The light filtered in, as per routine, the small glass window letting it slip through the dirt and grime covered over. It stealthily sneaked up, anticipating another successful waking up of a snoozing man on a couch, tentatively evil in its ambitions of rousing sleep from the tired. But, the light had not the pleasure, the victim waking before the light could attack him. Quint knew always the light woke him, shining upon him in the mornings to piss him off and wake him up, and his body had a biological timer to now know it. Seeing the oncoming light slowly pervading the room in its rectangular luminance, he turned over, wrapping a spare garment he found on the ground with a lazy hand throwing it over his face in victory. The sunrise tried nudging him to full awakeness, shining upon him, but he out did it, one-upped it. He was the victor.

And, so lasted another hour of sleep, until normalcy of bodily functions awoke him. Rising to sneer at the sun which had inadvertently won anyway, he took his mumbling and waking steps to the bathroom. Exiting a few minutes later, and a few pounds lighter, he looked around the small apartment. Nothing much to it, no real food there, as of now. He and Bianca would go to Zimmerman's later, pick up a breakfast snack, waste the day loitering in Neo-Troy, who knew. Taking a stretch of his arms, noticing briefly how the bone was slowly healing itself to the point he could actually maneuver his arm, and his right arm's gash only leaving an unsightly scar across the median of his deltoid, he was rather good as new, only a few more weeks.

Walking over to the door next to the bathroom door, the one he knew to be Bianca's, he slowly opened the door. It slid into the wall, the creaking wood crying ever so lightly as Darton stealthily slid it open, inch by inch. The golden light filtered into the darkness from around his outline, leaving blots of light to illuminate a dresser and trinkets, bits of blanket, outlines of her figure under the sheets, and her mumbling and turning over unconsciously from the invading light. He smiled, closing the door again, as slow as he opened it, to not wake her, leaning on the adjacent wall for a moment to think.

He sighed, then approached the front door of the apartment, its many locks secured and in place. He knew the mornings were wet and cold, he was on the Italian border, it was normal, as well as seeing his sword leaning in a corner, but only grabbed his Seikishidan issue top coat, to keep him warm. While the Seikishidan issue garb would get him killed, it was not as if some people didn't wear them. In times like these, if you could get clothes, you wore them. And Seikishidan garbs were relatively versatile and warm.

A familiar walk down the iron catwalks and down the ladder let him stand on the noisy streets of Troy. The throb of people and life ran in his ears and shook him to the bone, trampling masses from one shed to the next for food and items, back and forth like a mass of ants without a queen to dictate. A walk of shoving, pushing, clawing and determined tacklig later, he found himself grasping the handle of a familiar shop, like one lifeline to the side of the canyon before the torrential stream tore life from him down the rapids. Pushing through and nearly stumbling down onto his knees, he stood slowly, brushing himself off.

Weary eyes met him as Zimmerman's stout and small figure leaned over the counter, deep set Italian eyes with darkness brooding behind then only gave contempt to the figure that had just fallen through the door, the familiar cowbell dinging as he entered. Darton smiled a mischevious smile as he walked over to the counter, taking the last bit of debris off of the white Seikishidan lined in green private rank, somewhat faded from its pristine holy white.

"I don't got any food for you, 'Kishi'."

"You got food for a paying customer." he said with a sly tone in his voice, completely opposite to the detestfulness in Zimmerman's. The shop owner shot a spit to the small bowl in the corner behind the sink, hitting it with a ping, somewhat in disgust of Darton. He knew he wouldn't turn down someone who could pay, but he also had moral obligations against him. "How about this: You don't need to say much, just serve me the usual." Darton smirked.

The man grunted, and got to work, grabbing items furiously off the large shelf behind him and on the counter, moving to the stoves and plates, forcefully taking his aggression out on the preparation of the "usual". Darton took a moment to look around him, swivelling on the chair at the counter to see an old man sitting near the far end of the small shop, a cup of coffee on the table, and a book in his hands, old eyes looking through old spectacles to the words of the Old Testament.

As I said before, not many books existed in the world. And, the few that did, were usually just the Bible, since it remained in print, thanks to the Seikishidan and U.N. Other books, works of fiction or works of romance, laughter, and anything else that might fall into the realm of anything NOT with the Bible, had been destroyed over the years. Not contraband by governments or by distatse, but simply that it wasn't something people held as dear as the Bible to save. Sure, they still existed somewhere, in some places, but they were not easily accessed or known about. I said before I had found myself a library, aged by yars and weather, destoyed decades prior, and read a few books left by the people who had written them centuries ago. I am fortunate and lucky, since it was rare for me, and would be equally as rare for anyone else in the world, save for a certain man (if I should call him that) I know. Any other books...were considered rare and keepsakes passed down and cherished. Words were learned by heart and read nearly nightly, not dependent on how many times it had been read. This is partly why I try and write a book now in these times. To have a new publication, something not the Bible, something new for people to see and know about. Sure, it may just be a narratyion from a certain point that everyone knows about, but it is something, and that is what matters.

Oh yeah, before I forget. Zimmerman is Italian...but his name is of German decent. People sometimes just take names in these times, because their lineage and true heritage is somewhat lost amidst the inconsistency to track it. He's Zimmerman because his father was, and the father before that, despite being pure Irish. Somehow, they picked up the name, despite region, and it stuck.

The plate fell from Zimmerman's hands, not angrily, but hit the counter with enough of a thud to draw Darton's attention. He sneered and walked away, grabbing up a towel and mug, and starting wiping the mug from all sides, as normally bar tenders do, one eye locked on Darton at all times. Quint muttered a thanks, and picked up the antequated fork and started to eat. A few minutes later, he set down the fork on the half-finished meal, wiped his moth, and looked over to Zimmerman, who only had the look of disdain pointed at Darton as he exchanged a clean mug for a dirty one on the counter, the dirty glasses in a line to be washed by his miracle cloth in hand.

"What's your problem with me, Zimmerman?" he said without any sarcasm, leaning on arm on the counter.

"Don't make smal talk with me, 'Kishi'."

"This isn't small talk. This is a question, and you should answer me, because like it or not, I'm not leaving here." Zimmerman only made a tsk noise, and continued cleaning. "Does the word tip interest you then?" Darton added ont he end, knowing the reaction elicited would be in his favor.

"You want my problem? It's because of her."

"Bianca."

"Yeah, her. I don't want you around her."

"Come on, old man. You can't tell her she can't be with me or not."

"Like hell I can't."

"Afraid she'll grow up?" Darton mused.

"It's different."

"Oh really now? 'It's different.' How is it different?"

"Not yer business, 'Kishi'." Darton countered by reaching into his pocket and dumping a few bills and coins onto the counter, with the metallic clang and rattle of a few coins settling to their flat sides. Zimmerman looked at the amount with a tentative eye, then sighed, set down his loved cloth and dirty glass, walked over to Darton, put both of his hands on the counter, and leaned forward.

"Why ya doin' this, 'Kishi'?" he said dangerously, a lingering morning-breath hitting Darton in the face.

"Because like it or not, I'm here to stay. You can be an ass, or accept it also. And, I'm tryin' to make the best of it, you can too. Care to answer now?"

"Because you're gonna fuck that girl over."

"What?"

"I'm like that girl's father, I don't need any kid just fuckin' it up for her. Leave her be and just get out while you can before you hurt her."

"You think I'm gonna hurt her?"

"I know you will."

"Why are you so damn protective of her?"

"It's long and doesn't concern ya."

"I'm paying for your time, I want to hear it."

"Fine, wanna know the story? You got it, boy." Zimmerman pushed off the counter, crcking his knuckles and correcting his taut posture, a bulging body fit into tight clothes and a small frame, standingsomewhere belowfive-feet-six-inches. "She's an orphan, you know?"

"She told me."

"Well, I've lied to her for the better part of her life about a few things, because it's better for her. She is an orphan though. Some of these things don't leave here, got it?"

"You're talking for money, money talks for no one. I'm listening."

"I'm thinking that she came from Venice or some other small place near there. Like eighteen years ago, she got here, just a toddler. Seems Venice had just been torched by Gears, completely over run and destroyed. No 'Kishi' in the area, since they were all over at Jakarta, setting up that mammoth. There was an orphanage there, and for good cause. The lady who ran the stupid place escaped Venice, and had taken a few children with her. She had a few holes in her, stab wounds, a bit of slices and looked dead already. She got to Troy and ran into the walls, screaming and crying, and as soon as she touched them, she just crumpled there and died, this girl in her arms."

"She had basically been dead for a few days, but kept on going and moving with the only thought in her mind to get to Troy and get this little girl to safety she had been carrying. She ran from Venice to Troy, that's a good hundred miles, and she never stopped, never rested. She just ran, this nice lady, and her body was out there beyond Troy for a day or so, until someone realized she was there and a baby was crying. Bianca had to have been a few years old at this point, not beyond four though, she wouldn't remember any of it. That lady had ran that huge distance just to save Bianca, and died as soon as she reached here. The council said they wouldn't take the baby in, it was a security breach to open the gates for just one baby, since it takes a goddamn long time to get those bitches open and close, and the Gears could get in if they opened it just for one thing, since those buggers move fast."

"So, I said I'd take her in. I spent my savings, got her an apartment, raised her up like one of my own, like a daughter, and been helping her out ever since. I never wanted to be a father, but I wanted to raise her, so I bought her that apartment a week after I got her, and she lived there. Girl learned to live on her own real damn well, but I always was there if she needed me. I wasn't going to be her father, I couldn't take the hurt, after my own family and daughter was taken from me, God rest their souls. Now, I get some 'Kishi' ass moving in to try and hurt her and fuck her life up, and I won't allow it."

"Calm down, old man." Darton said. "I'm not gonna hurt her...if anything, I'll make sure I don't. I won't make her feel pain, I promise that. Only thing that might is the indigestion from those eggs, Zimmerman." he smirked.

"You can leave if you don't like the service." he sneered, grabbing up his glass and rag and walking back to the other side of the enclosed counter, mumbling under his breath some indecencies at Darton's expense. Quint, on the other hand, just smiled, reaching into his own pocket, and grabbing out some more money and plopping it down onto the counter before standing up, jingling the bell hooked by a string to the door, and exitting into the mass of people outside.

A cautious Zimmerman waded back over to where the former Seikishidan soldier sat, eyeing the money. He picked out the coins from paper money with his stubby fingers, then spitting once again to the pot in the shop with disgust, jingling the money into his pocket on his apron. True to Darton's word, there was an ample tip, more in the tip than the meal was worth.

Night fall on the giant city was nothing to be around for. It got ugly, quick. The gangs came out, looting whatever kisok hadn't packed up and gone home, and mugging (usually killing) anyone who walked it, with or without a weapon. The gangs were a real problem on the underside of the city, but unlike the merc system in place for some makeshift police, the gangs each demanded respect of each other and kept themselves in a sort of feudal government of power with each other.

Old men scurried home, women fled with children, and anyone not in one of the gangs was either in doors or heading there. The gangs attracted the younger people, being their work force of no good deeds, the older one became in the gangs, the more respect they gained. Each gang basically had its own hierarchy, and eventually, leader. Ranging from old fat guys who talked with a slur to young, Irish boxers with a penchant for hard liquor, the street gangs were more than just hooligans; it was nearly life at night.

Maybe I've jumped the gun a little, no pun intended. Jeremy Colt...I met him, only once. Heard of him a little. He was a bounty hunter, almost as famous as Sol, but Sol never failed. Colt wasn't 100, but he was good, damn good. Not to mention his legendary pistol, and shady past in the Seikishidan, he's as much a legend as Badguy. Difference being that while Sol was never known to lose a bounty, Colt was, and he didn't just lose a bounty, he sometimes screwed up, bad. One such story goes about his endeavor to collect on a British U.N.-hater who was rallying to strike against the Seikishidan somewhere around London. Colt took the offerof the man's head for the man's weight(in grams) in World Dollars (a very hefty sum). Well, Colt didn't finish his mission, he was caught. The political dissenters were basically going to kill him to show the U.N. they were nothing, and they had already been killing rampantly other humans they disagreed with (so stupid, especially in this war), but Colt lived.

About a month after the botched assassination, Colt resurfaced, taking more bounties. The London man will killed, and his entire following, but no bounty ever collected...no one knows why. They say Colt killed him, but was so ugly with him, that if he brought him in, they'd never be able to tell if it was him or some random vagabond he beat to a bloody pulp. The odd thing about the story is how Colt was captured, tortured, and they probably tried everything to kill him, but Colt has some special knack for not dying. That's one of his neat things, he just won't die. There have been bounties on Colt even, and there have been accounts of stabbing him, throwing him off ledges, beating him for hours on end, drowning, and he just never wants to die. He's not super human, he's just got one hell of a will to live. Or, maybe his will to live is exactly what makes him super human. Your decision. He has no fear of anything, and even if he screws up bad, there's never too much worry for him. Stoic? You betcha. But, that's also a real stupidity.

Colt had taken his rounds after he left the bounty office that day, checking cantinas, bars, local hotspots, kiosk venders, guards...no one knew anything of Quint Darton. He sure as hell was keeping a low profile for being a Seikishidan spy... Finally, he decided to do what all people do in Troy when they need help when in the lower city. Turn to the gangs.

He had found a nice little niche on the East side of the massive city, spent a while browing the worthless junk, debating spending some of the money he got from some low bounties he had collected in his scant week in Troy, which was actually pretty astounding, considering the amount and time he had been there. All he came out with in the end was a super bulk case of aspirin, and a lousy prostitute. After those fun events, he basically waited out his time in the streets until dark came. The life thinned from Troy until the nights finally fell and the golden rays of artificial light seemed to rain down in ironic tear drops from the sky scrapers above on the streets and tension wires holding the cement goliaths up.

He took out his pistol, shining the side with his old Seikishidan trenchcoat, then pushing out the circular chamber. It was an old six-shot pistol, emblazoned with the brand of Colt across the grip. If you're man enough to back it up, you can call yourself whatever you want in this world. No one can deny you were or weren't named something, and even if you weren't, in the case of Sol Badguy and Jeremy Colt, they didn't have anyone to challenge their names, and those who did regretted it. So, you either accepted what they told you to call them, or accepted more violent means of persuasion. Neither were too friendly, but Sol definitely being the moe impersonable of the two. It's pretty common for mercenaries to be assholes though. Nice mercenaries never last long, in plus, how does a nice mercenary end up killing somebody anyway? It's a contradiction. Spinning the chamber, looking at the six bullets he had in there, he pulled each one out, examining it. Bullets were expensive commodities, you didn't just shoot anyone, since that bullet might have been worth more than that poor soul that you just murdered. But, nothing beats a gun when you need something quick, fast, and deadly. Colt spun the wheel again, slapping it into the center of the gun with a trained quality that he seemed to pull off with perfection in style and grace.

"Come out, come out, you little dicks..." he muttered, seeing the moon slightly starting to lift from the horizon, signifying it was time for the gangs. He reached into the opposite pocket of the one filled with bounties, and pulled out one of the bottles of aspirin he got from the large crate. That crate he bought he conveniently hid in the middle of some alley somewhere under a bunch of trash, so no one would find it. And, if they did, big deal, aspirin. But, he needed it, and it'd be useful. "Don't make me get a goddamn headache, you stupid gang fuckers..." he said, swallowing a handful of the pills without any hesitation or care before returning the now significantly lighter clear bottle to his pocket with a light rattle.

Sure enough, they came with enough time. Led by a boy of his late teens, smirking with a bit of his own self presumed elegance, followed by a convoy of other members of the gang, each carrying pipes, small swords, worn weapons, and whatever else they could use. They used their most sinsiter of faces, looking out for trouble, not waiting for it to begin. Like a nocturnal predator on the hunt, they were ready.

"Looky here, some dumbshit in acowboy hat wants to be out here on our turf at night." the boy said, walking out of his alley to where Jeremy was leaning against the wall.

"Let's make this simple and sweet, boy. I wanna see the leader of your gang."

"Oh really? You're not going to, Dumbshit." The last words muttered by the boy echoed in the deathly silent streets as he fell down to the ground, grasping a knife dug into his chest, quivering in pain before finally subsiding to equal silence of the streets of Troy. Whispers and grunts from the rest of the convoy of gang groupees, none of them older than the one small gang leader, circulated around to attack the man, and they rushed on him, stopped about ten feet from the man as a gun was pointed at them in the gray darkness.

"Don't push me, kids. I just want to see your fucking boss, and this won't be hard, unless you want to die. Because, I can still do that and see your boss, it's just gonna slow me a little." He smirked, holding the pistol level and straight at them with an air of cockiness and pure joy at their fear and the smell of the now corpse beneath his feet. The blood stank a littlelike putrid copper, waftng up to his nostrils, as the blood filtered from the boys lifeless hands encapsulated around the knife in his sternum, filling in the cracks of the cobblestone walkways of Troy, between and around each ofthe protruding stones to form a pool like outline of where the grout of each stone seperated them from their geological brothers, now dyed in fresh crimson.

Jeremy walked forward with his gun pointed at the small group of gang affiliated teenagers, a few walking around and behind him, checking their friend and muttering a few more curses before they all finally surrounded him.

"No more fore play, you masturbating little shitdicks. Take me now."

"And if we kill you?" a kid hissed out, holding his withered and dented Seikishidan sword he got from a pawn shop.

"You can try, but you will be dead long before me. Save yourself the trouble."

"You got the trouble, bitch."

"I doubt that."

That punk said the base should be around here...he had no reason to lie. Kids don't lie when you break both of their arms. Better get searching. Colt threw his head back, downing a few more of the pills from the bottle, tossing the now empty container to the side of the street where it clanked like thunder among the silence of the frightened Troy streets. A small alley sat in front of him, a dumpster discernable on the inside by the waning street lamp, moths attracted to the light, leaving a flittering display of the orange to the ground. Beyond the rusted dumpster lie cartons, pieces of trash, a small sewage grate, and other normal alley specific things, including the darkness hiding anything in there. Not like Colt had anything to fear that the darkness might conceal anyway.

He walked arrogantly, both of his hands in his pockets, kind of a long stride in his legs as he slowly approached the darkness ahead. As with most gang hideouts, there was probably some latched door somewhere with a small slit for a guy to look out of. A passcode to be said before being let in, with a whole army of gangsters there waiting in the off case an enemy to the "family" came in. he lazily kicked a small can lying in the middle of the alley, unaware it was even there, the rattling sound resonating between the close walls of the buildings and being a ferocious alarm to his presence there. He stood still for a moment, tensing the moment he'd have to grab his gun and get dirty, but he hadn't used a single bullet tonight, and didn't want to. Not to just find out information on his bounty, because he'd rather shoot the bullet at the bounty, since he'd make profit off of that. Two shots or more...no profit margin there. He just used it as a blunt object for a while in his earlier dispute and some more methods.

Wasn't like he wanted to kill those teenagers, they just deserved it. They were in his way, and he gave them their chance to live, they didn't take it. They attacked him, and he killed them. He had no remorse for those he killed, since in one way or another, he saw that everyone had a pursuit of death in some way. Smartasses pursue it in their idiotic usage of words, big burly guys are asking to find one bigger to beat them, bitches who whine too much are just waiting to be shut up. And, he wasn't outside of the sphere of that "wanting of death" though he adhered too. Except his own personal motivation for death was more obscure, not that he didn't think about it a lot, it was common for his profession, but that he needed to find it first.

Scurries of feet and whispers found their way to resound cacophonously off the walls after thecan came to a rest, Colt smiling at the simplicity of things. It always happened, the way things were supposed to. Without fear, you can look at things a lot more objectively and with more humor, since basically, whatever happens, doesn't matter to you. So, you can do stupid things and say what you want, because no repercussion will hit you, if you really have enough balls, especially Colt. He walked forward again, his right hand trailing the side of the wall of the building, feeling cracks in the cement blocks and old grouting, the pressure of the scraper above already a strain on it, but the large steel and cement stations with gigantically thick metal wires outside on the streets made sure the buildings never toppled off of the backs of the lower level.

Finally, his hand found what it was looking for, the inwardly bevelled frame of a door, bolts and steel slats reinforcing it, with one small peep hole covered by a sheet of metal that seemed to peel back to reveal two beedy eyes searching around.

"Hiya" he said with a smirk, holding out his gun's barrel to rest in the small ectangle of space in the door. "Wanna let me in?" he asked nicely, with a bittersweet sarcasm underneath. The man's eyes peeled back to show fear, the small rectangle of face shown backing up from the door to review a broader view of the man's face and body, in his late twenties. This fucker obviously graduated from street thug... Instantly, the man ducked and bolted to the side, calling out distinctly Italian names of friends and comrades.

"Well, damnit..." Colt sighed, holsteing his gun again. He didn't want to waste the bullet, but he wanted the door open anyway. Time for Plan B. He turned around, looking back at the beginning of the alley, with the light surrounded by moths, dumpster, and sewage cap. Perfect.

Within a few minutes, about twenty of the upper tier gang members had filed out of the one iron door, each with some rudimentary weapon in their hands, each of those weapons probably having been accountable for a death or more a piece. They were gruff, older than the rummaging street gangs, and more grizzled. You didn't graduate to be one of the respected members of a gang without having taken your licks, and you didn't get to be respected without growing older first, so you needed to start young, not die, and slowly, it all came.

"Hey, there!"the same man from the doorshouted, seeing the sewer cap at the end of the alley slightly ajar. "I bet that rat fduck son of a bitch went in there! Probably one of Sullivan's boys again...get in there and flush him out!" he said in charge, ordering the others around, who all rushed to the sewage cap, threw it aside, and started jumping into the vast sewage system underneath Troy. The gangsters all flowed one on top of another, nearly forgetting there was a ladder down, and just jumping down, the splashes of water telling that the one in front had landed, your turn. After the majority had jumped down, the man yelling the orders found a cold steel against the back of his head.

"Wrong move, buddy." a familiar voice said behind the man, who turned to see the same cowboy hat of the man earlier, and then blanked out as the butt of the pistol smashed his nose into a fractured mess, blood pouring out instantly. There were two of the other gangsters left above ground who turned, screaming the news to those below, but they never had a chance. Colt grabbed the now falling and limp body of the door man and threw it at the other two gangsters, knocking them backwards and one falling into the sewage hole, the limp body covering it over, like a cap. The last gangster got up off the ground from the knock he recieved from his knocked out comrade, and readied his lead pipe to attack Jeremy.

"Fine...must we do this?" he said, putting his gun back in holster and placing his hands on his hips to look at the man. And of course, they did. He rushed, his pipe above his head, and swung it downwards with a target of Jeremy's head. Only it never hit. Colt expertly sidestepped the blow, catching both of his enemies hands inthe crux of his elbow, then tugged him around by the one lock he had with his right on both of the man's upper limbs. The man was flung into a wall next to him, a bit of dust knocked offof the alley bricks, an echoing blast of the metallic pipe dropping, and instantly swinging for a boxing punch to Colt's nose, and again, failed, when he fell over, coughing out in spastic breaths from the knee that went forcefully in his gut.

Colt adjusted his collar for a moment, looking down at the coughing and wheezing man. Probably collapsed his lungs. He'll be alright, maybe. The screams and yells of the other men in the sewage pipe continued, while the body on top moved like a rag as the surge of hands tried to push him out of his nearly air-tight seal on the putrid place they were stuck in. Jeremy smirked that his plan worked perfectly, then entered the ajar steel door, closing it behind him.

A few thugs later, and a few loud bangs and broken doors, Colt rested his hand on the final doorknob. The men before, lying in breathless and bloody heaps behind him, from the small billiard room to the radio room (which had three sofas positioned around it), and a few other lounges for the gangsters to bide their time, he came to what they were all protecting. He slowly opened the door, seeing an old man sitting at an oak desk, hands folded on top of each other securely, and a set face of anticipation, but without fear.

'Hello Don Corisione" he said smugly, and took a step in, shutting the door behind him.

Zeronova's Notes:
Well, there's the chapter. I kind of like the way it turned out, getting more character to Darton, and adding in a fun character, Oppem, who becomes very important in the future, let's not forget either adding in Don Corisione (added to Colt's appearance). Also, we get some more information on Bianca and Zimmerman. Zimmerman is kind of a stand in for the old story's Biondello, who is a useless character this time around (but there's still a bit of him lingering...just wait to see). Zimmerman fills the role, and also another part for the future of the story. But, we're heading up on 200k shortly...this story is gonna be so goddamn long.