boy turned around to look at his pathetic opponents and grinned a hellish-looking grin. He kicked them once each, knocking them into the pile of three which were scrambling around for their weapons with little luck. The new bodies piled onto the old, weighing them down and preventing them from moving.
The boy spat in disgust and turned to the few conscious Hunters, "Well?" he growled faintly.
The Hunter leader laughed and replied, "You expect that to impress me? I've seen better from a rookie Hunter-Warrior!" he swung out at the air with his weapon, "Now you'll face Vishon the Strong, whelp, and I shall teach you a thing or two about manners!"
The boy looked around on the ground, almost as if he were ignoring Vishon's challenge, and yet, it was more like he was preparing for it. He found what he was looking for and reached down to grab the object he had unwittingly dropped earlier, sometime before the Hunters had arrived. The straightened out bandanna was a little worse for wear than the last time he saw it, but was in good enough condition for the fight ahead he felt. He held the bandanna out like a swordsman, prepared for Vishon's attack.
"Are you ready for your lesson in manners, child?" Vishon demanded angrily.
"I am ready for you," the boy replied quietly, the blue aura still raging around him, engulfing even the bandanna/sword.
"Then face my blade!" Vishon shouted, rushing at the boy at speeds exceeding that of most sports cars.
The boy was just as fast, and he proved it by avoiding the initial assault and parrying the quickly handled follow-up attacks, his own odd weapon an even-match for Vishon's very real sword. Strike after strike, blow after blow, the boy managed to evade or defend against every attack the Hunter had up his sleave.
This went on for some time, boy and cyborg going at it at speeds the human eye could barely comprehend. Martial arts enhanced muscles and reflexes versus scientifically created servos and actuators, in the right hands it made for a near even match. Only time would tell if the martial artist's body could stand up to the rigors of exhaustion as well as the cyborg's body could endure it.
Metal clanked against metal in a cascade of moves that appeared so much like dancing that to an unknowing observer deadly combat seemed no different than ballet. But ballet was never a life or death struggle, this was. Each move was countered, each attack was knocked back, it didn't matter what either of them did it was a stalemate.
But stalemates don't last forever, and sooner or later, something had to give, and that something involved a third party, one more deadly than either of them. One swifter, stronger, deadlier and naturally more powerful, skilled in a fighting style that was over two hundred years dead. That warrior, that fighter of incredible stamina and skill, was a woman...
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Around five minutes into Vishon and the boy's battle, the other Hunters started to regain consciousness, each of them looking around for the steamroller that had bowled them over. Their highly vaunted egos weren't prepared for the beating they took, and it showed as they each started making excuses to each other as to why they were beaten.
"I've been saying for weeks that my elbow joint was getting loose. Thats why it came off," the former owner of the chainsaw arm pathetically explained.
"Yeah, and my right leg has been going stiff on my ever since that Begda hunt. If it wasn't for the leg I would've had that kid right where I wanted him," another complained.
"I would've had him if it wasn't for Deson here," one complained, pointing a sharpened finger at one of the others.
"My wheel locked up!" the accused argued, "It was an accident! I didn't mean to..." he cut off when he saw a familiar form walking out of the shadows.
"Having a tough time, guys?" the figure asked as it stepped closer to them.
"Yeah. That kid is tough for a human," the chainsaw-less Hunter groaned. His mannerisims seemed to have changed completeoly with the appearance of the individual. It was as if this new figure was of a higher rank in the hierchy, or a well respected soldier in a group of soldiers, which was extremely odd considering the figure's appearance.
The shadowy voice stepped completely out of the shadows, revealing her body to the Hunters, though they apparently knew her well. She was short, yet perfectly proportioned to her size. Her legs were long, her arms were short, yet powerful and well toned. Her torso was thin and well defined, like an endurance athlete as opposed to a supermodel. Her clothes covered every inch of her body with the exception of the fingers on each gloved hand. A tight fitting miniskirt, long legged stockings and calve-high boots buttoned instead of tied. Wrapped around her modest chest and stomach was a tightly fit wraparound shirt that reached up to her neck yet left her arms bare. Over the shoulders, and unfastened was a long-sleeved white jacket that hung loosely on her miniscule frame. Her honey-brown eyes and raven black hair framed a sweet-looking, almost innocent face, extremely cute, yet not quite gorgeous, a plain beauty no model could match. She looked just like any other girl, but looks can be deceiving.
The first hinting that she was not normal was plain on her face. Two silver marks, beginning just under her eyes and curved around her cheeks coming to a stop just before the chin met the neck. They were the symbols of death, a warning to any who would challenge her. They were the first and last things a bounty would see, a warning of danger and a sign of the end. This girl, despite her friendly exterior, was a powerful fighter, whose hands had bathed deeply in the blood of the guilty and the risk takers. Her body, although appearing normal at first glance was actually a clever ruse. Beneath the full-body clothing was a powerful cyborg body, specially created by a cyber-doctor who knew no natural equal. More power was held in one thin arm than in a cyborg three times larger than her, and she had agility that no powerhouse could match.
"Kid, huh," the girl said quietly to herself, "Good, I haven't had a real challenge in a long time."
"You gonna fight him, Gally?" the chainsaw-less Hunter asked.
"Perhaps..." the girl-like warrior known as Gally responded, "Who is he fighting now? Mekin? Drell? Maybe Kurtz?"
"No, Vishon led the hunt. He's fighting the boy," one of the other Hunters responded, groaning in ghost pain as he attempted to massage an artificial leg."
"Vishon?" Gally laughed, "Vishon's an idiot. Why him?"
"No one else was stupid enough to."
"Point," Gally rubbed her chin in contemplation as she walked towards the fight.
Journal Continued:
I walked. I'm not certain for just how long I walked, but it seemed like forever. I kept my head low, a rather stupid thing to do. Who knew how many objects might jump out in front of me or be standing there, waiting for me to run into it? I didn't care though. My mind was a raging turmoil, my heart a broken mess, and my body was bruised and tattered.
I needed help, a shoulder to cry on, a teacher to make me stronger, and someone to bandage the wounds, but I knew no one that could be even one of those things, let alone all three. I suppose that's a third curse in my life, no life, at least, no social one. Everyone I knew was in the area that I had just been exiled from.
That was when I noticed it for the first time. The ground suddenly changed on me, became different, distorted, almost mutated in a sense. I was always too focused on my goals before to notice it, I suppose, but now, without anything to ponder on for long and truly no real place to get to I had finally allowed myself to realize things were not as they should have been.
Perhaps literally having no place to go unlocked something in me that I had always been capable of doing, perhaps being truly directionless in spirit finally matched with being directionless in mind and body, creating something in me that I would never have imagined.
I looked up, to see what sort of environment would create such a disturbing ground of shattered concrete and broken metal. I was completely unprepared for what I saw...
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The boy was not like any other boy who had lived in the city in over seven hundred years. His clothes were completely foreign, as were his mannerisms and attitude. He was a complete outcast in a world of broken dreams meshed with metal and plastic. And despite these facts, or perhaps because of them, he was completely ignored.
The world that young Ryouga Hibiki found himself in was a strange world, as strange to him as he was to everyone else in that world. The buildings were all too tall and two ramshackle for anything he was used to. Not even the most rundown shrine he had come across looked as pathetic as every building around him.
The people were even worse, each one horribly misshapen by metal shells making up for missing arms and legs or even heads and torsos. They all trudged about in their daily grind completly unaware of how monstrous they looked. It was as if the metal parts were second nature, which was a completely ridiculous notion, of course.
The boy grasped his head with both hands, letting out a scream of agony unlike any in the area had ever heard before. The people, who did not see the horrors of cyberized parts, were used to screams of pain and rape, the shouts of dying men and anguished women, but they had never heard such a shattering scream of hoplessness as that which came from the boy.
This did not guarantee assistance, however. No, for that would be an action made in a far more civilized world. In this world a scream unlike any other merely meant that the screamer should be given distance, left alone to his own private misery. After all, it's his problem, not theirs', so why get involved in someone else's problems?
Perhaps it was the pain in his lungs, perhaps it was a gear finally clicking into place, or perhaps it was his self-preservation mechanism kicking in, but the boy eventually stopped screaming. He took in a few deep breaths of foul, polluted air and nearly choked on his own lungs.
"You know, screaming ain't gonna do you any good, kid," a voice called out from behind the boy, "Ain't like anybody's gonna care."
The boy turned his head to look at the speaker, images of horror creatures swimming in his head. He was not disappointed. The man looked like some sort of robotic skeleton, with a fleshy face hanging loosely against a metallic skull. In one artificially bony hand, the man held a short, jagged dagger, shaped crudely into a crescent, which fluctuated wildly in accordance with his hands shaky gestures.
"Who are you?" the boy asked, not an ounce of fear in his voice. Though the world around him was horrifyingly unfamiliar, did not mean the boy was a coward. His mind would not accept a freakish nightmare like that before him to be an actual threat.
"I am death, little man," the skeletal thing accosted, running the blade along his long, pink tongue, "My name is Greco the Swift and no one has ever evaded my blade."
The boy turned the rest of the way to face his opponent, his face full of anger and confusion. These emotions did not sit well with him, and his traditional method of relieving these feelings was always with violence. With one swift motion, the boy launched a repetitive pulse of pounding blows to his opponents skeletal abdomen, each blow strong enough to knock out a normal human being.
But the skeletal creature was far from a normal human being. His metallic body was admittedly dented, but no real damage had been done. He was completely intact. It laughed at the boy's pathetic attempt. "You pathetic fleshlings are all alike. You actually think you can beat me with such a miserable assault. Now you shall face my blade," and it struck forward with his dagger, hoping and lusting for flesh to slice open. The speed the creature was capable of was uncanny, and there was no way the boy could evade in time from such a precise strike.
And yet, this time the skeleton creature was the one to be dissapointed, for the boy had quickly dodged out of the way. It seemed near-impossible, what with his body still made of flesh and blood and his back-pack and umbrella providing so much debilitating weight. It was as if the boy had attained the strength of a natural body-builder without sacrificing his mobility, an impossible feet.
"How can you still be unscathed?" the creature demanded, "I know I cut you. I had to have cut you. No one evades Greco the Swift!"
The boy shucked off his back pack, letting it drop to the ground with a resounding thud, "I was taking it easy on you before," he said calmly, "I thought you were human. Now I'm not holding back," he reached up to one of the numerous speckled brown bandannas wrapped around his forehead and released the knot, letting it fall into his hand limply.
He struck out at the air with the loose bandanna, causing it to go stiff, long and straight, like a metal bar. He held it ready in a stance completely unfamiliar to anyone in the decaying city, and then, before his opponent even had a chance to react, he rushed forward, swung out with the bandanna as if it were a sword and struck the monstrous arm holding the dagger.
It was like a scene out of a cartoon. Time stood still for a moment as the strange weapon made contact with the elbow joint of the monstrosity's arm. The sound of straining metal tore through the air and thirty pounds of metal and wiring struck the ground, dagger still clenched in its malformed fingers.
The creature was awestruck, "My arm..." it sputtered, "You've broken the arm of the great Greco the Swift! You shall pay for this fleshling!" it screamed loudly, waving its remaining arm in the air like some mindless primitive. It rushed forward without thinking, hoping to score a quick kill on the boy who injured it so.
This was not to be, however. The boy was far faster than the cybernetic atrocity could ever hope to be. He stepped aside quickly and without effort, giving the appearance of barely moving at all, and allowed the skeletal thing to pass by him. But evasion was not his only plan. As the creature's back was passing by, he turned and slammed his free fist into its spine with enough force to incapacitate all but the most powerful martial artists.
The cybernetic thing was no martial artist, merely a creature existing off of luck and a speedy cyborg body, one seriously lacking in armor and density, strong enough to survive an occasional pounding, but by no means able to withstand a truly powerful assault. The boy's punch ripped through the creature's spine, and then tore out the plated front, effectively splitting its body in half.
The two halves slammed into the ground at speeds equivalent to twenty miles an hour, not much in the grand scheme of things, but far faster then either halves were prepared for. Sparks flew along the ground where the metal skidded along, tearing up what remained of a truly beaten opponent.
But more than merely beaten. Artificial organs spilled out of a once enclosed ribcage, spilling vital fluids, sputtering, pumping, and then finally coming to a stop. Everything that had kept the creature going was gone, and so was its life.
The boy was shocked at his actions. He did not realize just how much force he was putting into the punch. He thought the creature could stand up to his punch, considering how it was able to stand up to his first attack. He didn't know, he just didn't know...
"I'm... A murderer..." he whispered, staring at his hand, which was no coated in the artificial blood and hydraulic fluid of his now defunct opponent. This went against everything his moral code stated. To fight an opponent until they were unconscious, even bloody, was one thing, but to kill an opponent was another matter entirely. No excuse was acceptable, be it a mistake on the part of the enemy or a mistake made by the attacker. He was shocked to the core, to say the least. "I'm a murderer!!!" he screamed to the night's sky.
Everyone who heard the boy's scream moved away from him as quickly as possible. They saw what he could do with his bare, fleshling hands, and they did not want the same to happen to them if they should anger the obviously crazy boy. Life was not easy in the city of the scraps where these people dwelled, and not a one amongst them were eager to invite any more pain and suffering upon themselves.
Not a one, that is, except for the Hunters...
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It was an hour before the first of them arrived. His skin was sleek and shiny, speckled with a synthetic jewel here and there. His clothes were baggy and loose-fitting, yet locked beneath pieces of spherical armor. His eyes shone like emeralds, for that is exactly the tint of the polarized lenses he owned instead of true corneas, and his lips curled in a permanent smile on the mask he preferred to an actual face. This was another abomination, a product of too much science, and yet not enough heart.
He was not alone. Mere moments behind him, the others followed, each wearing there own distinctive style of clothing, armor, and cybernetic bodies. Not a one of them had more than fifty percent of their original , organic bodies , and most had even less than that. A few were almost completely inhuman, preferring an existence as only a brain and spine in a shell to that of a more human life.
They stalked along the pock-marked streets like a pack of wild dogs, or worse yet, rats, scrambling towards something they found valuable. Of course, there was little of value in this dying world, so mere money would have to do.
They came upon their target quickly, every ounce the efficient hunters that they claimed to be, at least in terms of finding what they deemed worthy. A single boy stood next to a ruined cyborg, his fleshling form draped over the ruined pieces as if he were in mourning. His clothing was strange, brown pants, and a light orange loose-fit shirt, a strangely patterned bandanna around his head. A backpack strapped across his back was perhaps the most normal of any of his accessories, and yet, strapped to that very same pack was what appeared to be an old-style oriental umbrella. All-in-all the boy seemed to radiate "outsider" like a plague.
"Whatcha gonna do with that, kid?" the leader spoke, tapping the boy on the shoulder with a jewel-tipped finger.
The boy turned to look at the man, knowing full well that he would encounter yet another thing that should not be. "I'm going to bury him," the boy said sorrowfully red marks linning his cheeks in the pattern that tears would have carved out, "It is the least that I can do for him, considering..."
"Considering what?" one of the others, a horrific image with eight legs instead of a lower torso, asked.
"I... I killed him. I hit him harder than I thought... and he just broke apart... I didn't know, I just didn't know," the boy answered, turning his eyes back toward the single monstrosity rather than to have to look at the multitude standing semi-circle around him.
The leader's eyebrow would have raised in curiosity if it were still actually capable of doing such a thing, "So you're the one who killed Greco, eh? Congrats, we've been chasing that psychopath for days. I'm glad someone finally put a stop to this bastard's killing spree."
The boy turned back to the leader, "Killing spree? Are you saying this man is a murderer?"
The leader laughed, "Well of course he is! He attacked you didn't he? He's killed seven people in the last few days. The Factory says they have unconfirmed reports of half a dozen more murders in his name. This was a real piece of work. And you killed him."
"I killed a killer..." the boy mused, "What does that make me?"
"That makes you a hero, boy," the leader responded, "And since your such a heroic type, you'll give me the head so I can confirm his death, right?"
"No, I get the head!" one of the others, an armored cyborg with a chainsaw blade for a hand argued.
"No, I do! I've been chasing him the longest!" another one cried out, this one smaller and more organic than the others, but with long, spring-loaded legs designed to leap vast distances.
"I'm the one who gets his head. I nearly had him two days ago. Would've caught him if my arm hadn't given out on me," a third, one armed man growled out.
One-by-one, all fifteen hunters spoke up, arguing their case in short, concise speeches. In other words, they started yelling at each other for ownership of the head. A few even started in with the traditional threatening of ones vital systems. This went on for countless minutes until a silent voice spoke up.
"No," the boy, who had spent the arguing time rearranging Greco's body into some semblance of its original shape. "You may not have his head. I'm going to bury it."
"The hell you are!" the leader of the Hunters growled, holding up a polished metal sword, one as jewel encrusted as his armor/body, "We get the head, and maybe yours too!"
"Yeah! We'll cut you up if you don't leave, little boy!" the chainsaw wielder shouted in agreement, reving up his fearsome weapon.
"I'll splatter your brains all over the street! I'll feast on your..." the third Hunter stopped dead in mid-speech. Something was happening that made his still organic eyes go wide in amazement. The boy was on fire!
It was impossible to imagine and yet it appeared as if blue flames were rising from the boy's body, licking at the air as if testing it for flamability. He got to his feet and looked around at the Hunters, "Touch that body and I will hurt you," he mumbled in a detatched voice.
The Hunters didn't care. Their primitive mental states blew the apparition off as some sort of trick and decided to push their luck farther. The chainsaw wielder reached out with his motorized limb in a threatining manner, only to have it snapped off at the elbow by the flat of the boy's hand. It landed, still revving, and managed to bury the blade six inches into the ground before the concrete ruined the chainsaw blades.
"I said 'Don't Touch'!" the boy screamed, the fire raging around his body now. He plowed forward, taking a group of Hunters with him in an amazing feat of strength impossible for even the strongest natural body-builder. The group smashed into the ground, suffering dents, scratches, damaged servos and concussions all around. All of them, that is, except for the boy.
With a push from his powerful arms, he leaped off of the pile of damaged cyborgs and landed perfectly, facing those left standing with a glare in his eye that would cause a normal man to faint at the sight of it. "Anyone else?" he growled, the fire aura peaking when he spoke. He raised his right hand and gestured for the Hunters to come and get him.
Foolishly, they did. Five Hunters decided to swarm him, figuring the odds would be in their favor if they all attacked at once. Under any other circumstance, this would be a good plan, but against this nameless opponent, it wasn't good enough. He jumped backwards, completely avoiding the Hunters sharp weapons. Their weapons ricocheted off the ground with resounding impact, forcing the weaker ones to let go, while leaving the stronger ones with a tenuous grip on their blades.
Seeing the disarmed opponents as lesser threats, the boy raced for the remaining two, holding out his arms in a tackle style stance, clotheslining the Hunters with strength surpassing their own. The crumpled up on the ground, groaning and moaning in agony, perceived or real. The boy turned around to look at his pathetic opponents and grinned a hellish-looking grin. He kicked them once each, knocking them into the pile of three which were scrambling around for their weapons with little luck. The new bodies piled onto the old, weighing them down and preventing them from moving.
The boy spat in disgust and turned to the few conscious Hunters, "Well?" he growled faintly.
The Hunter leader laughed and replied, "You expect that to impress me? I've seen better from a rookie Hunter-Warrior!" he swung out at the air with his weapon, "Now you'll face Vishon the Strong, whelp, and I shall teach you a thing or two about manners!"
The boy looked around on the ground, almost as if he were ignoring Vishon's challenge, and yet, it was more like he was preparing for it. He found what he was looking for and reached down to grab the object he had unwittingly dropped earlier, sometime before the Hunters had arrived. The straightened out bandanna was a little worse for wear than the last time he saw it, but was in good enough condition for the fight ahead he felt. He held the bandanna out like a swordsman, prepared for Vishon's attack.
"Are you ready for your lesson in manners, child?" Vishon demanded angrily.
"I am ready for you," the boy replied quietly, the blue aura still raging around him, engulfing even the bandanna/sword.
"Then face my blade!" Vishon shouted, rushing at the boy at speeds exceeding that of most sports cars.
The boy was just as fast, and he proved it by avoiding the initial assault and parrying the quickly handled follow-up attacks, his own odd weapon an even-match for Vishon's very real sword. Strike after strike, blow after blow, the boy managed to evade or defend against every attack the Hunter had up his sleave.
This went on for some time, boy and cyborg going at it at speeds the human eye could barely comprehend. Martial arts enhanced muscles and reflexes versus scientifically created servos and actuators, in the right hands it made for a near even match. Only time would tell if the martial artist's body could stand up to the rigors of exhaustion as well as the cyborg's body could endure it.
Metal clanked against metal in a cascade of moves that appeared so much like dancing that to an unknowing observer deadly combat seemed no different than ballet. But ballet was never a life or death struggle, this was. Each move was countered, each attack was knocked back, it didn't matter what either of them did it was a stalemate.
But stalemates don't last forever, and sooner or later, something had to give, and that something involved a third party, one more deadly than either of them. One swifter, stronger, deadlier and naturally more powerful, skilled in a fighting style that was over two hundred years dead. That warrior, that fighter of incredible stamina and skill, was a woman...
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Around five minutes into Vishon and the boy's battle, the other Hunters started to regain consciousness, each of them looking around for the steamroller that had bowled them over. Their highly vaunted egos weren't prepared for the beating they took, and it showed as they each started making excuses to each other as to why they were beaten.
"I've been saying for weeks that my elbow joint was getting loose. Thats why it came off," the former owner of the chainsaw arm pathetically explained.
"Yeah, and my right leg has been going stiff on my ever since that Begda hunt. If it wasn't for the leg I would've had that kid right where I wanted him," another complained.
"I would've had him if it wasn't for Deson here," one complained, pointing a sharpened finger at one of the others.
"My wheel locked up!" the accused argued, "It was an accident! I didn't mean to..." he cut off when he saw a familiar form walking out of the shadows.
"Having a tough time, guys?" the figure asked as it stepped closer to them.
"Yeah. That kid is tough for a human," the chainsaw-less Hunter groaned. His mannerisims seemed to have changed completeoly with the appearance of the individual. It was as if this new figure was of a higher rank in the hierchy, or a well respected soldier in a group of soldiers, which was extremely odd considering the figure's appearance.
The shadowy voice stepped completely out of the shadows, revealing her body to the Hunters, though they apparently knew her well. She was short, yet perfectly proportioned to her size. Her legs were long, her arms were short, yet powerful and well toned. Her torso was thin and well defined, like an endurance athlete as opposed to a supermodel. Her clothes covered every inch of her body with the exception of the fingers on each gloved hand. A tight fitting miniskirt, long legged stockings and calve-high boots buttoned instead of tied. Wrapped around her modest chest and stomach was a tightly fit wraparound shirt that reached up to her neck yet left her arms bare. Over the shoulders, and unfastened was a long-sleeved white jacket that hung loosely on her miniscule frame. Her honey-brown eyes and raven black hair framed a sweet-looking, almost innocent face, extremely cute, yet not quite gorgeous, a plain beauty no model could match. She looked just like any other girl, but looks can be deceiving.
The first hinting that she was not normal was plain on her face. Two silver marks, beginning just under her eyes and curved around her cheeks coming to a stop just before the chin met the neck. They were the symbols of death, a warning to any who would challenge her. They were the first and last things a bounty would see, a warning of danger and a sign of the end. This girl, despite her friendly exterior, was a powerful fighter, whose hands had bathed deeply in the blood of the guilty and the risk takers. Her body, although appearing normal at first glance was actually a clever ruse. Beneath the full-body clothing was a powerful cyborg body, specially created by a cyber-doctor who knew no natural equal. More power was held in one thin arm than in a cyborg three times larger than her, and she had agility that no powerhouse could match.
"Kid, huh," the girl said quietly to herself, "Good, I haven't had a real challenge in a long time."
"You gonna fight him, Gally?" the chainsaw-less Hunter asked.
"Perhaps..." the girl-like warrior known as Gally responded, "Who is he fighting now? Mekin? Drell? Maybe Kurtz?"
"No, Vishon led the hunt. He's fighting the boy," one of the other Hunters responded, groaning in ghost pain as he attempted to massage an artificial leg."
"Vishon?" Gally laughed, "Vishon's an idiot. Why him?"
"No one else was stupid enough to."
"Point," Gally rubbed her chin in contemplation as she walked towards the fight.