Mercenary
Author's Note: Enjoy the story and R&R.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of the Rockman EXE series.
Summary:
There was a time when Dark Kirisaki passed judgment. A time before the human resistance, when his targets weren't merely limited to NetNavis.
Before Captain Mask put him on the right track.
Before Captain Mask showed him his heart was not dead and he had the heart to fight on…
There are very few things in this world that inspire me. They say that one who has deleted or killed as many as us loses the ability to sympathize. That's why I don't concern myself with oversentimentality. It's a privilege to do what I do. I feel it's my place to answer death's call. It's my trade, after all.
Calm. Crickets rustling in the grass. Birds noisy in their attempts to pilfer food from stone sills.
This planet is filled with animals. For every one good soul, there are hundreds more that treasure wealth and its luxuries above all else. We are corrupted. We must bear the burden of our faults. I am prepared to do so.
He caught a stray leaf in his hand and crushed it.
The forest grows and withers, then grows and withers. The moon shines and dims, then wakes and sleeps night to night. We are chained to the idea that we'll have everything we desire when we die. That happiness will follow us to our graves. We cherish this falseness. When we are left with nothing, what then? Nothing, I imagine. Nothing.
The last rays of the sun disappeared underneath the horizon.
We have made for ourselves what we believe to be nature. War and hatred. Life is so meaningless. It holds no value. All we can do is cause harm. It is the hurt we inflict upon others that is exchangeable. What is wanted. Life is no more than currency. Money is lost, and another becomes richer. Lives are lost, and another benefits. The similarities are not as vile as many may perceive. I see it as a business, and for any business to be successful, those who pose problems must be eliminated. There is no other alternative.
Then there are those who take what does not belong to them. Who do not wish to work to succeed. They are the worst. Transactions should be relative, and payments made upfront.
A man was emptying the contents of his pockets. Crossing such a thoroughfare alone at night was a careless exercise that could leave you without possessions. Bandits roamed these parts, and were never friendly to trespassers.
Some assassins are rather choosy. I'm not that kind of person, though. I'm not afraid. Why should I be? Just as infants learn how to walk, I had to educate myself in the deadly arts.
"Please!" the man pleaded, clinging weakly to the taller one's rags. "You can't do this!"
Anything can be done. It's the price that counts. How much will I acquire? Is it worth it? Does it constitute the risks? Or is it the electric excitement of the hunt that determines the afterglow? The highest bidder will win my answer.
The criminal kicked the man in the stomach, causing him to double over in pain. He picked up everything he could steal, stashing the effects in a sling he carried.
"You should've known better than to wander!"
"N-no! I need it! I need it!"
The bandit kicked him again, annoyed by the poor geezer's constant whining. He could hear footsteps, but disregarded them in favour of beating the civilian further.
"Give it back!"
Survival motivates us. We destroy hopes only to fulfill our own. The hopes of friends and strangers alike. Greed lurks everywhere. We can't deny it. We shouldn't deny it.
"Shut up! Or you'll lose more than your belongings!"
"Get out of the way…"
"Huh?" The crook turned around, locking his good eye on the intruder. His second eye, which did not function as well as it used to, was hidden beneath a felt patch. "Don't interrupt me kid!"
The youth's hair and gaze were blue, and he was dressed in satin attire atypical for the desert. He wore a dark jacket, violet-coloured pants, and ascot atop a wide collar.
"And you'll do what?" the boy asked quietly, his tone somewhat foreboding and mysterious.
"I'll cut you with this! How does that sound?" the looter threatened, pulling out a knife.
The newcomer's lips edged upward until they formed a crescent smile. There was no light in his eyes, and he seemed amused by his would-be attacker's choice of weapon.
"Amateur. Killerman, Transmission!"
Shwing!
It took them several moments to register what transpired. To begin shuddering in suppressed terror at the purple figure of Death, which had emanated so rapidly out of thin air (really out of the creepy child's Link Gate) to position his scythe below the bandit's neck.
The bandit dropped his knife.
A slip in the wrong direction, and it'd be his head.
A slip in any direction, concerningly.
"You're…You're just a kid!"
"I'm a professional. Do it, Killerman."
"Wait! Wait! Wait!"
"Che!" The NetNavi halted his hanging spree of bloodshed. And he was about to holler a celebratory "It's a festival! It's a festival! It's a festival!" too!
"Knives are so short-range. You're lucky this time. You aren't part of the mission. But if you ever appear before me again, Killerman here will use his Hell's Sickle to slice you into tiny pieces."
"Kekeke! It's a festival! It's a festival! It's a festival!" Killerman couldn't help a sadistic grin.
Both perpetrator and victim were cowering. NetNavis were much scarier compared to Beast Viruses.
"W-who are you?" they sobbed.
The mercenary recalled his Navi and continued his trek past the two encumbrances.
Completing the mission. Collecting his Zeny. Those were his sole goals.
It was not the electric excitement of the hunt that inspired him.
"People call me the Black Death God. Dark Kirisaki."