When one door closes, Another shall open. But what seeps through the threshold is not necessarily the light.
July 7, 20XX.
Joe Jothane committed suicide at his desk, his wrists slit by a common utility knife. It happened in the dead of night during overtime, while the office was a silent tomb with no one left to witness his end. He was a public speaker, a writer, and a translator.
Or rather, he had been.
A cold click.
BANG!
A bullet tore through Joe Jothane's skull, spraying brain matter and blood across his workstation. The shot came from a figure standing sallow behind him, clad in a black shirt featuring a silver eagle with outspread wings. That bullet was reserved for a liar, a blatant and shameless liar. A liar must die, for the truth of the world is often that simple.
Date ??/??/2095.
In a village sweltering under a punishing sun, where the masses moved like rushing water through a labyrinth of concrete, there lay a secluded and stifling alleyway. It reeked of refuse and rotting rats.
In this sanctuary of filth, hidden away from the bustling life outside, a man sat curled into a ball. He was shivering violently from a cold that defied the scorching atmosphere. On the wall behind him, old news bulletins were plastered with dried blood, casting a faint and metallic scent into the air. It seemed the blood belonged to the man on the ground.
Suddenly, he bolted upright. His face was flushed and drenched in sweat, his senses dialed to a state of high alert. His eyes were glazed like an addict in withdrawal, and his expression was a snarl, the likeness of a rabid dog.
He glared at the intruder standing at the mouth of the alley. The newcomer was small, barely one point six meters tall, possessing the frame of a malnourished child. Yet the clothes they wore suggested middle class comfort rather than a life on the streets. The man in the shadows scrutinized the newcomer with a wary and leaden gaze, or at least as much as his weary pupils would allow.
His breathing was heavy, rattling in his throat as if he were choking. The sound of him swallowing nervously was audible in the cramped space.
The figure at the alley's entrance took a deep breath and glanced to the right with a hint of reluctance. Stealthily, they stepped into the gloom, raising a hand in a silent sign language gesture: "Hello."
The man in the alley was not interested in pleasantries. With his left hand, he yanked a hidden rope. The cord triggered a gear mounted on the wall, which in turn released a red brick perched on a sign directly above the intruder's head.
Click!
THUD!
The brick slammed into the young intruder's head. It shattered instantly as it was not particularly sturdy, but it was enough to force a pained cry from their lips:
"ARCH!"
The moment the filth ridden man heard the cry, he snatched a trash bag beside him and hurled it with every ounce of his remaining strength. The black bag whistled through the air toward the kneeling figure. Upon impact, the plastic tore open, spraying dozens of jagged and rusty metal shards that buried themselves deep into the intruder's flesh.
"Gah!"
A low groan escaped the victim. They stared at their wounds. Normally, it takes a second for the brain to register the agony of a puncture, but even as that second passed, the intruder only let out a small whimper.
However, the true terror was not the immediate pain. These shards were lethal. Culled from the bowels of a landfill, they were a cocktail for tetanus and sepsis, a slow death wrapped in rusted iron.
The man in the alley did not stop. He delivered a follow up kick to a nearby trash can, sending it sliding toward the slumped figure to block their line of sight.
But did that mean the intruder would keep taking the hits?
"Impressive. Exactly like the recent rumors."
Snick!
A sharp sound cut through the air, halting the sliding trash can in its tracks. The attacker froze in shock, not because of what he saw, but because of a faint and searing warmth suddenly pressing against his throat.
In an instant, he realized his hands had been pinned. He was ensnared by one of the most bizarre and cursed weapons imaginable, if one could even call it a weapon.
Piano wire.
The thin and translucent lines had tightened around his wrists and neck without him ever noticing. A single wrong move now would be like testing a blade with his own pulse.
"Why did you attack me? I saw your eyes tracking my chest, my breath, and my feet. Or was it just the clothes I am wearing?"
"Grrr!"
The trapped man bared his teeth like a cornered beast. He glanced down at his feet, humiliated. He had intended to execute a lethal combo to drive the invader from his territory, only to end up in this pathetic state. The sting of defeat was nothing compared to the shame of being unable to even struggle. His scrap metal trap had drawn blood, but that was all.
"Calm down."
Following the command, the wires began to slacken, though they remained firmly under the stranger's control.
"Easy now. Before you try to attack again, I have something to tell you."
The stranger leaned in slightly.
"We are compatriots. From the same distant homeland."