Lower end Chicago, a portion of city long since considered to be a resting
place for the unjust, the lawless and the criminal element. This time
period was no exception. In a world where sentient machines called reploids
roamed among the human populous a legend was about to begin.
A small bar located deep within the heart of this crime infested district has since shortly after it's conception served as a haven and a gathering place for those who do not wish or do not believe their place in this world lies in a path that does not cause chaos or pain. Here mavericks and humans alike take refuge night after night amongst one another where the air is so thick with smoke it has become visible, while the inhabitants remain huddled amongst one another convinced that only their kind would ever dare venture into this blackened place and that would be true.
That is, until tonight.
The single small glass door that serves as the only public entrance to this den of evil slams open by the barest flick of a hand. Not the first time it's happened to be sure, some of the more rowdy regulars frequently opt for a noisy entrance. All chances of such a thing are quickly shot as the single individual who now stands in the doorway and holds it open examines the room with a gaze so piercing and so indiscriminate it causes even some of the more proud and brave patrons to turn away. It soon becomes obvious to those that do not know the reputation of the one that has entered their domain, this is not one of their kind; this is an outsider dark enough and perhaps fearless enough to step into such a haven for the damned. Soon small whispers can be heard among the shadows of the bar.
"Christ it's him."
"What's he doin' here?"
The door is allowed to slowly close shut as he slowly makes his way across the hardwood floor of the barroom. The wide strides of his hard metal boots act as a foreboding drumbeat as they pierce the deadly silence, his blue and red armor glint under the faded lamps that line the ceiling. Many are afraid to gaze within the dark tinted glass which makes up the covering for half of his masked face for fear of seeing their own terrified expressions mirrored in it's surface. When he stops, so do half the hearts in the room.
He quietly and peacefully takes a seat at the bar patiently awaiting service. After a few tense moments the lone barkeep walks up.
"What are you havin'?" he asks somewhat cautious.
"Anything here that doesn't have any alcohol in it." The deep, rough, grating voice of the stranger pierces the room forcing what few bare whispers that had bothered to surface back into silence.
"We have water." Replied the bartender.
"That will do." As the glass is slowly filled a small opening begins to form in the faceplate that covers the lower half of the strangers face, revealing nothing but darkness. The masked one slowly begins to sip the drink as the bartender stands before him anxiously awaiting any further requests. When there seems to be none he turns to walk away only to be halted.
"I'm looking for someone, a cyborg-maverick that goes by the name Talon. He has a small team of men that serve under him. Have you seen them?" The bartender is quick to reply.
"Nope." He doesn't even bother to ask for a description, confirming the suspicions of the masked intruder. He begins to leave when suddenly a single patron, a large burly biker wearing leather who has somehow managed to work up his courage, walks up and demands his attention.
"You're the guy who busted up Big Tony's crew a couple of weeks ago?" The stranger tilts his head slightly to address the brash individual.
"That depends." Comes the reply from behind the faceplate.
"On what?" asked the biker.
"On who Big Tony is." Replied the stranger casually.
"He's my cousin." Now the masked one turns upon his seat to look at the fellow.
"Ah I see. So the sloped forehead and low intelligence are genetic aren't they?" he asked nonchalantly.
"Why you!" The large fellow takes a wild swing at the head of the stranger. The man in armor quickly leans back in his seat with one hand and then moves forward lifting slightly off the stool to deliver a high kick to the biker's face. The blow is accompanied by the sound of crunching bone. The large fellow lets out a cry of pain as he takes a second swing only to have his arm grabbed and twisted behind his back as his face is sent headfirst into the top of the bar. He falls to the floor and does not rise. Slowly the stranger dusts himself off and pulls ten credits from his pocket leaving them upon the surface of the bar as he begins to leave the dark room. For a brief moment he pauses above the fallen biker to examine him. A few individuals manage to lean in close enough to hear the stranger mutter a small phrase before he leaves.
"Vae victus." An ancient phrase often muttered by warriors of a time long past when entering or leaving battle. The simple statement translates to one simple meaning.
Woe to the defeated.
A small bar located deep within the heart of this crime infested district has since shortly after it's conception served as a haven and a gathering place for those who do not wish or do not believe their place in this world lies in a path that does not cause chaos or pain. Here mavericks and humans alike take refuge night after night amongst one another where the air is so thick with smoke it has become visible, while the inhabitants remain huddled amongst one another convinced that only their kind would ever dare venture into this blackened place and that would be true.
That is, until tonight.
The single small glass door that serves as the only public entrance to this den of evil slams open by the barest flick of a hand. Not the first time it's happened to be sure, some of the more rowdy regulars frequently opt for a noisy entrance. All chances of such a thing are quickly shot as the single individual who now stands in the doorway and holds it open examines the room with a gaze so piercing and so indiscriminate it causes even some of the more proud and brave patrons to turn away. It soon becomes obvious to those that do not know the reputation of the one that has entered their domain, this is not one of their kind; this is an outsider dark enough and perhaps fearless enough to step into such a haven for the damned. Soon small whispers can be heard among the shadows of the bar.
"Christ it's him."
"What's he doin' here?"
The door is allowed to slowly close shut as he slowly makes his way across the hardwood floor of the barroom. The wide strides of his hard metal boots act as a foreboding drumbeat as they pierce the deadly silence, his blue and red armor glint under the faded lamps that line the ceiling. Many are afraid to gaze within the dark tinted glass which makes up the covering for half of his masked face for fear of seeing their own terrified expressions mirrored in it's surface. When he stops, so do half the hearts in the room.
He quietly and peacefully takes a seat at the bar patiently awaiting service. After a few tense moments the lone barkeep walks up.
"What are you havin'?" he asks somewhat cautious.
"Anything here that doesn't have any alcohol in it." The deep, rough, grating voice of the stranger pierces the room forcing what few bare whispers that had bothered to surface back into silence.
"We have water." Replied the bartender.
"That will do." As the glass is slowly filled a small opening begins to form in the faceplate that covers the lower half of the strangers face, revealing nothing but darkness. The masked one slowly begins to sip the drink as the bartender stands before him anxiously awaiting any further requests. When there seems to be none he turns to walk away only to be halted.
"I'm looking for someone, a cyborg-maverick that goes by the name Talon. He has a small team of men that serve under him. Have you seen them?" The bartender is quick to reply.
"Nope." He doesn't even bother to ask for a description, confirming the suspicions of the masked intruder. He begins to leave when suddenly a single patron, a large burly biker wearing leather who has somehow managed to work up his courage, walks up and demands his attention.
"You're the guy who busted up Big Tony's crew a couple of weeks ago?" The stranger tilts his head slightly to address the brash individual.
"That depends." Comes the reply from behind the faceplate.
"On what?" asked the biker.
"On who Big Tony is." Replied the stranger casually.
"He's my cousin." Now the masked one turns upon his seat to look at the fellow.
"Ah I see. So the sloped forehead and low intelligence are genetic aren't they?" he asked nonchalantly.
"Why you!" The large fellow takes a wild swing at the head of the stranger. The man in armor quickly leans back in his seat with one hand and then moves forward lifting slightly off the stool to deliver a high kick to the biker's face. The blow is accompanied by the sound of crunching bone. The large fellow lets out a cry of pain as he takes a second swing only to have his arm grabbed and twisted behind his back as his face is sent headfirst into the top of the bar. He falls to the floor and does not rise. Slowly the stranger dusts himself off and pulls ten credits from his pocket leaving them upon the surface of the bar as he begins to leave the dark room. For a brief moment he pauses above the fallen biker to examine him. A few individuals manage to lean in close enough to hear the stranger mutter a small phrase before he leaves.
"Vae victus." An ancient phrase often muttered by warriors of a time long past when entering or leaving battle. The simple statement translates to one simple meaning.
Woe to the defeated.
