The city of broken dreams. There is a reason for the title. Every year, people flood into this city—some to build their careers, others seeking refuge for themselves and their families from the constant chaos and disasters of the extract.
As Deon walks through these concrete forests of grey, he finds himself in the underside of the city—the darker areas where sunlight never reaches. It's a proper cyberpunk slum: grey, dusty walls, barely maintained sidewalks, and a sparse population. With each step, there are fewer neon lights and advertisement boards.
It made sense that the flyers would bring Deon down such a path. Flyers? In this day and age? To Deon, that could only mean one thing—**affordability**. And, most importantly, **anonymity**.
"Hahaha, no way she finds me all the way out here, hehe," Deon let out a mischievous chuckle.
As he continued walking and the last bit of the sun's grace faded, the city's evil began to stir. Greyer than ever under the fading blue sky, shady characters, the poor and the homeless, criminals and thugs—all emerged. The empty wasteland suddenly became a bustling hub of lawlessness: the heart of the slums, where shady deals and illegal activities were a common sight.
*"C'mon, lady, fork it over,"* rang a voice from one of the adjacent alleyways.
*"We won't ask again,"* said another.
*"C'mon! I don't have any money—or any valuables, for that matter!"* a feminine voice replied.
*"Then pay with your flesh,"* said another—an unbearably cliché line from an F-grade villain. It would disgust any passerby more than it would scare the victim.
*"Damn, you guys disgust me. Put your damn tongue back in,"* said a more dignified yet repulsed voice.
Amid the struggling and shouting, one voice stood out above the rest.
*"Eyaaaahhhhhh!"* the girl screamed.
Deon, unable to help his curiosity, leaned against the corner, peering in with one eye to assess the distracted goons.
A well-off man stood there, looking disgusted to even be in the company of such wretched people, showing visible disdain at their actions toward the woman—but he remained frozen, watching from a distance, unwilling to intervene.
Three thugs surrounded the girl—some sporting cheap cybernetics, others with brightly colored spiky hair, all dressed in typical biker gang fashion.
*Struggling noises intensify.*
*Lerolero noises also intensify.*
*"God, you are disgusting,"* muttered the man, stepping back in regret.
*"Eeeeeeyyaaahhh!"* the girl shrieked.
*"Lick, lick, lick… lick…"* one of the thugs went on as he closed in.
"Damn, that guy is definitely on something," Deon thought to himself, watching the punks go bout thier ways. His emotions much the same as the city nobles'—wanting nothing more than to run away from the scene and cleanse his eyes with bleach.
As Deon processed what was happening, an angel descended onto his right shoulder.
"Be chivalrous, be a man, and be strong," the angel urged. "Go forth! Rescue the lady and add her to your harem collection like in so many stories. Go forth, my child—good deeds are always rewarded."
But as the angel resides on the right, on the left, as tradition dictates, resides the devil, and for every whisper the angel makes, the devil makes ten. "Oh yes, good deeds are indeed always rewarded. With prison time! Torture! Sometimes death! Don't forget how many of heroes were *rewarded* that way. And sure, you might collect your *waifus*—but what if she's ugly? What if ye lose thy 3v1, you dumbass? Considered it? You must be alive to get bitches! Do you not?"
"Indeed," thought Deon. "The reward must match the risk. It might be worth investigating…"
And so, it was decided that it wasn't. The inner demons spoke true.
How far the angels have fallen—to tempt us with half-truths. At least demons don't coax us with lies. This encounter would prove less than fruitful.
But who holds the blame if not us humans? All angels ever do is give us hope—a poison more sinister than a hydra's venom, more intoxicating than the purest fairy dust. And I should know better than anyone—hope is a bitch.
"Hey, YOU!" shouted one of the thugs.
"Well, there goes that," muttered Deon. "Might as well look cool and not like a perv. Pretenses are important."
And so Deon stepped forward.
"Cease your unholy activities at once, for I shall spare ye if thou comply!" he declared, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"You'll leave if you know what's good for you, little *weeb boy*," sneered the bald one—noticeably missing the spiky hair the other two flaunted.
"Here I come—**Supa Murda Punch! Ora!**" shouted one of the spiky-haired thugs, rushing forward.
And those hypocrites had the gall to call *me* a weeb, Deon thought.
The punk came swinging, but unfortunately for the punk, Deon was far from incompetent in matters of self-defense. He countered the punch and slammed the thug to the ground, where he belonged—his head trapped neatly between Deon's legs.
But while Deon was far from incompetent, he was no powerhouse or a genius either. As his attention shifted to the other two goons, the one he'd just floored rose again—taking him by surprise… or more accurately, *by his balls.*
A clenched fist. A twist. And Deon was done for. A scream tore through the alley—a sound worthy of it's addition into *"Screams of Tortured Souls in Hell, Vol. 2."*
The second thug spared no second. He lunged and grabbed Deon's nipples—another press, another twist. And before Deon could recover, the worst that had yet to come had taken position behind him. Fingers formed in a deadly hand sign many know and fear.
"You wouldn't…" Deon muttered, trembling.
"**Thousand Years of Death!**" the thug cried, unleashing his vicious attack.
For a moment, silence. Then—screams.
*Screams of Tortured Souls in Hell, Vol. 3—Satan's Collection.*
Proud...powerless, the three goons stood, exhausted and spent after delivering their ultimate technique.
Powerful...yet stripped of pride, Deon stood, legs shaking, a hole torn through the back of his pants, and two small drops of blood staining his shirt.
"You bastards!" Deon cried—rageful, tears streaming down his face. "I'll kill you!" he shouted as he ran toward the thugs—knees tucked close together in a ridiculous sprint that could only be described as *sissy chaos*.
And so began one of the most pathetic scenes one could bear witness to.
"Eyah!" Deon jabbed one of the goons, resulting in both losing balance and tumbling awkwardly.
"Uwwoh!" came the other goon's cry as soon as Deon got up, only to be knocked back down again.
"Hyaah!" Deon kicked the man's shin in retaliation, and the second thug fell too—now both lying side by side. But Deon wasn't finished. Yet to counter-attack, fueled by fury, he lunged forward and hammered down a fist full of rage upon the goon's skull—a blow that landed only on the thug's arm as he effortlessly blocked, saving his face from the attack.
Before Deon ever ended his hammering, the third goon grabbed him by the jacket and yanked him away.
"F*** you!" screamed the punk, throwing his entire body behind a wild punch—an utterly ineffective attack, as Deon countered with a desperate kick straight to the groin.
"You piece of shit!"
"Uh!"
"Die!"
"Ooh!"
"Get off!"
"Ungh!"
...
...
...
..
.
As time passed, and the number of punks dwindled down to none, one lone figure remained standing amidst the battlefield. His fist raised high, his body covered in rubbish and dirt.
"That's right—it is I, Deon, your superior! Never mess with me again!" cried the battered and broken hero, his face bleeding and swelling in shades of blue and purple. Crystal tears and salty sweat dripped down the chin, mixed with blood that flowed down the head and eyebrow.
"Here, lady," said Deon, offering her his jacket.
The woman hesitantly and with an awkward smile accepted...with her thumb and index finger.
"Thank you very much," she said. Sighing deeply, "Seems like it's just bad luck. Even after all my disguises, I still end up running into rapey bastards like these."
"Disguise?" Deon asked, panting and confused.
"Right—no point keeping it anymore," she replied.
She unclasped her necklace, disabling a rather expensive appearance modifier—one that was nearly illegal without mountains of paperwork and agency approvals. And in that instant, I recognized the new face…