JUICE

They come into the club at the black of night, the crowd gathering into this vicious blob of meat thirsty for blood.

The cage around the fighting ring rattles violently at the center of Karma.

Blood spews from a crushed nose, Enzo feels the smash of bone beneath his metal knuckles, glistening cobalt blue. He pants, keeps to his opponents blindside, landing blows, wiping the sweat dripping from his forehead. A sloppy fist hurls his way and he dodges. The fighter crashes to the other side, helplessly gasping for air.

Enzo grapples their leg and yanks, slamming them face first, teeth chipping in a sickening crunch. He straddles them, his weight crushing their ribs. Lines his fingers to his their eyes, jamming them into the sockets; frenzied screams filling the air as the aqueous jelly squelches. He digs them further until he reaches the edge of their brain, the tissue soft as he scrapes against it with his nail. They twitch like a squashed roach, jelly draining from the nose.

Above, nestled within the bare corner of drywall, a voice booms dust off the loudspeaker.

"Enzo Kong wins!"

Enzo lets the poor bastard go and stands triumphantly in the cage, arms raised to bask in the glory, mashing his foot into the grounded fighter's head. Blood drips from stinging cuts and bruises slashed across his face.

—-------------------—---------------------------------

"You cost me a lotta fucking cicies, bro!" Matsuda barks at Enzo. He's washing his hands in the cruddy bathroom after the fight - four walls of cracked tile and illegible graffiti. Water drips from old piping beneath the sink and the dim fluorescents attract flies that buzz on and off the heat it brings. Enzo swats one away as he tapes a bandaid over his eyebrow.

"You hear me?" Matsuda's UV visor beams ahead in crimson neon. A chubby little man stands off to the side, shaking beneath his denim vest is a musashi, a weapon two sizes too large for a nervous wreck like Sho.

Enzo ignores them and continues to wipe his hands with a paper napkin out of the automated dispenser to his left.

"Get his fucking attention." Matsuda says, nudging his partner. Sho blasts out the mirror. Glass slices Enzo's cheek and it stings. He thumbs off the blood and slowly turns around, brown eyes cool as ice.

"Bad idea, ese." He cracks his metallic knuckles. "Think just cause you're armed that you still can take me?" He flexes the muscle grafts on his arms, the surgical incisions run deep like tribal scars. He makes himself wide open. "Try it." 

Matsuda swallows hard, as if a cantaloupe was lodged down his throat. He smacks his anxious partner in the back of the head. "Blast this fool!" 

Enzo's at him the second he fires. He jabs Sho in the throat, his head snapping backwards. Matsuda staggers back, dazed by his speed. He sends Sho crashing into the floor, the crunching of his skull matching the tile.

"Fuck!" Matsuda cowers, flying for the door. Enzo yanks him by the collar of his jacket. He smashes him into the piss-end of the urinal, shatters the visor into his eyes. He wrings Matsuda by the neck and slams them into the wall. They gasp for air, trying their damnedest to break free.

Enzo keeps his grip tight.

"Adios."

Matsuda squirms as their trachea is crushed like a bent pipe, blood rising out of their mouth. He drops them, stomps his heavy boot on their skull with satisfaction in his eyes as he slowly brings it down. Screams fill the room as Matsuda's skull cracks open and goes splat.

"Should've plugged me when you had the chance."

—-------------------—---------------------------------

A grin slashes across his face as he autographs a woman's breasts, a blondie who waltzed up to him at the bar.

"Thank you." She giggles as her and her friends make their way back to the dance floor.

Dime is working the front tonight, his favorite mixer. He makes the best margaritas in all of Nirvana, one with the lime cut paper thin. They look up from filling a glass to a scream as someone enters the bathroom. Enzo glares over his shoulder for his own amusement and smirks, the beer bottle halfway to his lips.

"Sorry to lay this on you, Dime. But you gotta mess back there. A pair of dipshits."

"Son of a bitch, Enzo! What did we tell you about picking fights outside the fucking ring?"

"Wasn't me who started it. They flashed some steel at me. Kitano Grade shit."

"This is your last one. You know the rules, man. And I just mopped those fucking floors for Christ's sake."

And just like that, the beer in his hand is the last one on the house.

"What's wrong with a little self-defense around here?" He adjusts in his bar stool, savoring every sip until Dime speaks again.

"JoyJoy wants to speak with you." Dime's retinas flash orange light. "Now."

"Bout time." Enzo chugs the bottle and slides it to them. He rises, and walks up the stairs behind the bar to JoyJoy's office. The King of Karma.

The mahogany interior has been stripped bare, the exposed wiring leading to a Diver plugged into the club's security network via the implant on her neck. She's dressed in black, blending into the darkness; only left exposed by a spotless white cybernetic skull. Next to her - on the couch - JoyJoy's taking a hit off his cigar; a look of displeasure on his face.

"Take it, you had fun down there, huh? Always a crowd riot, you are." JoyJoy dusts off his burgundy suit.

"Gotta hand it to me, Joy. I'm always bringing in the crowd. They go wild when they see me. Fucking wild!"

"Life of the Party. Here's what I owe." JoyJoy wires him one-thousand cicies. That's ten thousand less than what he owes him.

"Woah, care to fucking explain this?"

"You're too hot, Enzo. Not enough money to go round', you know the score."

"Fuck that!" Enzo flies into a rage. The ceiling slides open and there's whirring. Bars unwind, split. A turret's on his ass, a laser pointed directly at his skull.

"The fuck is this?" He stumbles backward.

"A precaution."

"A fucking precaution?"

"You're a big guy," JoyJoy laughs, more than he has in weeks. "I'd take your cicies and walk outta here right now, Mr. Kong. Pay us a visit some other time." He waves his hand for him to leave.

Enzo clenches a fist, cracking his neck at as he walks away.

"You owe me."

"No, I don't." JoyJoy says as the door shuts behind Enzo. He puts the cigar out on his plastic palm.

"Lowly dog."

—-------------------—---------------------------------

"I need more juice." Enzo squeezes the dog tag around his neck. He floors the BMW to Hermosa Maria.

Glass glitters the streets, crunching under his boots as he exits the vehicle with a hefty duffle bag.

The sky is a river of poison leading to desolation - a dreary horizon of rocky sand for miles. The blistering heat conjures mirages of paradise.

This place is home, and it's as unwelcoming as ever.

He visits the Tech Moses around here - his brother, Marty. Marty operates inside a Jewelers. At the back, he's sewing muscle graft along a De Leon's chest, weaving Kevlar fibers using a swisser - a multi-functional, wrist-mounted precision tool. He hovers a magnifying glass over the area of impact, weaving his signature thread, and has him out the door in seconds.

"You got an appointment?" Marty says to the footsteps. He whirls around in his wheelchair, surprised to see his younger brother decked out, bulkier last time they met. "So you finally show up after all this time."

"How's the legs?"

"Gave out a week ago, need some repairs." He looks down at two titanium, skeletal-like feet. "I know you didn't come here to ask about how I'm doing, Enzo. Speak your piece."

Enzo drops the duffel bag in front of Marty. The hardware he's collected; hardware he's scraped from corpses. "Need your help, Hermano. Got some serious ware. Was wondering if you could weld it all together, and make me a pet project of yours. Old time's sake? Gotta keep up the juice if I'm gonna be the best fighter this city has, right?"

"Of course that's all you're here for." Marty frowns, rolling his chair to the tool bench.

"What's the matter? Can't you fix your own brother a few parts?"

"And toy with all of what you got going on there? No. Fuck no."

"Excuse me but what the fuck, Marty?"

"Look at you. You're a few sleeps away from getting NES, bro. I ain't gonna poke nothing at what you got going on there. Check-ups are fucking expensive. Replacement therapy, fucking expensive."

"Jesus Christ, I'm fine! I just want the extra ware. You're pretending like you don't fuck up every asshole who walks through here." Enzo finds a seat on the operation bed, makes himself comfortable. "All I need is a little fix, and you're the best Techmoses around. Don't toss me aside, I'm fucking begging you for Christ's sake."

His brother nods, chuckles even. "Alright, since I'm the best." He sifts through the duffel bag, amazed by what he sees. "All that'll cost you 10,000. And I'll need to make you an appointment."

"10,000? Don't I get a family discount, bro?"

Marty bursts into laughter. "This ain't a farmers market." He wipes a tear from his eye.

Enzo stands up. "I don't have the fucking cicies, man. Can't you let it slide this time? We're brothers, for fucks sake."

"Let it slide? You came in here expecting me to install all this for free?"

"Well— Come on, you act like I'm the fucking bad guy here!"

"Listen, how about you take your shit and find someone else to modify what you got going on there? I ain't going any lower than 10,000. 10,000 is cheaper than most of those fix-ups in Shima. Like you said, I'm the fucking best, Enzo. Would hate to see those parts go to waste." Marty yanks a broom, using it to push the bag to Enzo's feet.

"After all we've been through, you're gonna do me like this?"

Marty doesn't answer.

"Think back to when I was dragging your sorry ass out of Taipei! I saved whatever worthless junk you got left, motherfucker! I did. And you can't even do me the fucking decency of a few new parts. That's bullshit, man!"

Marty takes a hit off a strawberry HQD, "You need to slow down. That, and I ain't installing jack unless I get paid. You gotta understand, man."

Enzo rips the vape pen out of his hand, crushing it. "I should've left your sorry ass out there to fucking die." He shoves the operation bed, snatches his bag, and leaves. Marty squeezes the arms of his chair.

"Prick." He says, defeated. He plucks off the swisser.

—-------------------—---------------------------------

"Asshole," Enzo says to the amber sky over Nirvana. He's at the top steps of the abandoned stadium in Shima, hammering a bottle of whiskey. A place he goes to clear his head, keep him steady. Time has laid waste within, stuffed with garbage and desecrated with graffiti. He's out of options. No more juice. All he has is his drink and attitude. Then he smashes the glass, chucks it through the rusted cage of rebar.

A call shines in his eyes from an old flame the second he sits in one of the chairs. Erin Vaas, a Street-Razor from out of Little Odessa.

[What do you want?]

[Your company, baby.]

[Buzz off.] He cuts the line, struggles to stabilize. He taps his feet, aches in his bones.

"Fuck! That goddamn cocksucker!" He dents his seat, hops off, and wrings the chair out of the concrete, hurling it down the aisle. The heap of metal crashing onto the field. He takes a breath, flops to another seat beside the uprooted concrete.

"It's cause I'm fucking better than them. Has to be. Fucking wasters. Think they can hold me back, just you wait!" He steams like a tea kettle of molten lava.

A bullet flies into the back of his chair. He jumps, startled. A golden YangYang is aimed directly at his head, high caliber just for him.

"Hey, baby," Erin's voice echoes. She's here in the flesh - black unitard, and a high-cropped, blue leather jacket.

"Long time no see. Sorry I haven't returned your calls, sweetie, been in a bit of a rough spot, you know how it is." Erin blasts again. He ducks, crawls for the sky box to his left. Bullets whizz past.

"Crazy bitch!" He leaps through the window frame, prone to the counter, glass shredding the arms of his bomber jacket. He grabs a piece of concrete off the ground.

Erin reloads, craning her neck to peek inside. She steps in, careful in her advance, scanning the place for any signs of life. Enzo throws the concrete, smashing a far window. She takes the bait, firing in that direction. He leaps and tackles her. The YangYang slides. He hovers his fingers over her eyes, holds her down with his other hand wrapped around her throat.

"Don't move!" He takes a breath. "Why the fuck are you here?"

"You owe Kuzma money. He sees it's time for you to cash out!" She grunts in this thick Ukrainian accent.

"Kuzma? Fuck. Tell him to give me more time."

"Kuzma isn't gonna wait any longer. He's got other eyes on you. My competition. Soon you'll be nothing but street waste!"

"All I need is a few days, stall him."

"You're fucked, Enzo!" Sadistic pleasure spreads across her face. "Nothing I say will make it any better."

"Try your best, you psycho bitch." Enzo lifts her by the throat, and slams her back down, swiftly knocking her out.

—-------------------—---------------------------------

5 years ago...

China finally takes Taiwan. It's all over the news and it's mocking him.

The Myla Maty in Little Odessa is a seedy joint that fronts as a Ukrainian wartime memorial bar. In reality, it's a rundown shit-hole where snuff SIDs are passed around like today's some wicked Black Friday.

Enzo washes down his sorrowful existence, spending whatever's left of his cicies while he waits for his old pal Kuzma. He reaches into his weathered Dorsai jacket, dangling his dog tags in front of him.

"Lost," he squeezes, "I nearly died, and I can't even come home to a decent fucking bed." He says to the bags under his eyes in the mirror behind the bar.

"You worthless fuck." He tosses the bartender cred chips, points the hardest whiskey on the shelf, and snatches it greedily; downing half of the bottle. Drunk blurs fester along his field of view and his mannerisms are sluggish. The surroundings echo, and he loses himself in the cavern of his own thoughts, the sounds of gunfire and civilians screaming as they're caught in a lead storm.

"Hey Kong!" A youthful voice calls out to him the direction of the battered door to his right. A younger face, bright blue eyes and a shaved head. Enzo doesn't recognize him right away, lips tight as he examines for any recognizable features.

"It's me, Kelly— Sol Kelly. I was part of Taki's squad, remember." Kelly flashes his Dorsai tags.

"Taki's squad... Yeah, I remember. Scoot before I lose my patience, muchacho." Enzo cracks his neck.

"But, Kong, I—"

Before Kelly can react, Enzo slams him against the counter, pressing his revolver against their skull. The few stragglers in the bar stop and watch, sickeningly amused.  "Need me to spell it out for you?"

"Okay, okay—fuck, man! I just—just don't hurt me man, shit!"

"I don't like being fucked with, not when I'm drunk." Enzo wobbles slightly. Kelly whimpers as he's yanked closer by the neck. "How's the wife, huh? How's the kids? How do you think they'd feel if I splattered your face all over the fucking counter, Kelly? Like you let your boys back in Taipei?"

Kelly's hyperventilating.

Enzo slams his fist. "Answer before I start counting, asshole!"

"They'd—they'd—"

"I better get an answer out of you right fucking now! How would your family feel if you were unrecognizable within the next two seconds?"

"H–horrible, sir!"

"All because you had the nerve to keep yapping, ass-wipe. After I told you to fuck off."

"Please - fuck. Please let me go!"

A gust of cold wind. In walks a black trench coat, faded white hair, eyes glittering solid gold illuminating with surprise. Kuzma. He grasps the focus of the bar for a brief respite, then steps off to the side to avoid the attention. He hangs on the wall, a hint of intrigue lifting his solemn face. Enzo stares back at him, unrecognizable since the last they met until Kuzma puts two and two together, starting from the Dorsai coat.

Enzo smirks, lifting Kelly; kicking his ass towards the door. "Get the fuck out of here!"

Kelly stumbles out.

Kuzma chuckles under his breath as he makes his way to Enzo, greeting him with a rough handshake. Upclose, his face is hallowed. His skin a sickly pale.

The Myla Maty resumes to its vices, several unrelated conversations sparking and fill the place as more bodies step through. Enzo sits shoulder to shoulder with Kuzma at the bar, catching up. Kuzma pays for the drinks, his reputation with The Bleeding Streets succeeding him every corner. Folks keep their distance, eyeing him like death on arrival. The bartender stumbles to fill his glass, asks if his hospitality is amicable. Kuzma nods, rolling his eyes behind their back.

"Idiots, I tell you." Kuzma says with a metallic voice.

"Was giving them a show before you walked in. Why you always gotta ruin the fun?"

"Entertain heathens, do you?" Kuzma takes a shot of bourbon.

"So what have you got for me, Vin? A circus act like when we was kids?"

"No... no... It will not be this time. I need you for something much deserving of your skills." He leans closer, the smell of his cologne heavy in the air. "I get your situation, you're in a bad spot, no cicies in your pocket. Your corporation slaughtered. But me, my friend, I have a great opportunity for you."

"Speak your piece."

"I could make you more than what you are now. Question is... Do you have what it takes?"

"Spit it out. I ain't got all night."

"But you do. I can see it in your eyes. Sleepless nights. A few paces away from falling into a trap most in your position fall. It's inevitable where you're headed without me." Kuzma smirks, deviantly.

Enzo cracks his neck. He feels naked hearing the truth out loud.

"I want you for something greater than what you are now. I want to make everyone from Little Odessa as far as to Hermosa Maria call out your name, and for you to revel in the impact it shall have on those who witness your triumph. And when I am finished with you, they will all know the name... Enzo Kong."

—-------------------—---------------------------------

Enzo winces at the bruises, the scores of stinging cuts drenched in copious sweat, dripping off him and onto the padded foam. He curls, thrusting an uppercut into his opponent's jaw. The opponent staggers backward, catching himself on the cage. He's a heavy weight. Tattoos scrawled across his entire body, the Somoan kind. He charges like a bull, pinning Enzo to the edge of the cage. Nails dig into the back of his neck from a hysterical woman among the surrounding crowd, screaming something in his ear he can't recall amidst the chaos. He lets out a guttural roar, jamming his elbow into The Somoan's spine.

This is Kuzma's offer, his opportunity, and it's about as golden a dream as a hammer smashed into his face.

In the cage, it's live or die. He learned that quickly after the first fight. He had to gouge out someone's eyes before they snapped his neck and separated his head from his lifeless corpse to keep it as a trophy. Because that's what he's pitted against. Monsters made man. Kuzma watches at Enzo's left, standing with his hands clasped together, eyes piercing through the darkness encompassing him, glittering gold. He smirks as the opponent goes down, coughing up chunks of blood. Enzo finishes The Somoan like a savage animal, pounding their skull into the padding. His arms burn, his knuckles red and oozing with blood.

He has to be the best.

—-------------------—---------------------------------

Present Day...

Enzo parks the BMW a block away, keeping an eye over his shoulders as he makes his way into Karma. The club is packed. All gather for the fighters at the center. Heavyweights, upcoming bleeders for entertainment.

"Amateurs," Enzo snorts.

Dime's working in the frenzy. Enzo leans on the counter, snapping for the bartender's attention, sweat rolling down his face and soaking his spiky black hair. Dime jumps to him when there's a moment of breath, lighting a cigar.

"I need to see JoyJoy. I need to see him now." Enzo says, frantic. He keeps his sights deep within the ferocious crowd.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"Not so sure he'll want to speak with you,"

"Don't fuck with me, Dime! I've been doing business here for a good two fucking years! Now, you tell that asshole upstairs his prized fighter needs a word—just a word and I'm gone! Please. That's all I ask."

Dime nods and lowers his cigar, ringing JoyJoy. "Boss, Enzo's here to see you. Says it's urgent."

They have a conversation Enzo can't make out.

"I got you five minutes. He's meeting with an important client soon. You better hurry."

Enzo flies out of his seat. "I owe you one." He climbs the stairs, bursts in. The turret slides out of the ceiling, hovering over him.

JoyJoy fits into a new blue suit, straightening his tie. "Didn't think I forgot about that, did you?" He faces Enzo, takes a glass off his desk, and pours himself some whiskey. He takes a sip.

"Listen up, asshole!" Enzo barks. The turret whirs.

"Easy, Loa." JoyJoy snaps for his assistant. The Diver giggles, voice like a metallic noise, her metal skull pulsing in the light.

"I ain't here for that shit."

"Then why are you here, Enzo? Is this about money? A ploy of yours to have me give what I "owe you?"

Enzo clenches his fist, "you gotta have something for me. You can't just leave me out there to fucking dry, man. You can't. Haven't I brought the cicies to prove my worth? Prove my fucking loyalty!"

"Enzo." JoyJoy stirs his glass. "Always so inclined to think you're the best. Truth is, you aren't. You aren't half the talent. I've seen better work in the cage. You just don't cut it. I need some real showmanship, not some cocky Hermosa Boy." He turns around, gazing out the window, arms wide to the display. The fighters thrash, getting the crowd riled. A bigger one tonight, bigger than usual. Blood splashes the ground. Faces bruise. A quick dash is all it takes to knock one's teeth out. But they're still fighting, making a show of it; a spectacle.

"That down there, that's what I need. New blood. A fresh and upcoming selection. The truth is you haven't pulled in half as you did when you started out here. Now you're just— you're just dead weight."

Enzo grits his teeth. "So that's it. You plan on throwing me out?"

"Sorry, it has to be this way. Really." JoyJoy chuckles. "There is something else I can offer you, out of my hands, of course."

"Just say it."

JoyJoy points to a booth in the far back of the club, past the cage, to a person Enzo can't make out in the darkness.

"There. Talk to them. Word is she's headed for a big score. Her employer might need an extra hand. Maybe you're lucky, maybe you aren't. Regardless, this will be the last we ever speak on an unprofessional basis. Next time, Enzo, and I mean this in a manner of life or death," JoyJoy slams his glass on the desk, "you ever step foot in here without a fucking appointment again, I will erase your sorry ass like you were nothing but dust in the wind, boy. Are we understood?" He faces the door as it opens and his clients arrive. He smirks. It's Suzuki-Han, three of them. The one in the middle holds a briefcase.

Enzo glares back at JoyJoy with contempt. Insults disperse at him in Japanese as he shoves through the incoming clients.

The turret slides back into its compartment.

—-------------------—---------------------------------

Enzo descends the steps out of JoyJoy's office, shouldering his way through the crowd to the other side of the club. A few faces, fans, cheer him on but he isn't acknowledging them. He's tunnel-visioning, keeping it low-key as he approaches the woman. She sits focused deeply into the fights booming at the center, her hands folded tightly as if enraptured with the intensity of it. Her solid maroon eyes twitch ever so slightly at the sudden breaks of violence. She fingers the middle of her sports bra for something with sleek metal she calls a hand, sliding it into her mouth, a capsule of some kind. Solid black like an immune system blocker for the haptics. A sudden jolt back into her surroundings, she looks up at Enzo, biting her lower lip.

"Heard you got a job. I want in."

The woman stares up at him without saying a word.

"Not gonna talk? I said—" Enzo has no time to react, to smack her away, she moves quick. A pistol on his groin. She forces him into the seat and continues to watch the fight like a ravenous animal.

"Relax, fucking psycho!"

Kai doesn't acknowledge, keeping to herself until one of the fighters meets a teeth shattering blow.

"Used to see you up there in the cage. Once. Quick and deadly. Power plays. Gets my blood pumping for a little, but it's not enough. You never savor your violence."

Enzo's eyes are wide. Every squirm of his he feels the steel press further into his crotch.

"Ever once consider how it makes someone like me feel to be robbed of their... thrill. Do you not enjoy it?"

"Lady, I can't focus when you got a piece on my nads. Why don't we just settle down before things get ugly. Real fucking ugly."

"If you think you can take me you are sad." She looks back over to the cage, twitching with satisfaction at the way the refs carry away the corpse bleeding all over the stage. "So, you want a job? One that'll get you off on all that power you have on your shoulders?

"Funny way of asking."

"Wanna help me kill the man I was sent here after? Lemme see a piece of what you're made of."

Enzo leans into the gun, mugging her something ugly. "Let's get this show started then. You want nasty, I'll give you nasty. But who the fuck are you?"

"I will give you a name once the job is complete. Do it well, I might offer you something greater." She moves the pistol away.

"Run it by me then, exactly. Who we after and why?"

"Alcide Lawal, underling of Hong Zhu of the Vermillion corporation. We are to kill him. Fast. He will be leaving Karma soon. That is when we will strike." She explains, keeping hush-hush amongst the dying crowd. "He is over by the bar."

Enzo glares over, seeing a sharply dressed man slurp down a martini with a pair of prozzies scooting onto his lap, exchanging direct lines and cicies being stuffed into the front of one's bosom. He kisses the one to his right as the other grabs his crotch. Hard. He giggles. Left hand squeezes her ass as he rises out of his seat to party with them, dancing against the wall of pop rock revving its way up your ears are ringing like a dog whistle.

"So we breaking this guy?"

The woman nods. "Just follow my lead."

—-------------------—---------------------------------

Street Razors trail behind Alcide as he exits the club, the two prozzies from earlier giggling up a storm. Neon lighting one's throat, the three mouths along her face opening at once. A freak show of pleasure.

The Razors don't look like much. Just typical street hires you'd find at some local dive. They try to look hard, cover themselves in tribal tats and surgical scars. Wear torn clothes. Enzo smirks at the ineptitude of the way they walk and talk, sticking to the shadows. He keeps behind the woman as she shimmies her way through an alley, cutting through to meet Alcide on the other side. Enzo crouches behind a dumpster and readies his fists as the woman finds a spot, hugging her knees in a pile of trash. The tracks rumble above the street, a hunk of metal speeding itself to the next stop, lighting the alley for a brief moment.

A silhouette rises against the brick as the suit advances closer. Sweat drips down Enzo's forehead. Wiping it off, he plans his ambush, to move in quickly and take them out with just a rush of his fists. Do them faster than any average fighter in the ring. Then the woman bursts out of her hidey-hole, beckoning for him to tag along.

"Hey, baby." Alcide notices her from the corner of his eye. "Looking to party—" He freezes the second he sees what she's got in her hands. Before he can react, run, hide, the woman takes aim. She blasts away with her modded musashi. The prozzie with the three mouths catches lead in the forehead, oozing teal neon. Her jaw slings open as she twitches out her last bit of life.

Enzo flinches at the brutality.

The other prozzie screams right as Alcide uses her as a shield, hiding over her shoulder. The suit presses her outward, cowering as The Street-Razor's dash forward - too little too late. The woman switches to armor-piercing rounds at the flick of the dial, obliterating the prozzie with giant holes that blow and toss Alcide into the street, gaping entries through his stomach he could reach a hand through. The other Razors come at her with their guns. She sweeps through their bullets and pushes the closest one back with her onyx hand, giving Enzo enough room to jump in and squash one of their heads with a clap.

"Fuck!" The remaining Razor says. A roar escapes the woman as she pulls a knife from her pants and stabs them. Her technique is snappy. She gets him at every corner with calculated precision - all where it hurts the worst, wipes the blade off with her bra and slips it away. The Razor drops to his knees, coughing up chunks of red goo. Enzo goes in for the final blow but she doesn't let him, savoring the kill until they stop breathing. Then it's back to biz by the way she walks over to Alcide. She plucks a data shard from the front of his pocket, shoves it into the slot behind her ear. The slot shines as her eyes flicker with information. By way of her eyes suddenly sparking, Enzo assumes she just relayed a message to someone over yonder.

"Didn't mention this was an information grab."

She doesn't respond.

"Let's just hurry and get paid." Enzo says. As he turns his back, he feels the cold steel of the musashi make way to goosebumps on his neck.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Do you fear death?"

"Back away from me bitch!" He attempts to disarm her. But is shocked with a swift gunshot past his temple. His ear rings briefly as the drum cushion in his ear regenerates itself. His hearing restores in a matter of seconds. He takes a breath, hands spread out.

"On your knees." She demands. He cooperates. "I asked you a question. Answer it before I make you regret."

Enzo is uncertain of what to make of all this. Terror seeps into him, slowly. He doesn't show it but it's there - aching.

"You do, don't you."

"No."

"Then what is it you fear?"

"Lady you gotta lot of fucking nerve—-" He's whacked on the back of the head, and stops himself from a head-on collision with the ground.

"The great Enzo Kong is about to die whimpering in an alley. Fitting description wouldn't you say? From cage fighting legend to long lost and forgotten statistic in a world whose heart is forever beating in death. And even at the end of his life his final words are that which match his bravado. His facade."

Enzo grits his teeth, bunching up a heap of trash.

"You are truly a weak man. You cannot answer simple questions when you are asked. How am I to trust you with my life if you cannot follow through with the simplicity of what I ask."

"Death ain't what I fear."

"Then why do you shake?"

"Because there's still more to do. I fear someone having the balls to put a gun to my head, and be able to pull the trigger. Send me away to some shit hole they call an afterlife. Cause where I'm going, that ain't sunshine and fucking kumbaya. So yeah, I guess I'm scared. What the fuck does this matter?"

"The subject of mortality is a key factor in who I recruit for jobs. My boss will be pleased." She explains, tucking the gun in her sweatpants. "You can stand now."

Enzo pulls himself up, cracking his neck.

"This is only the beginning. Stick around. You might have some fun."

Enzo hesitates to pull her aside. She waves the musashi around to keep him at bay.

"Pull any shit like that again, you best be ready. Cause I'll make sure for next time that you ain't so fucking eager."

"I'll take that into account."

"You still haven't explained who you are."

Kai twirls her musashi with one finger, taps her lip with the other. Enzo looks her up and down, impatiently waiting for an answer. Her lips peel open, words escaping from her breath as if taking a risk revealing even a fraction of herself.

"My name is Kai. I work for Kitano."

Enzo takes a step back. "You're corporate?"

"Is there a problem?"

"Don't hear me whining do you?"

This doesn't fool Kai. He knows by the look of her unflinching character that there's more to the surface. But she doesn't care, shows it by continuing to take steps away from the massacre before her. 

"Let's get moving."