Booming heavy metal music plays with a violent rage, the sound representation of hell itself radiating intensely. Strong accents are struck with such visceral energy as though the music is to set the tone of a violent battle, the storm of strings fueling warriors that slay hordes of enemies.

The music plays inside a large bar room filled with groups of people by tables, speaking in delicate and relaxed voices while calmly sipping out of bottles in their hands.

The bar has silver walls with light that seems to radiate off said walls for there seems to be no explicit light bulb, and in the same way it seems that the intense music is playing from the walls too.

The majority of the open bar room is composed of tables, where brown tabletops with an artificial wooden appearance hover several feet in the air, and surrounding the table tops are several hovering chair seats used by a variety of adults conversing and drinking.

In the hands of many of the people are frosted transparent bottles, and on the bottles are a glowing cyan line indicating the liquid level in the bottle, along with illuminated symbols and characters which contain the name of the beverage along with the company of which it's made by.

The customers at the bar all seem to be vastly different in the way that they are dressed, for some people wear casual colored tops with exposed hairy arms, and some tables are used by groups of people in formal black suits and uniforms, with elegantly designed blazers and flashy metallic ties.

Along the right side of the room is a long bar table with several hovering chair seats along, and on the other side of the table is the bartender, who stands in front of a large shelf with an artificial wood appearance, which houses a large array of bottles on display.

The bartender seems to be wearing formal attire as well, with a perfectly tailored dark blue blazer and pants and a white buttoned shirt, along with a dark gray tie. He seems relatively aged, appearing to be in his 70s, with a bald head and wrinkly face.

The bartender walks up and down the bar table to customers who raise their voice with requests, and he picks out bottles from his shelves and pours them into frosted transparent cups before handing them to the customer.

On the far side of the bar is a rectangular opening presumably to be the door, with smoothed edges and a faint blue haze cast over it. Beyond the door is a glimpse of the outside world, as soft cyan light shines in through the window, although the majority of the bar room is lit with white light anyways.

There seems to be quick objects moving back and forth beyond the door as well, although due to their speed it's nearly impossible to identify what they are. Behind the speeding objects is a smooth, metallic silver wall in the distance, seeming to be composing another construct outside. The wall lacks any features other than itself, and it shines in the sunlight.

The exciting sights through the narrow window are suddenly blocked by the silhouette of a figure that appears from the outside, the figure being a little under six feet tall with an averagely shaped body, not especially muscular yet not chubby.

The figure stares at the bar room for a few moments before then stepping inside, revealing himself to the room. He wears a long black leather coat with dark gray accents and lines, and under that are black pants with noticeable creases.

His jacket seems to also have been aged heavily, with noticeable creases and fading, as while his jacket is black it seems far more gray if anything. The jacket has gray lines from the shoulders down to the elbow, and many creases on the forearm sleeves. The jacket has shoulder straps and a tall collar with a black hood that has two gray thick lines running vertically.

By appearance, the man seems to be aged, far more than the bartender as well, in the 90s by his looks, as though he was at the tail end of a long life. His face is heavily wrinkled with dark eye bags recessed into immensely pale skin, nearly white even.

The man has four distinct locks of white hair long enough to reach below his neck, and while it is indeed long, his hair seems badly unkempt and seemingly fading, as it seems that he has lost most of his hair over the course of his long lifetime.

The man immediately approaches the center of the bar table, heading straight towards the bartender, as there seems to also be an open chair seat for him. The man walks slowly, his expression cold and hollow, and reaches the table and seats himself in the center in front of the bartender.

The bartender turns towards the man as he notices his presence, and he lets out a soft huff through his nose as though in annoyance, but quickly changes his attitude to be more hospitable as he approaches the man.

The bartender asks politely with an Australian voice, “Your usual, I presume?”

The man nods his head, and he speaks in response, his voice being a soft yet hoarse deep voice.

He responds, “Yeah, sure.”

The bartender nods, and he turns around before walking back to his shelves. His eyes hone in one of the lower shelves, where there is an arrangement of cups which have already been filled with an odd black liquid, with the blue glowing indicator that the liquid was at the top. In front of the shelves seems to be a faint blue haze, almost like a translucent wall, as there seems to be a similar wall for every shelf.

The bartender grabs one of the cups, his hand going through the wall, and he pulls it out before turning around and returning back to the customer.

The bartender returns to the man and places the cup in front of him on the artificially wooden table with a strange amount of force, as he nearly slams the cup down, and he then lets go.

The bartender looks up at the man and offers, “Here you go, one cup of 187% Royx concentration. You know, most people come here for drinks that make them feel good, whether it be good taste or makes them feel happy. You’re the only customer that wants to torture himself here, but suit yourself, I don’t care as long as you don’t have another dance here.”

The man nods his head in compliance, and he thanks, “Thank you, and it’s an acquired taste. And that won’t happen today, I can promise you.”

The bartender’s eyes contract to a glare for a few moments, as though he feels a hint of doubt, and he remarks, “I guess we’ll see,” before turning around and walking to another part of the bar table to aid another customer.

The man lets out a soft sigh, knowing that he was already on relatively bad terms, hoping that today would be different. He lowers his head and stares at the black liquid inside the cup for a few moments, his blue eyes reflecting from the colorless abyss.

He seems to lose touch of his senses, as he spends several more moments just staring at the cup, as though deep in contemplation. He analyzes the black liquid, which rests calmly without any disturbances, giving him little to analyze but a black void to stare into.

His own reflection is cast from the black liquid, giving himself to stare at through the darkness, reflecting a serious and perhaps exhausted expression in his eyes.

However, his moments of silence are interrupted by a sudden loud bellowing voice beside him, a voice that sounded senile in terms of how raspy it was, yet even then it was carried with surprising power, which gave off an impression similar to an old man ranting at younger generations.

The bellowing voice exclaims, “Hey, this isn’t genuine Beeznez Battery Acid! This is that processed local shit without any flavoring!”

The man blinks twice and his eyes contract in a perplexed glare, puzzled by the random complaint heard beside him. He is in a bar, a place where people drink—usually alcohol or similar strong substances—, although battery acid was nowhere near a consumable product or at least not one suggested to the masses due to its unhealthy consequences.

The man keeps his head down regardless as he doesn’t want to bring attention to himself, and he especially would rather avoid confrontation with the interesting man beside him.

While the specific example was rather unique, the concept of customers barking odd complaints that give a glimpse into a window to their strange choices wasn’t new at all, for it’s a commonality in practically any bar, especially one as diverse as the one they’re in. Like usual, a complaint will be made, they’ll be ignored, and they’ll fall to submissive silence.

However, the proceeding silence that was hoped to be infinite is then once again fractured as the same man bellows again, just as loud and tired yet enraged, “Hey, you, guy with that weird tar shit or whatever that’s supposed to be. Isn’t the service here so unbelievably atrocious? I mean seriously, this doesn’t feel like authentic battery acid at all! And to think this place was any good, they probably bought out all their reviews. Corporate scum.”

The man in the leather jacket keeps his head down, trying to avoid the situation, keeping his face relaxed to distance himself from the scene being made. However, his eyes widen after processing the description of the man the voice seems to be trying to direct towards, specifically the drink of the man the voice is trying to speak to.

The man in the leather jacket stares at his Royx, his reflection still cast in the black liquid, revealing his concerned expression as his tired eyes stare into the abyss, praying that all he experienced was a mere coincidence.

Of course he wouldn’t be randomly called out so suddenly, for he had done nothing wrong, he simply sat there like any other customer. He was also not particularly interesting, his clothes were darker colors yet not so dark to attract glances. He styled his apparel to be discrete and avoid attention, and since he kept his speech to a minimum, he wasn’t bringing attention to himself vocally either.

While the man keeps his head down, the voice speaks again, although this time with a more aggressive tone, as though there was a new lack of patience. There is a new bitterness in his words, indicating irritation.

The voice complains, “Hey, so even the customers are as unresponsive as the service here? What, is this Earth’s special quirk that everyone here is deaf? These goddamn sheep, I swear. Hey buddy, yeah you, I know you know I’m talking to you! What are you being so quiet over? I’m just trying to have a normal conversation, can I get some normal conversation?”

The man manages to maintain his relaxed expression, resisting facial reactions that could fuel the voice beside him, although he is well aware that even silence would likely fuel this gratuitous tantrum. Either way, it would be a losing battle, and the best the man could do was prepare for an onslaught.

His blue eyes stay trained on the black liquid in his cup, casting a reflection, as the voice continues to ramble on, yet its words are gradually tuned out by the man, as what once bothered the man as loud roars depressed into suppressed muffles.

The reflection of the blue eyes on the black liquid illuminates, as though the eyes of the man begin to glow abnormally. His eyes begin to tense and contract into a concerned and serious glare, as while his blue irises face his drink, he’s no longer observing it.

Instead, his vision is set on the rest of the bar around him, his perspective having shifted from the flat image of the black liquid in his cup to the space of the bar room surrounding him.

His overseeing gaze encompasses the ocean of customers at their own tables, conversing with burping bellows or tame transmission, for the many voices create a melody that plays over the intense music blasting from the walls. He can even see his own body seated at the bar table, and beside him seems to be a bald slender man about six feet and five inches tall, dawning a large brown overcoat. The man seems to be speaking to the body, likely being the absurd customer that had to be tuned out.

That isn’t the focus however, as the overseeing gaze focuses on the exit of the bar, primarily at what appears to be the entrance of several men stepping through the open doorway.

At first there seems to be only three men, typical for a party at the bar, dressed in formal business attire with black jackets over sleek white shirts. Their jackets seem to have a few dim blue lights as well, and their eyes are covered by glasses with an opaque black lens, giving off a professional impression, which wasn’t anything abnormal since there were already groups dressed as such in the bar.

However, as the gaze approaches the three men, more men dressed in identical fashion enter through the doorway, as though there was a greater party arriving, for they were flooding the bar.

Upon reeling out of focus, the gaze notices that many of the customers at the bar turn their gaze to the arrival, as the large amount had picked up the attention of many. One group of four in particular that notices the entrance stand up from their seats in reaction, a group of men who seem to be dressed similarly to the newcomers, with the same style of clothing and same illuminations on their jacket.

They have been seated in the bar long before the arrival of the man in the leather jacket, yet as the group of four begin to approach the newcomers, it becomes apparent that they were familiar with each other.

The first three newcomers turn their attention towards the coming four, and they seem to interact with each other. As they speak, one of the four that has been at the bar turns their gaze to the body of the man in the leather jacket, causing the other six to face the same body, as though it is a topic of interest.

The gaze focuses on the group of suited men, specifically their hands which stay by their side, seeming to be hiding, as it becomes apparent that every man has one glove on at least one of their hands, a dark gray glove that gives off a metallic shine and has silver accents over the knuckles.

The gaze returns back to the black liquid, as the glowing blue irises dim down naturally, casting only a normal reflection on the drink. Even with the darker reflection however, a visible expression of concern is visible, as though the eyes have witnessed disturbances.

The man in the leather jacket finally moves his body, as with both of his hands, he grabs the hood of his jacket behind his head and pulls it over, an odd move as he’s indoors and thus would seem to have no need to do so.

He then returns his hands onto the table, leaving them beside the cup of his drink, and continues to stare with a still body. He’d have to act carefully now, for he knows the minefield he’s trekking through.

Beside him, the voice of the man speaks again, his voice now seeming more aggravated as though it was personally offended, “Hey, what’s that all about? Oh okay huh, so you’re ignoring me, aren’t ya? You people really are some lowlifes, aren’t you, I knew this tin bucket of a city was nothing but some dumb capitalistic propaganda with no substance, the whole sky is filled with stupid billboards for dumb shit nobody needs.”

As the voice rages, the man in the leather jackets lowers his head, realizing that the loud and uniquely toned voice could be an attracting source that could bring attention to himself, thus jeopardizing his position. There is no good choice to quell the dilemma, as reprehension would bring attention to himself, and not acting allows the voice to continue as he seems to be taking personal insult to the silence.

The voice continues its tirade, “I mean seriously, who needs all these flashy stupid earrings for Connects, hell I think I saw a headband one, it’s ugly and I don’t know what stupid families are actually shelling for them. I mean you don’t see me flashing my Connect everywhere, in fact I wired mine into my body because I am a man of minimalism, a rare breed in this idiotic capitalist-worshipping hivemi-.”

The voice is suddenly interrupted by a different voice, this voice not seeming to have succumbed to the curses of age, as it’s a clear voice with a deepness that presents intimidation. The voice interjects, “Greetings, sorry for the interruption.”

The man takes a deep breath, and slowly lets it out, knowing this event would become inevitable, for he was waiting ever since he received the alert. He keeps his eyes on the drink, preventing an external reaction, for now his only tactic was neglect, but that tactic would only delay rather than resolve.

His pale hands reside on the tabletop, wrinkled with noticeably bulging veins. His hands slowly begin to curl as he prepares himself, ready for what he knows is to come, an unpreventable climax.

The interruption silences the voice of the angry old man, whose body seems to shift upon the introduction. The voice stays silent for a few moments, and then speaks again, this time its voice being more submissive and soft, hesitant and concerned for once: “Fuck, are you the IRS?”

The intrusive voice answers with perplexion to the odd inquisition, “What? No. Who are you? What? No, I’m talking to the other guy.”

The voice of the old man sighs in relief to the answer, responding “Phew, you scared me for a moment, kid. I thought they had caught up to me, ya know I’ve done a lot in my lifetime, but the one thing I refuse to do is pay taxes-.”

Before the old man could finish, a collection of sounds interrupts him, as there first seems to be a loud whirring sound ended by the sound of several clicks, and then a soft electric hum with a high pitch.

While the man in the leather jacket doesn’t see the source of the sound, he recognizes it all too well, knowing the situation is badly escalating. The old man goes silent for the first time, as for a few seconds, the only sound the man in the leather jacket focuses on is the second of the electric hum over the sea of innocent voices and music.

The deep voice speaks again, his voice now more authoritarian and commanding, and his voice now specifically aimed at the man in the leather jacket, who has not interacted since the start of the conversation.

The man explains, “We know who you are, you can’t keep hiding in the shadows forever. Your charades made quite the mess, you cost us a whole lot of credits in special supplies that aren’t easy to get our hands on, you know? You know, we really respected you for a while. For a bit, it seemed like you were actually fighting the good fight, getting rid of those demons. I don’t know if they have some sort of mind games they played on you or if you really just lost yourself, but whatever happened to you, we’re gonna have to put you down. It’s for the good of humanity.”

A dark gray metal barrel is then placed against the back of the man’s head, pressed against the black hood, with vents on the barrel giving off a soft orange glow. It’s clear that some sort of firearm was being aimed at him, with the intent being assassination.

Oddly enough, there doesn’t seem to be a reaction from the rest of the bar, although with all of the other men composing the group, it seemed logical that they could’ve been acting as a wall to hide the altercation from the rest of the bar to avoid trouble. Nobody else knew what was ensuing, only the two men surrounded.

The man in the leather jacket gives a deep sigh, his blue eyes trained on his drink. His right hand is relaxed and open, its palm facing the cup, as his left hand is closed in a fist all but for his thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger, which all rest on top of one another.

Ultimately, the man speaks, as while his voice is hoarse, there’s a deadpan seriousness to it, one that seems to lack patience: “I’ll give you the chance to stop and walk away. And even if you really want to do this, why don’t we take it outside, leave all these people alone?”

The barrel is pressed harder into the back of the man’s head, as the deep voice refutes with an aggressive tone, “Don’t think you have any control here, with one tap of my finger I can spread your brain guts all over this table. What did they call you again, ‘The Tempest?’ Ironic, because I don’t see any storm in you, especially if you’re backing from a fight. You’re somewhat of an icon among us, it’s a shame that you’re a disappointment in person. Well forget your ‘chances,’ anything you want me to tell the boss before I put you to sleep?”

The man in the leather jacket lets out a soft sigh, for there is no other option, and he has to do what he has to do. His right hand inches towards the cup, and his left hand becomes stiff.

The man answers, “Don’t worry about it, kid-.”

Just then, what seems to be a black carbon fiber-esc material begins to crawl out from the inside of the man’s hood, and overlays in front of his face, masking it completely. For a moment, his face remains completely black, until two goggles suddenly illuminate with a sky blue hue, both goggles shaped as parallelograms with the bottom triangular point facing the center.

From the bottom vertex of the parallelogram goggles farthest from the center, a streak of the same sky blue energy drips down each goggle, reaching down below the mask, in a placement similar to tears. At the same time, from the top vertex of the parallelogram goggles closest to the center, a streak from both goggles also of the same blue ascends up to the top of the mask.

The man continues to speak, however his voice is different, now being far deeper and distorted, with an inhuman resonation that comes off close to extraterrestrial. He states simply with this inhuman voice, “-I can tell your boss for you.”

The Tempest’s whole body suddenly projects a flash of blue light, which nearly blinds all those behind him.

The barrel pressed against his head suddenly sparks with electricity, and the orange glow blinks, as though the firearm has malfunctioned from the flash. The glow vanishes completely, for it had been fully disrupted.

Without giving the man, who was clearly behind him based on the placement of the firearm, another second to think, the man in the leather jacket grabs his cup of the black liquid before turning around and smashing the cup into the man’s head.

The man who has been speaking, who is a six foot tall man with a heavy build and wearing the same formal attire, gets struck by the cup at overwhelming strength and speed, causing the cup to shatter upon impact regardless of its strong composition.

The shattered cup causes him to immediately collapse, and behind him, two men also wearing the same formal attire step back, and they raise their gloved hands, as though attempting to use it as a weapon.

Before they can, however, The Tempest points his left hand at one of them, his two fingers and thumb facing the man’s head. He then jerks his hand, and a blue light flashes in front of his fingers, projecting a blue bolt of energy that flies straight into the target. The bolt causes the intruder to collapse as though he had been shot, even though there is no visible firearm on the man in the leather jacket.

The Tempest then aims his hand at the other member of the group of intruders before jerking his hand the same way, and firing another bolt at him, which causes the member to collapse on the ground.

With the cover down, all customers of the bar turn to face the commotion, seeing the three suited men on the ground, and behind them the man in the black mask. The blue eyes glare, as The Tempest stares forward with his right hand now making the same form as his left hand, seeming to be a form necessary for using some sort of invisible firearm.

Only after a second of thought processing, all the customers from the bar stand up, with the sea of chatter polluted into a sea of screaming immediately. Customers frantically race for the door, terrified for their life, as the bar collapses into chaos.

While most people try to escape the bar, a large group of people stand their ground, all of them wearing the same professional suits. The group is dispersed throughout the bar, having taken different positions no doubt in anticipation for this outbreak, as some hide behind table tops and others stand in the open for a clear shot.

The suited men all raise their gloved hands at their one target, and the same whirring sound comes from all of them.

Their gloves seem to extend material from itself, expanding its dark gray body from only the shape of a glove into a far larger object. Over their palm, a long handle seems to form from the material making up the palm, giving their fingers a rod to grip onto. The back of their hand instead continues to extend out, creating shells shaped like firearms, with large and long bodies that then extend into a barrel.

The main body of the firearms are dark gray, however they have silver accents much like their gloves. There isn’t just one shape of a firearm for the whole group however, as some members have shorter firearms that resemble handguns with an integrated barrel, and other members have far larger firearms with long barrels, some even equipped with a second grip with which they place their other hand onto.

Each of the firearms have exposed vents, with many being on the barrel but others being on the body, and the vents begin to emanate an orange glow as the firearms activate, causing their barrels too to glow.

The Tempest analyzes the room, seeing that there is an abundance of hostiles, with not all of them visible from the start, however he can see a handful of them exposed. All of their barrels face him, as he’s their one enemy.

The Tempest bends his knees, as if pressing down on the spring, his blue eyes glaring. He faces four men standing exposed, about ten feet from him, likely being the men that had been watching him and joined with the rest.

The four intruders, all equipped with various versions of handguns evident by the compact and small designs, are the first to open fire onThe Tempest, as orange bolts are projected out of their barrels, flying straight for their enemy.

However, before the bolts can reach their target, he suddenly vanishes in a flash of blue, causing the four bolts to miss and strike the wall behind the table.

The four men all stared in confusion, with one of them lowering their firearm, for they weren’t sure what had happened to their target.

Only a moment later, The Tempest appears beside the leftmost man, with blue streaks of energy coming off his body, a trail of energy left behind. With speed unmatched by human ability, he slams his wrist into the back of the man’s head before taking a step forward, and doing the same with the next man.

He steps behind the final two on the right, and shoves both of them before they even notice what happened to the other two.

All at once, the four men collapse, with the left two falling to the ground at the same time and the other two flying forwards before their bodies collide with the bar table, causing them to also collapse.

Without waiting another second, The Tempest turns around to see two tables in front of him, with two men behind each of them, using the tables as cover. The four intruders then aim their firearms, which are larger and resemble assault rifles with the longer barrel, at The Tempest before opening fire.

Their target however strafes to the right with superspeed, dodging the barrage of fire. As he moves, he fires a shot from each of his hands, firing two bolts at the men. Each of the bolts strikes a man from each table, causing the other two to stagger in surprise to their fallen comrade.

With the given opportunity, The Tempest leaps forward, his body propelled forward with a burst of blue energy. His body flies right between the two tables, and as he passes the two remaining men, he fires a bolt at each of them, which hits both targets and causes them to collapse.

With the two intruders on the ground, The Tempest lands and catches his breath, but before he can, a man behind him with a firearm resembling a submachine gun opens rapid fire on him, shooting at his body before the target could escape. The man screams in rage as he showers bolts on the target, trying to bring him down.

However, the shower of bolts seems not to bother The Tempest, as when the orange bolts strike the body, they trigger a blue flash at the impact area, and the bolts seem to get absorbed into the blue flash.

The blazing blue eyes move to face the blazing hostile, and he leaps at him immediately. He grabs the man’s face with his right hand, and turns his gaze onto a group of five men standing by the corner of the bar, all aiming at him.

The Tempest then throws the man in his hand towards the center of the group, and his palm fires a concessive blast, which throws the man even faster. The man collides into two of the men in the corner, causing the other three to open fire.

The Tempest aims his hand at the man on the left side, who stands alone beside the piled bodies, and a chain of blue light projects from his hand. The chain attaches onto the man, which delivers an electric shock that causes him to shout in pain for a moment.

He’s then slammed as The Tempest reels himself into his body, bringing himself closer to the corner. He then turns towards the remaining two, and he clenches his hands into fists. He then steps forward and throws a jab towards one of the men, however the two men notice that he’s too far out of reach to land the punch, for it seems that their target was tripping up.

However, as the punch is thrown, a light projection extends from his fist, a beam that reaches the target. The extended punch causes the man to fly backwards several feet, and as the punch lands, the fourth man is shot at point blank range, unable to react as he’s struck at the same time.

As the chaos ensues and suited men are thrown into walls and tables, the bartender standing on the other side of the long bar table stares with an irritated glare, as it seems that his establishment had once more become a battlefield. He sighs, shaking his head with discontent before bending down and rummaging through his shelves mostly containing drinks.

Smoke and dust creates a low cloud above the floor, surrounding The Tempest as he turns around to find the remaining nine men, all standing at the center of the bar, no longer trying to hide as they all intend to swarm the target at once in hopes to overwhelm him.

The nine intruders all have their firearms out, with a variety of assault rifles, handguns, and other variations. The three men in front hold handguns and are relatively average sized, being a little shorter than the man in the mask, however the men at the very back are well larger than him, with a stronger build and larger firearms that they can manage.

The Tempest bends his knees as he stares down on the final nine, and once again, he springs forward, sprinting towards the center at enhanced speed. He aims each of his hands at one of the front men, and leaps forward, bringing his knee up.

He fires a bolt from each hand into each of the men at the exact moment his knee collides with the face of the central man, bringing the frontline down at once.

He continues sprinting forward as orange bolts strike his body, being absorbed into the blue flashes protecting him. He continues firing more bolts from his fingers in his rampage, bringing down three more men who were farther out of the center, making quick work of the outskirts as he closes in on the final few hostiles.

He aims his open hand at one of the three final men, projecting another light chain onto him. He then leaps forward, reeling himself towards the man at the speeds of a blur, and colliding with him in an attempt to bash him.

However, while the bash did clearly affect the intruder, it only staggered him, as he seems to still be standing. The intruder grunts in pain, and he shakes his head, before swinging his gloved hand in an attempt to bash his rifle into The Tempest, realizing he was too close to attempt to fire any bolts at him.

His attempt is missed however as his target evades the swing, and leaps up at him before grabbing his left shoulder, and then jabbing his right hand towards his face. He lands a punch in the face, which causes the suited man to stagger back, however it wasn’t enough to bring him down.

Instead of reeling his arm back after the punch though, his right hand projects a long blade of blue light from his fist, the size of a dagger. The light dagger drives straight through the man as its hilt was already against his face, and the man stumbles backwards again, but this time he collapses onto the floor as well from the immense energy projected straight into his head.

As the intruder’s target begins to stand up, he’s grabbed from behind by one of the remaining men, whose firearm wasn’t active, and dragged off of the collapsed body. The man then throws the target to the ground, and jumps on him, pressing his knee into the target’s chest and squeezing its neck with his large hands.

However, while the suited man was attempting to choke his target, his hands didn’t seem to be touching its neck, an immediate revelation that struck him. It felt as though he was touching some sort of textureless wall surrounding the man’s neck, preventing him from getting any closer, and thus was unable to suffocate him.

The Tempest glares back at the assailant, and a blue bolt projects off of his chest as though it is his fingers, and straight into the attacker’s body, causing him to stagger to the side before collapsing.

However, before the target can stand back up, the final remaining man takes the opportunity to pounce on him. In the remaining suited man’s hand, he holds a large silver knife with dark ridges, and presses on the hilt, which causes the blade to illuminate red as the sound of electric arcs come off the blade. The man then aims the blade at the target, and brings it down onto his shoulder.

While a blue flash initially appears over the impact area, the flash turns red, and to the target’s horrifying surprise, the blade manages to pierce his shield and penetrate his shoulder.

The target groans in agony from the burning knife beneath the black mask, his mortal skin having been punctured, his teeth gritted to try to keep himself calm. However, as he stares at the man, he finds that he can’t move, for all of the action had tired him, and now that he was injured he was at a greater disadvantage.

All he can do is stare at the intruder who managed to bring him down, as after all of the work he put into bringing down the squad sent at him, it seemed that he may be unable to come out victorious.

The suited man smiles victoriously as he drives the knife deeper into the target, as while all his comrades have been defeated, he seems to have succeeded.

However, the remaining intruder suddenly freezes, and his body begins to shake as it seems an unknown force had been brought down onto him. He stares down at target, and gulps, as he begins to feel pains all throughout his body at once.

To both men’s shock, the suited man’s skin starts to seem to morph, as bubbles in his skin start to appear and expand rapidly, quickly causing his face to become grotesque as his face deforms. Bubbles in his hands form as well, growing larger without a clear end, as his whole body seems to morph into an abomination unprompted. While his eyes weren’t visible, the man in the suit conveyed a colossal agony never felt before, which only grows as the tumors do.

In a great display of gruesome horror, the final remaining man explodes on top of the target, his blood scattering all over the bar as do his guts, blown up from the inside. Guts stick to the wall and tables before sliding down, as the bar was cast in crimson.

The survivor stares at the red ceiling with shock and horror, his whole body covered in crimson blood after the explosion right above him. He slowly grabs the knife still plunged into his body, and with gritted teeth under the mask, he manages to pull the blade out, causing intense pain as he feels blood gushing out of his body.

With the red blade in hand, The Tempest grips the handle, which causes the red glow to vanish and revert to the silver metallic blade. He then tosses the blade to the side, and the red flash on his body reverts to blue before vanishing.

The blood drenching his body then seems to evaporate, as though the shield protecting his body vaporized the liquid stuck on him. It doesn’t clean the blood all over the bar however, a greater disturbing mess unwarranted.

The Tempest, feeling his wound begin to be treated from the inside, notices a shadow cast over him, and he clenches his right fist. He turns towards the source of the shadow in front of him, ready to face whoever had caused such a disturbing scene, as whoever it was must’ve been one with great power and wickedness, a being of godly power.

However, as he gazes ahead of himself, he finds himself staring at a skinny man about six feet and five inches tall, standing over him with a brown overcoat over his body. The man has a bald head with a light brown face, for he seems Japanese. His face appears to be skinny too, however to a much greater extent than what appears healthy, as his cheeks seem sunken in as though he is horribly malnourished, and his skin even seems stretched as though he’s suffering from great illnesses.

However, his expression doesn’t seem in pain at all, as he has a wide smile on his face with lit yellow eyes, seeming fascinated by the horrible events that had recently transpired.

In the man’s hand seems to be some sort of handgun, as he grips onto a handle with a metal guard connected to a body with some sort of tilted screen facing him with an illuminated interface. Above the interface is what appears to be a revolver-style hammer, and connected to the back of the firearm is a cubical chamber which is slightly larger than the back of the handgun.

However, the chamber is then connected to a much larger barrel with several metal wires coiled around, for the handgun has an extremely unrefined design. It doesn’t seem to be designed safely or with any attempted standardization, but rather components slapped together lazily in a barebones design that also feels overly complicated.

The side of the cubical chamber then seems to extend slightly, and slim containers the height and width of the cubical chamber yet with a far lesser length begin to extend above and below the extension, with a row of containers protruding from the side of the handgun.

The containers stop moving, as there are three above the extension and three below, and on the side of the containers seem to be small flasks stuck onto the container itself. Most of the flasks are full, with different colored liquid inside, as some flasks are filled with a vibrant green liquid and others are filled with a dark red liquid.

One of the flasks however seems to be nearly empty, with pink liquid inside only partially filling it.

The man in the brown overcoat grabs the flask with the pink liquid, and pulls it out of its container. As he does, the rest of the containers seem to retract back into the handful, returning into the extension. Once all of the extended containers have returned, the extension itself then retracts back into the chamber.

The handgun seems heavily inspired by a revolver in functionality, yet the barrel resembles a glock due to the handle and rectangular barrel. Although it isn’t clear if there is any inspiration, for it could very well be irrelevant associations and that the weapon was made mindlessly.

The man in the brown coat brings the flask up to his mouth, and he tilts it, drinking the pink substance inside calmly. He gulps down the remainder of the flask, and once he finishes the last drop, he pulls the flask away and tosses it on the ground.

He then pulls out his brown coat from the side and places his handgun on the inside of his coat, seeming to somehow manage to holster it when it seems too large to be comfortable to keep against his body.

He then lowers his head to stare at the man in the mask, who just stares at him in silence, completely speechless.

The Tempest can only stare, as he recognizes the coat and body shape of the man from his scouting, for it is the same properties of the man sitting beside him earlier. However, there is no way it could be the same person, for that person was some odd customer with too many problems, and this man was some devil with alien technology who just consumed a liquid that was likely used to operate the device capable of murder in ways incomprehensible.

The man in the brown coat finally speaks, and his voice is the same raspy voice that raged at the man in the mask earlier before the fighting, as he was truly the same man that had such a distasteful temper.

The man compliments, “Hey, that was something pretty, maybe I was too harsh on this place. It seems fun, I mean damn if I knew this was the kind of shit going on everyday, well, hell maybe I should move here. This seems like my kind of home! Anyways who are you, and what was all that?”

The man then shakes his head, reevaluating the situation of the conversation, as The Tempest is still on the ground while he stands over him. The man extends his arm towards the bruised survivor, offering his hand.

He offers with an innocent tone in his raspy voice, “Oh sorry about my manners, here you are!”

The Tempest stares with disgust at the hand, which has long and slender fingers that seem like they’d break upon the lightest of contact. He returns his gaze to the man, and shakes his head. He then pushes himself up to his feet, staggering backwards as his shoes step on the bloody floor.

He stays silent, unsure of how to speak back to the interesting man who had potentially saved his life while also scarring it.

The man in the brown overcoat notices the man’s independence, and he nods his head while stating, “Mmm I see, you got it yourself. Nice mask by the way, but if you have that to hide your identity, I already saw your face so you need to work on that. I don’t know why you’d want to hide your face though, that sounds like a bitch thing to do and you don’t seem like a bitch.”

The Tempest sighs, acknowledging that there is no point in hiding his face to someone who has seen him, and who has just confirmed that they did indeed talk to one another before. The black mask covering the man’s face vanishes instantly in a flash, revealing his true face.

The man then grabs his hood with both hands before pulling it down, allowing his few locks of hair to be released. He then lets go of the hood and turns back to the man in the brown coat, staying silent.

The man in the brown overcoat’s eyes widens and he nods, interpreting the silence, “Oh I understand, maybe a bit too personal too quickly huh? Well what’s your name? I’m Ekitai, but you can call me The Golden Gunslinger!”

The survivor tilts his head in confusion to the nonchalant mood of the mysterious man who just violently murdered a man a few moments ago, and seems to be conversing as if it was any other day and as if the two weren’t standing in a red room of blood, guts, and bodies.

He still doesn’t speak, as he’s unsure of what to say, for he isn’t sure if the man is a dangerous threat that must be eliminated, or someone to be ignored.

Ekitai speaks again, seeming to take the man’s silence as a response, and continuing the one-sided conversation. He lets out a chuckle before acknowledging, “Okay, fine, nobody ever does that, I just thought it sounds pretty badass. I’m not sure if this whole city is full of fighting, but I think we make a pretty good team, maybe we could work together and beat up everyone in this city! Me and you, Ekitai and...uh...and you…. Don’t worry if you don’t feel like talking, I know a lot of people get intimidated by my presence, I’m just built like that.”

Immediately after Ekitai’s explanation, a voice shouts from the other side of the room, the voice of the bartender, “ROHAN!!!”

The survivor, who seems to have been outed with the name ‘Rohan,’ turns towards the source of the voice, and his blue eyes widen in fear upon gazing at the sight ahead of him.

The bartender approaches the center of the room from the bar table, and in his hand is a long silver firearm shaped like a shotgun, with his hand on the trigger. He angrily storms towards Rohan and Ekitai, who face him in confusion.

The bartender scolds, “Did we not just talk about this? What was the deal, Rohan? What was the deal we made?”

Rohan turns towards the bartender, and he sighs, knowing this reprimand would follow eminently. He softly acknowledges in a defeated tone, “I know...I’m sorry...I’ll make it up to you.”

The bartender raises his shotgun, gripping it intently, and he bellows, “JUST GET OUT OF MY BAR BEFORE I BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF!!”

Ekitai turns towards the bartender with a contracted glare, and he inquires curiously, “Uh, should I shoot him too? He seems like a bad guy.”

Rohan sighs, and he turns around to face the door. He begins to approach it as he finally speaks to Ekitai for the first time, albeit with a shameful tone, “No...don’t do that, please. I’m getting out of here.”

Ekitai turns to Rohan to notice him leaving, and he begins to follow behind, mentioning, “Okay, sounds good! Let’s go find somewhere else to fight bad guys!”

Rohan quietly rejects, “We’re not fighting more people.”

Ekitai responds with the same expressive energy, “That’s fair, I am quite parched and could go for some food. Let’s go!”

The bartender gazes at his red bar, filled with unconscious bodies and displaced tables. He steps forward and immediately winces as he hears a squishing sound beneath his feet, and he lowers his head and raises his leg to find that below him is a pile of guts.

He sighs, his silver shotgun still in hand, although shaking from the sheer anxiety of work he has cut out for him now, and the potential of his business now crashing after the incident that transpired once again.

The bartender sighs, knowing the mess he’d need to clean up both in terms of the room and trying to find how to deal with all the bodies left in the bar. He stares with a displeased expression, his whole life flashing in his eyes.

As the bartender finds himself in a mental crisis, Rohan in the distance softly demands, “Please stop following me.”