James dropped onto the bed of his new apartment with a sigh. A cheap place in the heart of Hell's Kitchen. The roof leaked, the wardrobe reeked of mold, and the floorboards were as crooked as the Iron Throne.
But to James, all that mattered was that it had a bed, a roof and a sometimes warm, sometimes freezing shower.
He opened his System, over the last couple days he'd been given quite a few missions.
Mission - The Winter Soldier
Goal - Locate the individual known as: The Winter Soldier.
Hint : Get closer to S.H.I.E.L.D.
Rewards - Combat Shard (Tier Two), Memory Fragment Subject - JBB-45, 5000 EXP.
Failure - ???
He didn't even know what SHIELD was, he had no clue how to get started with that, nor did he really want to look into anything Winter Soldier related after what happened last time.
His other mission was far simpler in nature.
Mission - Wipe Out
Goal - Wipe Out the Irish Mob
Reward - Synaptic Accelerator, Reinforced Tendons
Failure - Death
Those rewards were tempting—two new implants, both combat-grade. He shook his head, his mind drifting back to the mantis blades. With a thought, he closed the missions tab and opened his stats.
Name - James Buckley
Title - Murderer
Age - 19
Eddies - €48,736
Level - 15
STR - 14
END - 14
DEX - 33
INT - 9
WIS - 9
0 Attribute Points!
Skills
Inventory
Missions
Store
Settings
He was slowly making his way toward the mantis blades—just about halfway there now. Luckily he could turn the money he'd stolen from the Irish into eddies. Still, he kept some cash on hand. Rent had to be paid, after all.
He grabbed his phone, his stats disappearing with an errant thought. It had been a long day. He was drained. Time to unwind. But as he reached for his phone and pressed the power button, it didn't light up.
The screen stayed dark.
He cursed under his breath, annoyance seeping in as he leaned over to the bedside table and plugged the useless thing into the charger.
He could swear it had at least 40% not even twenty minutes ago.
A few minutes later, the phone buzzed back to life, but something was wrong. His eyes narrowed as the screen flickered on, revealing something off.
His wallpaper had changed.
James stared at the display, his thumb hovering over the unlock button. The usual random stock image he'd set was gone. Instead, the background was pitch black. He unlocked the phone, ready to change it back, but the settings menu was missing.
His brows furrowed, not only that but practically every app had been moved, all of them tossed about in strange, random orders.
He sighed, tossing his phone carelessly over to the side, he couldn't deal with that right now. He turned onto his side, burying his head into his pillow.
He'd deal with it later.
—-
The next morning, James stirred awake, his eyes flicking to the time on his phone.
11:24.
Earlier than yesterday, at least. A small win.
He didn't have time to bask in that victory, though. He had plans. The gym. He hadn't seen Victor since the fight, and he knew it was about time to check in.
It didn't take long to get to the gym, a twenty minute walk at best. But as he rounded the corner and the building came into view, James slowed to a halt.
The gym doors were ajar. James blinked—Victor hated a drafty gym. Some rookie was about to get an earful from the old man.
But that's what suddenly set him on edge. There was no shouting. No music. No sound at all.
James stepped inside, the door creaking louder than it had any right to. The fluorescent lights buzzed weakly overhead, half of them flickering, the other half completely dead.
The familiar scent of sweat and leather was still there, but instead of it feeling comforting, welcoming, it felt…cold.
Heavy bags hung limp, a few torn open with stuffing spilling out. One of the mirrors along the wall was cracked. The front desk was overturned, papers scattered like someone had gone looking for something.
James moved deeper inside, boots crunching on broken glass.
"Victor?" he called out.
No response.
He kept walking, eyes scanning every corner. The locker room door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open slowly, the hinges groaning.
Inside, slumped against the far wall, was Victor. One eye swollen shut, lip split, breathing shallow.
"Shit" James whispered, rushing over to the man, worry evident in his wide eyed gaze. Quickly the young boxer crouched down by his coach.
Victor's gaze slowly lifted to him, a bloody cough escaping his lips.
"What happened?" James asked, fury already pooling in his gut.
Victor didn't answer.
The silence stretched. The longer it lasted, the hotter that fury burned.
"Irish?" James asked bluntly.
Victor's eyes dropped, avoiding James' stare.
"Don't get involved," he muttered, the words flat—but there was worry buried in them.
James clenched his jaw. "I won't" he lied. "Let's get you out of here."
James hooked Victor's arm around his shoulders and lifted him carefully to his feet. The older man hissed through his teeth but didn't complain. He never did.
The two of them shuffled out of the ruined gym, the cold air outside hitting like a slap. James flagged down a yellow cab, slid a bill through the window before the driver could speak, and eased Victor into the back seat.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Victor gave an address—somewhere in Brooklyn. Quiet. Familiar. James committed it to memory.
As the cab pulled away, James lingered on the sidewalk, staring at the half-busted gym sign still hanging above the door. His sanctuary—Victor's too—left wide open and bleeding.
His fury ignited—silent, blinding, absolute.
—-
250!!! 250!!! Powerstones!? That's crazy, thank you guys, we're cooking rn