Third Arc Zero Street: Prologue
#1 of Third Arc 2
Third Arc: Zero Street
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For all fans of my Reaper Series, please note that this series is an ALTERNATE, parallel universe that runs at the same time as Reaper. Zero Street takes place 3 months after the events of Third Arc: Crimson Moon. If you have not yet read Crimson Moon it is highly suggested that you do or the following will not make sense! Furthermore, Reaper: The Pollenburn Campaign and Reaper: The Graesham Campaign are not essential to understanding the story but add a new level to it. It is not necessary to have read the Jason Wolfe Trilogy either!
Also, there's yiff. M/M yiff. So if you're underage in your respective state/country DO NOT READ! This will corrupt you!
Now without further ado... I give you...
Third Arc: Zero Street
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Every thought - every theory - is a product of individuality.
Think of your earliest thought...
... and wonder where that thought came from.
Is it of your mother's gentle caress as she holds you to her breast...?
Is it of how bright that orb of light we call the sun is...?
Is it how to ride that infernal two-wheeled contraption we call a 'bike'?
...
Or did you ever wonder 'Who am I'?
Now clear your mind.
Empty it completely.
Then... Seize that thought...
And ask yourself?
'What inspired that thought?'
Or better yet...
Who?
Prologue: It's a Deal
Shellington Football Field
The field's lights had long gone dormant. Darkness veiled the pristine, meticulously maintained field of grass. Stands that once housed countless fans just under a year ago were cleaned and prepared for the opening of the season. Gum had been scraped from under the seats, the electronics checked and the fireworks were all loaded.
Football season was coming back to Rillotia.
Even now, a few weeks before the first kickoff, tough, hardened players were sleeping in their beds dreaming about the countless plays, foolproof strategies and injuries they were likely to suffer. Newbies would be stressing over their first big game and whether or not they would stay for the entire season or be traded off to some backwater team to gather rust. Coaches would be mulling over their playbooks over and over again, unable to sleep. Diehard fans had their alarms set, their watches synchronised and their datebooks cleared.
Police and special security firms had been hired and trained to deal with the riots and overstimulated fans. At the same time, the Rillotian Bureau of Intelligence and the Central Counter-Intelligence Organization were keep their eyes on the players, coaches and anyone else remotely tied to the game.
Any sporting game was all about competition and sometimes, a hardened player was just one injury away from being kicked off the team or perhaps a newcomer just barely scraped over the passing mark. Perhaps even the coaches had lost hope for their teams and would do anything for at least one win in their careers.
That meant they would do anything for an edge.
As the cool winter air hugged the cloaked figure's body, a humourless smirk crossed his muzzle. His cloak wrapped around the distinct 'V' shape his torso made and clung around the broad shoulders of his frame. Large, meaty hands with veins popping beneath thick fur pulled the cloak's edges back around himself, securing the package that was sown into the cloak's seams.
All eyes were on football.
So that mean no eyes were on the other sports.
Another figure slowly padded over to the middle of the field accompanied by two rather large lackeys. The large bruisers the figure recognised. Both of them were from the Virulent Vipers - one of the most despicable teams in the Dark Nexus. That was saying something as well considering the reputation of the Dark Nexus and its players.
"Couldn't you have picked a better place to meet?" the well-guarded individual growled. "Who's to say that this place isn't being watched?"
The smirk the figure wore obtained some semblance of dark humour and broke into a grin. "Of course it's being watched. You're just going to have to trust me when I say I'll take care of it."
A ragged sigh rolled off the individual's tongue as she shook her head, raven hair tumbling down from her hood. "Your confidence in your abilities is quite astounding. I doubt even you could fool the RBI and CCIO. Their grasp around the Dark Nexus has tightened in recent times."
"That's because your guys keep getting caught with this stuff." The figure pulled a small, brown package from where it was sown into his cloak.
"For the record, the Virulent Vipers have never been caught." The woman nodded.
A silent, silvery blade was suddenly pressed up against the figure's neck. One that had an ornate, flame design with a wire-thin scratch running down its length and three dents in the metal. The figure was unflinching as the owner of the blade slowly moved into his vision and took the package in his paws with a free hand.
The blade's owner, a lithe, nearly invisible racoon with no tail tossed the package into the air. Before the figure could even blink, the racoon lashed forward, sliced a thin cut across the package's length and then kicked it towards the woman. The instant his foot impacted with the package, he suddenly had his blade once more pressed up against the figure's neck.
The woman caught the package and dipped a finger into the powder that was now exposed.
"Nice dagger you got there," the figure commented. "Don't think those designs were intentional, were they?"
The racoon didn't speak.
"Not a talker, eh?" The figure reached into his pockets, tensing the racoon. A cigarette appeared in his paws. That and a lighter. He placed the cigarette against his muzzle and lit it. "That's kind of sad..." he murmured, letting out a small puff and blowing it into the racoon's face. "Guess that means you won't get any last words."
The figure moved.
As the last tendrils of the smoke vanished from the racoon's face, the burly figure seized the assassin's wrist and slammed a fist deep into his gut. The racoon didn't flinch and countered -
Only to have the still-lit lighter pressed against his left eye.
An ear splitting scream cut through the otherwise silent night as the racoon tumbled back, clutching his burned eye. The figure took a deep puff from his cigarette and blew it into the air absently. He was vaguely aware of the woman clutching the package against her breast and ordered her two guards to attack.
He counted lazily to three... even taking about a good two seconds between 'two' and 'three' to take another puff. On the third count, he removed the cigarette from his muzzle and flicked it towards the woman. It sailed past the two guards as their two massive bodies built from years on the field obscured his vision.
The lit cigarette bounced off the package, touching the powder with its burning edge.
Then came the...
BOOOM!
Fire and smoke erupted from behind the two figures. Both guards were suddenly hurled to the ground by the titanic explosion. The left thigh of the woman slammed against the back of the first guard and the second unfortunate enough to have her head land on his lap. Wide-eyed, the footballer... no... former footballer screamed and threw the head aside in horror.
The figure sighed and turned his back towards the two.
"Take this as a lesson kids," he murmured still loud enough for the two to hear. "Don't deal with drugs."
Then a fit of coughs wracked him. He gathered phlegm in the back of his throat and spat it out to the side.
"Gods, I hate smoking."