THE OLD MAN

The rain hammered down on Neon City like liquid steel, each drop a tiny missile pockmarking the cracked pavement. Steam rose from storm drains in ghostly tendrils, carrying the acrid stench of decay and desperation. Towering skyscrapers pierced the storm-ravaged sky, their obsidian facades pulsing with veins of neon cyan and magenta. Holo-ads flickered and sputtered, their gaudy promises of a better life mocking the grime-coated reality below.

Kazuo Takeda's weathered boots splashed through oily puddles, each step sending ripples across reflections of a world long past saving. His once-proud shoulders, now hunched beneath the weight of years and regret, strained against a sodden cloak that had seen better days. The katana at his side whispered against his leg with each measured stride, a constant reminder of battles fought and comrades lost.

He paused as he approached the flickering awning of a redlight dive bar whose faded sign creaked and swayed in the howling wind. The neon "Open" sign buzzed and sputtered, casting an intermittent red glow across the scene below. Two young women stood outside, escorts waiting for customers, their skimpy but colourful outfits a splash of colour in the grey cityscape. They were surrounded by a group of gangers.

Looking over at them, Kazuo’s calloused hand absently traced the hilt of his katana, remembering the countless lives it had taken.

A high-pitched laugh cut through the monotonous drumming of rain, setting Kazuo's nerves on edge, his hand instinctively tightening on the grip of his sword. The gangers had noticed him, their near identical faces twisted into sneers of cruel amusement. They stepped towards him with an eerie synchronicity, their graceful chrome limbs gleaming dully in the half-light.

"Well, well," one of them purred, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "What do we have here? A relic from the good old days? Are you lost old man?"

Kazuo's eyes narrowed, the crow's feet at their corners deepening. He said nothing, but his body tensed, coiled like a spring ready to unleash decades of pent-up violence.

"Look at him," another clone jeered, her laughter like breaking glass. "That sword looks like an antique. What's the matter, grandpa? Forget how to use it?"

The rain intensified, drumming against metal and flesh alike. A flash of lightning illuminated the scene, casting harsh shadows across faces both young and old, engineered and natural.

One clone, her cybernetic eyes glowing with an unnatural blue light, stepped forward. The acrid smell of ozone crackled around her as she activated her augmentations. "Let's see if this old man can still dance," she sneered, drawing a mono-filament edged blade that hummed with deadly potential.

She lunged at Kazuo, her movements a blur of chrome and flesh. But Kazuo was more experienced and had predicted her move before she made it. His katana sang as it left its sheath, the blade catching the neon light for a split second before it cleaved first through the clone's weapon and then her body. The sound of tearing metal and flesh was lost in a crash of thunder.

The clone's eyes widened in shock, blood trickling out of her mouth before she collapsed to the ground. Her blood mixed with the rain and formed a puddle at Kazuo's feet.

For a few seconds, the only sound was the relentless pounding of the rain and the ragged breathing of the remaining clones, stunned into silence. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, chaos erupted.

One of the clones, fear etched across her young features, pulled out a gun and grabbed the nearest of the escorts, pulling the woman in front of herself as a human shield. The escort’s eyes widened in terror, her carefully applied makeup running in streaks down her face as she was yanked from underneath the awning and into the rain. The clone took aim at Kazuo.

Kazuo's face hardened, his eyes as cold as the steel of his blade. In one fluid motion, he thrust forward, the katana piercing through silk, flesh, and bone before the clone could fire her gun. The escort’s scream was cut short, her body going limp just as the blade found the clone behind her, impaling them both. “Please forgive me,” Kazuo whispered into the escort’s ear as she died. Escort and clone fell together as he pulled back his sword, a macabre tangle of flesh, their blood mixing to form a single, rapidly expanding red puddle.

The surviving escort trembled, her white-knuckled hands clutching her thin red kimono blouse. Her eyes met Kazuo's for a brief moment, filled with a mixture of fear and acceptance of fate. “Get behind me if you want to live,” he growled at her.

Another clone raised a large heavy pistol, its dark gun metal barrel gleaming in the neon light. The air crackled with the sound of gunfire, but Kazuo anticipated the clone’s every move, twisting and turning between each round fired, knowing her aim was off as she trembled with sudden fear. In an instant, he was upon her, his hand clamping down on her wrist. Bones crunched as he twisted and broke her arm, forcing the gun to point at her clone sisters.

The ganger screamed in pain, her finger convulsing on the trigger, sending a spray of bullets into her comrades. Two more clones died, their perfect bodies obliterated in a shower of blood and bone fragments. Kazuo wrenched the gun from the ganger’s grasp and, in one fluid motion, pressed it under her chin. Their eyes locked for a heartbeat, the young clone’s eyes widening with fear. The shot rang out, echoing off the walls of the alley, splattering Kazuo’s face with warm blood.

Two more clones attacked as one, their movements a terrifying ballet of synchronised violence. But they were no match for the experienced old samurai. Kazuo's katana flashed in the dim light, each strike precise and lethal. Blood sprayed across the pavement, steaming in the cold air. One by one, the clones fell, screaming in pain, their young faces frozen in expressions of disbelief and pain as they died.

The leader of the gang, her dyed green hair plastered to her scalp by the relentless rain, watched as her clone sisters were cut down. Her cold eyes narrowed as she assessed her opponent. With a snarl, she charged, her own blade singing through the air.

Kazuo met her predictable attack with ease, the clash of their weapons sending sparks flying. In a move too fast for the eye to follow, he disarmed her, her weapon clattering uselessly to the ground.

What followed was not a quick death, but a slow, methodical dismantling. Kazuo's blade danced across her body, each cut deliberate, each wound a lesson written in blood and pain. The clone's screams echoed off the uncaring walls of Neon City, her curses quickly turning to a plea for mercy.

Kazuo leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. "Mercy? You're not worthy to die by my hand," he whispered, his voice as cold and final as a door slamming shut. Then he stepped back, leaving the clone to collapse and bleed out in the gutter. The rain washed her blood away, carrying it into the city's sewers.

From the shadows, shapes began to emerge. Twisted, grotesque creatures, more animal than human, drawn by the scent of blood and the promise of fresh flesh. Their eyes glowed with an unholy hunger as they descended upon the dead and dying clones. The sound of tearing flesh and crunching bones filled the air, mixing with the whimpers of the dying and the relentless drumming of the rain.

Kazuo turned away, his face an impassive mask. The surviving escort hurried after him, her delicate shoes splashing through puddles of blood and rainwater. She caught up to him, falling to her knees, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and gratitude.

"Thank you," she said, her words barely audible above the storm. "They would have killed me. Please - let me repay you."

Kazuo looked at her, his hard eyes softening for a moment. In them, she saw a glimpse of the man he once was, before the world had turned him into a weapon. "No," he said simply, his voice rough with disuse. "My honour does not allow it.” He paused. “What is your name?”

“Mika,” the escort replied. “My name is Mika.”

He hesitated a moment, as if the next words were difficult for him to say. “I’m sorry for your friend, Mika. I had no choice."

The escort nodded, tears running down her face, mixing with the rain. She watched as Kazuo turned around and disappeared into the rain-soaked streets of Neon City, the silhouette of the old man gradually fading into the mist and neon haze.