(WIP) Legacy Chapter II

Chapter II: In the heat of night

Club Koremesu was a few long blocks away from the speakeasy, a trek Skia had no patience for. With a flick of his wrist, he hailed a yellow transport vehicle.

As the cab sped through the neon-lit streets of Kerailia, animated holographic advertisements blurred past in dazzling streaks—everything from popular dining spots to the next big cinematic release. Skia observed them with mild disinterest, until one in particular caught his eye.

A much larger, grander projection loomed over the skyline: an image of Elliot Sternis Hitch, the esteemed "Good Doctor." The corporate overlord posed heroically, fists on his hips, his youthful features illuminated beneath the bold tagline. Skia's jaw tensed. His grip on the seat armrest tightened. If there was one man in the Archimedes Nebula, he despised more than any other, it was Elliot Hitch. He would give anything to sink a blade deep into the man’s chest and watch the light drain from his eyes.

The cab touched down outside Koremesu, and Skia stepped out, bypassing the bouncer with ease. The grand neon archway of the entrance cast a hypnotic glow over the lavish club, drawing in partygoers like moths to a flame. Koremesu was his domain, and tonight, it was thriving.

Sensual dancers writhed within transparent shield cages suspended above the crowd, their nude bodies bathed in sultry red light. The air pulsed with electric energy, a perfect storm of music, lust, and excess. Profits would be good tonight.

Skia suspected Lyshaia was already waiting in his penthouse suite above, but he had little interest in rushing. He preferred to indulge in the atmosphere, to drink in the power he wielded here.

The grand theater stage sat empty for now, its main event yet to commence. Skia weaved through the club at a leisurely pace, eventually spotting a familiar face at the bar.

Varro the Vile, a rising star among the Freegrazers, was deep in revelry, surrounded by a throng of admirers. The muscled human, clad in extravagant silver-plated armor, downed another drink with a triumphant grin. His signature winged helmet sat atop the bar beside him—a symbol of his prowess.

Skia recognized the scene for what it was: Varro basking in the glow of an impending duel. His arranged fight against Krug the Defiler was still months away, but the anticipation fueled his indulgence.

Skia approached, tapping Varro’s shoulder. The mercenary turned, roaring with delight at the sight of his old friend. Slurred words and hearty laughter followed as Varro draped an arm around Skia’s shoulder. The crowd barely acknowledged Skia’s presence—just the way he preferred it. Let Varro take the spotlight; Skia thrived in the shadows.

Half an hour passed before another familiar figure strolled by. Flint the Iron Gut, his layered flamboyant attire accentuated by a flowing royal-colored shawl, made his presence known with an exaggerated flex of his muscles.

Skia nodded in greeting. Flint grinned, shaking his hand with a firm grip, his dark blue eyes gleaming with an unspoken excitement. There was something in his demeanor, an energy that hinted at the true purpose of tonight’s event.

Skia didn’t need to ask. He already knew.

Soon, the grand stage burst to life. Flint stepped forward; his voice amplified through a sleek crescent-shaped mic wrapped around his cheek.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve been waiting for is finally upon us!" he declared triumphantly.

Thunderous applause erupted as Krug the Defiler emerged from the curtains. Towering at nearly seven feet, the massive green toned warrior was a spectacle of raw muscle and feral elegance. Clad only in a tattered loincloth, his mighty arms and long golden waved gloriously around his immense form.

Krug relished the crowd’s adoration, flexing before diving into a provocative, ritualistic dance—one designed to flaunt his power and allure.

Varro’s loyal fan base turned on him in an instant, enraptured by Krug’s mesmerizing performance. The sudden shift in attention gnawed at Varro, his slurred protests drowned beneath the roaring cheers.

Skia leaned back against the bar, watching the spectacle unfold with measured amusement. The contract he had arranged with Krug’s agents was proving to be quite lucrative.

Above the chaos, in Skia’s penthouse suite…

Lyshaia reclined in a plush office chair, idly spinning it left and right as she browsed a holographic display. News flickered across the screen in disjointed snippets, none holding her interest for long—until a live broadcast caught her eye.

The anniversary of the Xeno Wars.

At the center of the broadcast, standing atop a podium, was Elliot Sternis Hitch. The esteemed "Good Doctor." His normally composed expression was shadowed by something else—regret? Grief?

Lyshaia leaned closer, studying the nuances of his face. His chestnut hair, streaked with gray, was tousled as if he had run his fingers through it one too many times. His voice, though firm, carried an unmistakable tremble.

"We must bow our heads for those who gave their lives for this momentous civilization," Elliot intoned solemnly.

The camera panned outward, revealing a silent crowd of journalists and corporate officials. A scrolling list of names appeared at the bottom of the screen under the caption: Remember the Fallen.

Then, something unexpected happened.

Elliot’s expression shifted. His steel-colored eyes flicked to the live monitor displaying the feed. His face tightened. Without warning, he turned on his heel and stormed off the stage, leaving the press in stunned silence.

Lyshaia’s fingers hovered over the interface. Something was off. This wasn’t the Elliot she had studied. Something had rattled him, and she intended to find out what.

A deafening applause from below pulled her attention away. She swiveled in her chair, rolling toward the massive circular observation window that overlooked the club floor.

Below, Krug basked in the aftermath of his performance, the crowd still enraptured.

Later, in the back alleys of Koremesu…

Flint guided Krug out the back entrance, into a rain-slicked alleyway bathed in the silver glow of the moon. Potholes brimmed with murky water, reflecting the city’s neon brilliance. The scent of damp concrete thickened the air.

A low, mechanical hum filled the silence.

Descending from the sky, like a harbinger of doom, came a figure clad in dark exoskeletal armor. X-shaped wings adjusted with every shift in altitude, four thrusters hissing as they compensated for speed. A cylindrical weapon dangled from the stranger’s right hand, a transparent canister affixed to its back, pulsing ominously.

Flint’s breath hitched. He knew that silhouette.

The Blind Man.

His heavy breathing echoed within his oxygen mask, each inhalation sending a chill down Flint’s spine. Without hesitation, the Blind Man fired.

A harpoon-like projectile slammed into Krug’s chest, the impact staggering the massive warrior. He let out a guttural roar, muscles bulging as he fought against the steel tether, clawing at the harpoon embedded deep in his torso. But then—something happened.

A phosphorescent teal energy bled from the wound, seeping across his skin like liquid fire. It pulsed, wrapping around him in luminous tendrils. Krug thrashed violently, his defiance giving way to raw rage as the energy constricted tighter, swallowing him whole.

Flint barely had time to process what he was seeing before, with a blinding flash, Krug vanished. No body. Just the faint crackle of dissipating energy.

The Blind Man lingered only a moment, then turned and ascended into the night, his thrusters hissing as he vanished into the void.

Flint remained frozen in place, blood spattered across his face, the rain washing it away in thin rivulets. He exhaled shakily.

"Shit."

The night had just taken a turn for the worse.