This is untitled premise I've had kicking around my head for quite some time. This could be "Chapter 1" if I deem it worthy of further attention. It's set in a science fiction future as many of my other writings will be as well. Enjoy...
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The bar, seemingly shut down, was anything but. If you took the time to look past the rusted steel bars guarding the windows, and the dilapidated brick that was commonplace for construction in the past century, you would see much more than a bar. The place itself had been tranformed into a...hangout, if you will. Not so much a hangout as a place for wanna-be "gangs" and "clans" to hastle passers-by or to purchase the new drug, "Porlativ 157". Although most all buildings in this area had been destroyed during the Orlavin Jihad, the bar had survived and had managed to become a focal point for many things that would be considered...evil.
That was the primary thing that called Torlavin to the building. He disliked evil and the many things it represented. He looked down upon so-called "gangs" and "clans" because of the way they worked. As a matter of fact he disliked the lifestyle so much that he took it upon himself to "fix" the problem. To some he would be called a "vigilante", although vigilantes had all but disappeared since the Jihad. But in difference to the many other vigilantes, fictional or real, Torlavin was different. He had an advantage.
As Torlavin approached the bar he noticed two people outside, smoking something that smelled rank and toxic. He ignored them as he began stretching outside the door to the bar.
"What the **** are you plannin' to do, run a ****in' marathon?" one of the toughs said, sneering.
Torlavin continued to ignore the toughs as they sneered at him, finishing his stretches and proceeding to push on the door of the bar. Before disappearing inside he responded to the tough with a nicely timed "**** you", which was stitched on the sleeve of his jacket.
The inside of the bar was rank smelling, to say the least. It was a pretty well-sized bar, but it was in need of major repair (it did survive a Jihad, after all). The different groups of people inside didn't seem to notice the missing chunks of roof, the gnarled hole that served as a fireplace, or the 12 Hooker-Bots that wandered from client to client offering services. As a matter of fact most of the inhabitants had a aura of smugness, no doubt from the after effects of Porlativ 157. Near the middle of the bar there was a platform that took up a good section of the bar, no doubt one of the "stages" that entertainers danced on before everything went to **** 100 years past.
Nobody took notice of Torlavin as he stepped inside, except for a Hooker-Bot, which tryed to offer its wares by taking the shape of mythical Roman goddess. Torlavin pushed it aside and pressed further into the bar. A shifty-eyed short man with no hair came up to him asking him he'd like to try something that would "blow his mind". Torlavin responded that the man could blow something else, to which the man grunted and drifted away.
As Torlavin headed to the crumbled slab of rock that served as a "bar", he was intercepted by yet another Hooker-Bot. This one tried to grab his genitals, but was foiled when he flicked his wrist and its arm fell to the ground. It took the form of a little girl, pouted, grabbed its arm, and shuffled into a corner. Just wasted a ****in quik-kniv, he thought.
He finally reached the bar and was about to order a drink when someone placed a hand on his shoulder, and not too kindly.
"We don't take too kindly to people ****ing up our hooker bots, bitch." a deep voice grumbled behind him. Typical bad-guy quote. He sounded big, too.
Torlavin was about to lift up his sleeve to respond once again with the "**** you" stitched on his sleeve, but was foiled when the guy spun him around and punched him in the gut, right below his ribs.
But instead of the expected grunt followed by Torlavin bending over, Torlavin just stood there. The deep-voiced man hadn't missed. And he was pretty big. A second after the hit had been made, the ground rumbled under their feet a little.
Torlavin grinned. "Good shot, pal."
"What the ****...?"
With unexpected nimbleness, Torlavin spun behind the big man, lifted his hands, and with unsettling precision snapped his neck. He then caught the man's body, who was about two sizes bigger than him, and slowly settled it onto the ground. The whole bout lasted roughly 5 seconds, and nobody noticed the dead man because many other unconcious people lay scattered about on the floor. Damn druggies.
Well, thats what Torlavin thought. Across the bar, someone HAD seen. That someone slowly started crossing over to where Torlavin stood by the bar with the dead man by his feet.
"Gimme something fruity," Torlavin said to the bartender. "Something that's bound to get my ass kicked."
"'Scuse me?" said the dark-skinned bartender.
"You heard me, gimme something thats so flamboyant that people are bound to notice." Torlavin said.
"Whatev, 'tis your funeral. Just don't destroy too many o' dem Hooker-Bots, dem bitches ain't cheap." said the bartender, then he proceeded to press buttons on a flat panel set in the slab of stone. After a moment the most flamboyant thing ever to grace the bar in at least one-hundred and twenty years appeared.
It was in a neon pink wine glass, with little streamers falling from the side. The wine glass was bespeckled with glitter, as was the lime, cherry, and lemon pleasantly dangling over the rim of the glass. Not to be outdone, the fruits were joined by two sparklers that defied gravity and stuck straight out of the center of the glass, spreading sparks all over the dark stone counter. The drink itself was a nice shade of who-the-****-knows green. Or amber. Or something similarly fruity.
The appearance of the drink stopped all conversation immediately, drawing all eyes to the bar. Torlavin topped it all off by asking for a straw.
With speed that only one of the Mlyzants could possibly have, a person appeared in front of Torlavin. "Who the **** are you?"
The guy was a few inches shorter that Torlavin, but had on an dark blue suit that thrummed with power. His eyes were heavy-lidded, probably from just taking a drug or two, but he had enough skill to be able to fight when needed. And he had a mohawk. A big, dark blue mohawk. It matched the suit.
Torlavin slowly looked the guy up and down, noted that he was Mlyzant because of the square pupils, and proceeded to lift his arm. When the "**** you" was at efficient eye level with the Mlyzant, he then proceeded to peel back a layer of the fabric around the message. The "**** you" was slowly peeled off, only to reveal a pink, neon, blinking, capitalized "**** YOU".
To that, the Mlyzant darted away (nimbly jumping over unconcious bodies) and ran back at Torlavin as a dark blue blur, the momentum of his speed tripling the power of his hit.
Under normal circumstances, with a normal person, the said person would have flew back into the wall with his internal organs all but destroyed from the hit. The person would have died instantly not only from the hit, but the impact of his body against the wall. But Torlavin was not a normal person.
Torlavin, still holding his drink, with his neon "**** YOU" still in the air, was hit. But instead of flying backwards and doing the dramatic grunt of pain, etc., etc., he just stood there. He put his arm down, held out his hand, and touched the slab of rock that was the bar.
There was a noticable cracking noise as the rock was simply demolished by an impact, seemingly coming from Torlavin's hand. The slab of rock that was once the bar was now a pile of pebbles, barely bigger than a marble. The Mlyzant still had his fist against Torlavin's stomach as he looked up, wide-eyed, at the "man".
Before the Mlyzant could speed away and come back to repeat the attack, Torlavin shifted his weight to one side and brought his hand stiffly down where the Mlyzant's elbow and wrist connected, in a chopping jesture. The resulting "pop" noise and visible reversing direction of the Mlyzant's arm brought a gasp from a few people in the bar.
The Mlyzant let out a scream as he stared at his ruined arm and clutched at it with his good one. He spat at Torlavin and slowly started backing away, cursing in different languages.
Torlavin chuckled and threw his fruity drink, still unpaid for, to the ground.
"Any one of you ****s want to take me on?" he shouted, loud enough to reach the far parts of the bar.
"Yes," a voice near his ear whispered, "I do."
Before Torlavin could turn around he was kicked off of his feet high into the air, and whilst falling he was hit, hard, in the ribcage. He panicked as he realized there was noplace to deter the hit. Noplace to transfer the force... Noplace but pain.
He had never, EVER, been put into this position before. Nobody had ever thought to knock him into the air. Nobody could have know...but...
All those thoughts had passed in a split-second, and he landed to the ground with a thud, coughing up blood. As he started looking up to see his attacker he gasped at the first detail. The yellow boots.
His eyesight continued up to yellow slacks, immaculate. Followed by a yellow suit jacket, impossibly clean. The yellow shirt underneath the jacket was un-wrenkled and unsettlingly clean. His belt was also yellow, and the whole outfit was accompanied by a yellow tie, and a yellow trilby.
The man wielded a obsidian cane with a diamond hilt, and it slightly vibrated the ground below it. But the most noticable thing about him was his dark, dark blue skin.
"Aceko."
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A few notes:
I specifically did not describe anything on Torlavin. Aceko will be explained in a different story, a prequel of sorts. I tried not to rip off too many other popular sci-fi concepts. Its late and I'm damn tired. I hope MalReynolds takes a peek at this.
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The bar, seemingly shut down, was anything but. If you took the time to look past the rusted steel bars guarding the windows, and the dilapidated brick that was commonplace for construction in the past century, you would see much more than a bar. The place itself had been tranformed into a...hangout, if you will. Not so much a hangout as a place for wanna-be "gangs" and "clans" to hastle passers-by or to purchase the new drug, "Porlativ 157". Although most all buildings in this area had been destroyed during the Orlavin Jihad, the bar had survived and had managed to become a focal point for many things that would be considered...evil.
That was the primary thing that called Torlavin to the building. He disliked evil and the many things it represented. He looked down upon so-called "gangs" and "clans" because of the way they worked. As a matter of fact he disliked the lifestyle so much that he took it upon himself to "fix" the problem. To some he would be called a "vigilante", although vigilantes had all but disappeared since the Jihad. But in difference to the many other vigilantes, fictional or real, Torlavin was different. He had an advantage.
As Torlavin approached the bar he noticed two people outside, smoking something that smelled rank and toxic. He ignored them as he began stretching outside the door to the bar.
"What the **** are you plannin' to do, run a ****in' marathon?" one of the toughs said, sneering.
Torlavin continued to ignore the toughs as they sneered at him, finishing his stretches and proceeding to push on the door of the bar. Before disappearing inside he responded to the tough with a nicely timed "**** you", which was stitched on the sleeve of his jacket.
The inside of the bar was rank smelling, to say the least. It was a pretty well-sized bar, but it was in need of major repair (it did survive a Jihad, after all). The different groups of people inside didn't seem to notice the missing chunks of roof, the gnarled hole that served as a fireplace, or the 12 Hooker-Bots that wandered from client to client offering services. As a matter of fact most of the inhabitants had a aura of smugness, no doubt from the after effects of Porlativ 157. Near the middle of the bar there was a platform that took up a good section of the bar, no doubt one of the "stages" that entertainers danced on before everything went to **** 100 years past.
Nobody took notice of Torlavin as he stepped inside, except for a Hooker-Bot, which tryed to offer its wares by taking the shape of mythical Roman goddess. Torlavin pushed it aside and pressed further into the bar. A shifty-eyed short man with no hair came up to him asking him he'd like to try something that would "blow his mind". Torlavin responded that the man could blow something else, to which the man grunted and drifted away.
As Torlavin headed to the crumbled slab of rock that served as a "bar", he was intercepted by yet another Hooker-Bot. This one tried to grab his genitals, but was foiled when he flicked his wrist and its arm fell to the ground. It took the form of a little girl, pouted, grabbed its arm, and shuffled into a corner. Just wasted a ****in quik-kniv, he thought.
He finally reached the bar and was about to order a drink when someone placed a hand on his shoulder, and not too kindly.
"We don't take too kindly to people ****ing up our hooker bots, bitch." a deep voice grumbled behind him. Typical bad-guy quote. He sounded big, too.
Torlavin was about to lift up his sleeve to respond once again with the "**** you" stitched on his sleeve, but was foiled when the guy spun him around and punched him in the gut, right below his ribs.
But instead of the expected grunt followed by Torlavin bending over, Torlavin just stood there. The deep-voiced man hadn't missed. And he was pretty big. A second after the hit had been made, the ground rumbled under their feet a little.
Torlavin grinned. "Good shot, pal."
"What the ****...?"
With unexpected nimbleness, Torlavin spun behind the big man, lifted his hands, and with unsettling precision snapped his neck. He then caught the man's body, who was about two sizes bigger than him, and slowly settled it onto the ground. The whole bout lasted roughly 5 seconds, and nobody noticed the dead man because many other unconcious people lay scattered about on the floor. Damn druggies.
Well, thats what Torlavin thought. Across the bar, someone HAD seen. That someone slowly started crossing over to where Torlavin stood by the bar with the dead man by his feet.
"Gimme something fruity," Torlavin said to the bartender. "Something that's bound to get my ass kicked."
"'Scuse me?" said the dark-skinned bartender.
"You heard me, gimme something thats so flamboyant that people are bound to notice." Torlavin said.
"Whatev, 'tis your funeral. Just don't destroy too many o' dem Hooker-Bots, dem bitches ain't cheap." said the bartender, then he proceeded to press buttons on a flat panel set in the slab of stone. After a moment the most flamboyant thing ever to grace the bar in at least one-hundred and twenty years appeared.
It was in a neon pink wine glass, with little streamers falling from the side. The wine glass was bespeckled with glitter, as was the lime, cherry, and lemon pleasantly dangling over the rim of the glass. Not to be outdone, the fruits were joined by two sparklers that defied gravity and stuck straight out of the center of the glass, spreading sparks all over the dark stone counter. The drink itself was a nice shade of who-the-****-knows green. Or amber. Or something similarly fruity.
The appearance of the drink stopped all conversation immediately, drawing all eyes to the bar. Torlavin topped it all off by asking for a straw.
With speed that only one of the Mlyzants could possibly have, a person appeared in front of Torlavin. "Who the **** are you?"
The guy was a few inches shorter that Torlavin, but had on an dark blue suit that thrummed with power. His eyes were heavy-lidded, probably from just taking a drug or two, but he had enough skill to be able to fight when needed. And he had a mohawk. A big, dark blue mohawk. It matched the suit.
Torlavin slowly looked the guy up and down, noted that he was Mlyzant because of the square pupils, and proceeded to lift his arm. When the "**** you" was at efficient eye level with the Mlyzant, he then proceeded to peel back a layer of the fabric around the message. The "**** you" was slowly peeled off, only to reveal a pink, neon, blinking, capitalized "**** YOU".
To that, the Mlyzant darted away (nimbly jumping over unconcious bodies) and ran back at Torlavin as a dark blue blur, the momentum of his speed tripling the power of his hit.
Under normal circumstances, with a normal person, the said person would have flew back into the wall with his internal organs all but destroyed from the hit. The person would have died instantly not only from the hit, but the impact of his body against the wall. But Torlavin was not a normal person.
Torlavin, still holding his drink, with his neon "**** YOU" still in the air, was hit. But instead of flying backwards and doing the dramatic grunt of pain, etc., etc., he just stood there. He put his arm down, held out his hand, and touched the slab of rock that was the bar.
There was a noticable cracking noise as the rock was simply demolished by an impact, seemingly coming from Torlavin's hand. The slab of rock that was once the bar was now a pile of pebbles, barely bigger than a marble. The Mlyzant still had his fist against Torlavin's stomach as he looked up, wide-eyed, at the "man".
Before the Mlyzant could speed away and come back to repeat the attack, Torlavin shifted his weight to one side and brought his hand stiffly down where the Mlyzant's elbow and wrist connected, in a chopping jesture. The resulting "pop" noise and visible reversing direction of the Mlyzant's arm brought a gasp from a few people in the bar.
The Mlyzant let out a scream as he stared at his ruined arm and clutched at it with his good one. He spat at Torlavin and slowly started backing away, cursing in different languages.
Torlavin chuckled and threw his fruity drink, still unpaid for, to the ground.
"Any one of you ****s want to take me on?" he shouted, loud enough to reach the far parts of the bar.
"Yes," a voice near his ear whispered, "I do."
Before Torlavin could turn around he was kicked off of his feet high into the air, and whilst falling he was hit, hard, in the ribcage. He panicked as he realized there was noplace to deter the hit. Noplace to transfer the force... Noplace but pain.
He had never, EVER, been put into this position before. Nobody had ever thought to knock him into the air. Nobody could have know...but...
All those thoughts had passed in a split-second, and he landed to the ground with a thud, coughing up blood. As he started looking up to see his attacker he gasped at the first detail. The yellow boots.
His eyesight continued up to yellow slacks, immaculate. Followed by a yellow suit jacket, impossibly clean. The yellow shirt underneath the jacket was un-wrenkled and unsettlingly clean. His belt was also yellow, and the whole outfit was accompanied by a yellow tie, and a yellow trilby.
The man wielded a obsidian cane with a diamond hilt, and it slightly vibrated the ground below it. But the most noticable thing about him was his dark, dark blue skin.
"Aceko."
----------
A few notes:
I specifically did not describe anything on Torlavin. Aceko will be explained in a different story, a prequel of sorts. I tried not to rip off too many other popular sci-fi concepts. Its late and I'm damn tired. I hope MalReynolds takes a peek at this.
