Chapter 17: A man named Hallott
In the dimly lit bar of Kagoshima, a man named Hallott sat on a barstool, nursing his black coffee. His appearance, a canvas of light red and yellow skin, bore the scars and rashes of unknown origin. He adorned light purple dress pants, black leather shoes, a military blazer, and a cap adorned with the insignia of a general—a silver eagle's head with three stars beneath it. A gun holster clung to his belt.
Hallott's eyes, upon opening, revealed a haunting sight—the whites were rotten, and his irises and pupils had a glazed yellow hue. The bar, now tainted by the presence of the undead, was littered with the lifeless bodies of low-level criminals.
By his side stood György Fülöp, the commander of Army Undead's Division Bake-kujira. The general addressed his superior, seeking guidance. "Army Commander sir! What are our orders?"
Hallott, still sipping his coffee, replied with authority. "General-Director Black Eagle has ordered us to establish a presence in the Kagoshima Prefecture. Your division will handle Kagoshima City, while the other divisions will attend to the remaining cities in the prefecture. Clear?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" György Fülöp responded, and with that affirmation, the commander of Division Bake-kujira led his soldiers out of the bar, leaving behind the corpses of the criminals they had dispatched.
As they departed, a dark energy enveloped the bar, and the lifeless bodies stirred, reanimated by an unknown force. Their loyalty now belonged solely to Hallott. Dismissing his emptied coffee cup with a casual toss, he spoke to the awakened dead, "Let's get started, shall we?" The ominous beginning of a broken path unfolded in Kagoshima City.
Deep beneath the city of Turku in Finland, an extensive network of laboratories sprawled, rivaling the size of the city above. Within this labyrinthine facility, a man occupied an office, diligently typing away on his computer, engrossed in a project of significant importance.
Interrupting his work, an email notification appeared on his screen. The man's eyes lit up with recognition as he read the contents of the message. It bore a simple directive: 'Prepare Project Full Runner.' The ominous signature at the end added weight to the command — '-Yours truly, Black Eagle.'
A sly smile crept across the man's face, realizing the gravity of the instructions he had received. The wheels of a clandestine project were set in motion, orchestrated by the enigmatic Black Eagle.
In the distant alleys of Kansas City, a mysterious figure, obscured by the shadows, sat among the remnants of his grim work. Dark black hair framed a face adorned with a hockey mask, concealing any discernible features. Crimson red eyes glowed ominously, reflecting the aftermath of a recent bloodbath that stained his clothes. A fire axe rested by his side, a silent witness to the brutality that had unfolded.
His attention was diverted when a simple message illuminated his phone screen: 'Why don't you visit Tokyo for a while, eh, Crippler?' The sender's identity was unmistakable, labeled as none other than Black Eagle.
The man in the alley, known as the Crippler, pondered the implications of the message. Tokyo, a city across the globe, beckoned as a new stage for his dark endeavors. The enigmatic call from Black Eagle hinted at a connection that transcended borders, pulling the Crippler into a web of intrigue and violence that reached far beyond the alleys of Kansas City.
In a quaint café nestled in the heart of Östersund, a senior gentleman, adorned with grey hair and white eyes that spoke of a lifetime of experiences, sat in quiet contemplation. The ambiance of the café provided a serene backdrop, disrupted only by the subtle murmur of patrons engaged in hushed conversations.
Unexpectedly, a masked stranger approached the senior, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. With a mysterious air about them, the stranger handed a letter to the senior before disintegrating into dust, leaving an ephemeral trace of their presence.
Curiosity mingled with familiarity as the senior opened the letter, revealing its enigmatic contents. A smirk played upon his lips as his eyes scanned the words within. "How's it going, old friend? Wanna meet again in Japan?" The letter bore a signature known only to him—'-Gimei Hitto,' an alias that hinted at a deeper connection with a tar-skinned man. The café's tranquility seemed to cloak a world of secrets and unspoken ties that transcended both time and distance.