The street is dark, most street lamps long since burned out or shattered. The people here need the dark.
The street is silent, many things trying hard not to make a sound.
The air still carries the memory of winter.
But the street isn't empty.
One dark figure strides down the silent streets, heading straight for the only light in this part of the city, for the only part alive.
As he draws closer, the beat of his steps is joined by quiet sounds, heard with bones instead of ears.
He pauses in front of the corpse of an old warehouse, now infested by the parasites of the city.
And then he throws the doors wide open and strides forward.
He manages something even a full-blown police siege didn't: He makes the music stop.
The crowd pulls back. It takes a bold or dangerous man to survive this place, a man close to his instincts. They know, no man has ever entered through the front door. They know, this is no man.
A laugh shatters the silence. It's the tall, black man on the stage, grinning widely. Before him, another man kneels sweat soaked and barely conscious.
"Seems there might be a fight tonight after all, not just a slaughter."
He swirls the microphone and swaggers forward to the edge of the stage. Behind him, his beaten opponent staggers away.
"So tell me, who are you, to walk through Heaven's Gate? Who are you, to claim victory's reward before the fight? A born killer or self-made conquerer? A god come to kill or die?"
His only answer is a half hidden grin and blazing eyes.
He answers in kind.
"A god it is? I hope you can back that up, I always wanted to be a godslayer."
The figure walks towards the stage. It catches a thrown mike, and after a contemptuous glance, drops it.
"Well, are you gonna start, Buster? This is my stage, and you heard my moves." Eyes narrow. A verbal challenge was about as insulting as it got, but then it wouldn't do for the stranger to hold back.
For a split-second, the world shudders.
Then sound slams into the black man , and he can offer no resistance. He staggers under the onslaught, under the force and undeniable power. He cannot match this. He can barely comprehend this.
He falls to his knees. He is proud, and would never kneel before another man, but there is no shame in bowing before the gods.
To speak is a disgrace, but the challenge was given.
And so he gets up, to give his last performance staring into eyes of death.
AN: Yes, there is a plot in this story. There's even foreshadowing, which means I'm a good writer, right? Anyway, the next chapter is pretty far along, so hopefully that shouldn't take as long.
Finally, this chapter is not Beta'd, so if you see some spelling/grammar/ general mistake, point it out please.
Cheers