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 bar whose 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, most likely 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 screams of the dying clone. When she was gone, all that remained was the ragged breathing of the remaining clones, stunned into silence. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, chaos erupted.

One of the clones, sudden fear etched across her young features, pulled out a gun and yanked the nearest escort in front of her, a shield of exposed flesh and panicked whimpers. The escort screamed in fear, but the sound was swallowed by the downpour as she was ripped from the relative safety of the awning. The clone leveled her autopistol at Kazuo, her finger white-knuckled on the trigger.

Kazuo's face hardened, his eyes as cold as the steel of his blade. He had no time to think and could only react. In one fluid motion, he thrust forward and at a carefully chosen angle, the katana piercing through blue silk, flesh, and bone before the clone could fire her gun. The escort screamed as the katana sliced through her flank, before sinking deep into the flesh of the ganger and killing her outright.

The escort crumpled to the ground, clutching her side, a crimson bloom spreading across her exposed skin and the shimmering fabric of her blouse. Her eyes, glazed with shock and pain, locked onto Kazuo’s. He knelt beside her, his face grim. He had a scant few seconds. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the storm as he pulled her up from the ground and shoved her away. "Hide!"

The other escort trembled, her hands clutching her thin red kimono blouse. Her eyes met Kazuo's for a brief moment, filled with fear as she was backing away from him.

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 he read the sudden fear in her eyes. In a blur of motion he was upon her, his hand clamping down on her wrist. She screamed, a raw, animal sound of agony as he twisted and broke her arm, splintering bone fragments grating against muscle and tendon, forcing the gun to point at her clone sisters. Overwhelmed by pain, her finger convulsed on the trigger, the bulky pistol, now angled wildly by Kazuo's twist, spitting a torrent of high-speed rounds into her clone sisters charging in to help her.

The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic. The clones were genetically identical, beautiful, physically perfect specimens, but they were still flesh and bone.

The clone directly in the path of the spray was struck center mass. The heavy rounds ripped through her ribcage, punching through lung and heart, turning the delicate curvature of her chest cavity into a bloody pulp. A geyser of dark crimson blood, mingled with shattered bone shards erupted from her back. Her body was flung backward, collapsing into a heap as her life was extinguished in less than a second, her chest a ruined crater.

The second clone caught in the crossfire was struck lower. Rounds ripped through her abdomen and pelvis. There was a wet, tearing sound as flesh and gut were shredded. A torrent of blood and bile  erupted from her ruptured lower body. Her scream was cut short by the sheer physical trauma. She collapsed, not falling smoothly, but simply folding in on herself, a twitching mass of ruined organs and shattered bone, intestines spilling out onto the cold, wet pavement like some grotesque, steaming rope. The screamed in agony, the mercy of a quick death denied to her for now

The clone who had fired the shots watched, horrified, as her own weapon annihilated her sisters. Her screams changed from pain to abject terror. Kazuo wrenched the pistol from her mangled grip. The broken wrist flopped uselessly, her hand still clenched around empty air. Kazuo pressed the muzzle of the heavy pistol against the soft underside of her chin..

Their eyes locked. Hers were wide, dilated with a dawning, horrific understanding, desperately hoping for a sign of mercy. Kazuo's eyes were devoid of pity. For a fleeting heartbeat, time stretched. The rain drummed on. “Your turn,” he whispered. Then, the hammer fell.

The shot was muffled by being pressed directly against flesh and bone. The base of the skull offered little resistance. There was a sickening crunch followed by a wet explosion. The top of her head seemed to lift momentarily before collapsing inwards, a grotesque, dark blossom. A fine mist of blood, bone fragments, and grey matter erupted upwards, splattering Kazuo’s face with warm blood. The clone's body went instantly slack, dropping like a stone, the back of her head a gaping, pulpy ruin against the rain-slicked concrete.

Two more clones, visibly shaken by the sudden, violent deaths of their sisters, moved as one. Their steps were perfectly synchronized, their movements fluid and deadly, a terrifying ballet of trained violence. They lunged at Kazuo, each wielding a wicked, curved vibro-blade that hummed with contained energy.

But they were no match for the seasoned predator before them. Kazuo's katana, its edge honed to molecular sharpness, sang a different, older, deadlier song in the dim light.

One of them attacked low, a sweeping strike aimed at his legs. Kazuo sidestepped, the blade humming inches from his boots. His own blade descended in a blindingly fast vertical cut. It cleaved through her shoulder, severing the collarbone and scapula with a sound like tearing fabric mixed with splintering wood. It bit deep into her chest cavity, slicing through her lung and the top of her heart. Blood gouted outwards in a thick, dark stream as she collapsed, choking on her own blood, a strangled, gurgling scream trapped in her throat. Her eyes stared, wide and unseeing, at the rain-streaked sky. She was dead within seconds.

Her sister was right behind her, thrusting her vibro-blade towards Kazuo's gut. He parried with ease, the clash of steel and humming energy sending sparks dancing in the rain. With a twist of his wrist, he deflected her weapon and brought his katana around in a swift, horizontal arc. The blade met her neck just below the jawline. The molecular edge slid through flesh, muscle, and bone with horrifying ease. There was a wet thwack and a spray of arterial blood that painted the ground around her crimson. Her head separated cleanly from her shoulders, tumbling into a puddle with a splash. Her body stood for a bizarre half-second, a fountain of blood erupting from the severed neck, before collapsing in a heap, limbs twitching reflexively before finally stilling.

Only the gang leader remained, her green hair plastered to her skull, her face a mask of cold fury that now showed cracks of shock and disbelief. She had watched the best fighters of her gang die in moments, each death a horrifying, distinct act of violence. Her cold eyes narrowed as she finally assessed the true danger before her. With a guttural snarl, she charged, her own heavy blade singing through the air, a desperate, final gamble.

Kazuo met her rage-fueled attack with unnerving calm. The clash of their blades sent a shower of sparks into the rain. Her technique was flawless, but predictable. In a movement too fast for the eye to truly track, a flick of Kazuo’s wrist, a shifting of weight, and the Leader’s weapon was no longer in her grasp. Her fingers screamed in protest as the hilt was violently wrenched away. The heavy blade clattered uselessly against the wet pavement, its energy hum fading to silence.

She stood there, momentarily stunned, the rain plastering her hair to her face. Before she could react, Kazuo moved with blinding speed. A flash of steel, a choked gasp, and a thin red line blossomed across her throat. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she reached for the wound, her fingers coming away slick with blood. She stumbled backward, a gurgling sound escaping her lips, and collapsed onto the wet asphalt. The light faded from her eyes, and she lay still, another victim of the relentless storm.

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 towards the uninjured escort in the red blouse, his face an impassive mask. Meeting his piercing eyes, she fell to her knees in front of him. The storm howled around them, a relentless torrent washing over the grimy streets of Neon City. In the brief lull between gusts, her voice, thin and strained, reached Kazuo. 

"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes wide with terror. "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. He paused. “What is your name?”

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

He nodded, but didn't answer, his silhouette a stark, unmoving shape against the flickering neon lights. The rain plastered his dark clothes to his lean frame, highlighting the tension in his shoulders. "Let me repay you," she repeated as she was rising up from the ground, her voice gaining a desperate edge. The cold light painted transient blues and purples across her face, reflecting in her wide, pleading eyes. Kazuo’s expression remained hidden in the gloom, an unreadable mask.

“Mika,” he said finally. “You know why I’m here.”

Mika looked into his eyes for a few long seconds. “Who sent you?” she asked, her voice suddenly steady, cutting through the sound of the falling rain.

“Does it matter?” Kazuo shrugged. He held up a soaking wet piece of paper with Mika’s face and name on it - and a large price on her head. "Murder, Clone trafficking, slavery..." Kazuo was reading down the list. He pointed at the dead gangers lying in the street. “They weren’t trying to kill you. They were here to protect you.”

Mika’s expression hardened, the act of the innocent escort having played its course. She reached out and cautiously touched his rough hand. It was cold and unyielding, but he didn't pull away. “Maybe I can make you forget that you found me,” she said, this time with a firm voice. She led him down a narrow passage, away from the main thoroughfare, into the deeper shadows of a forgotten alley. "Everyone has a price."

The air thickened instantly, heavy with the damp, metallic tang of decay and the sharp, acrid smell of urine and stale spirits. The rain didn't penetrate here as heavily, merely dripping mournfully from overflowing gutters. Mika turned in the cramped space, facing him, her breath catching in her throat. Her fingers rose to trace the unfamiliar landscape of his stubbled jaw, the sharp angle of his cheekbone.

She leaned in, took in his intoxicating scent of sweat and blood. “Do what you want to me,” she whispered, aroused by the danger and barely contained violence radiating from him. Her lips met his, tentatively at first, then with a desperate urgency. It was a kiss born of calculation and fear. Kazuo responded, a low hum rumbling in his chest. His hands, surprisingly gentle at first, found her waist, spanned her hips, and pulled her against his body. The sudden closeness stole her breath.

Mika's fingers undid the ties of her simple kimono blouse with ease. The wet silk clung to her skin for a moment before slipping free, pooling around her feet like a dark, shimmering puddle. The cool, damp air of the alley raised goosebumps across her exposed skin. Kazuo's touch changed, growing more urgent as he explored the suddenly revealed curves, the soft, vulnerable flesh of her body. His lips trailed down her neck, then lower, tasting the rain-slicked skin of her shoulder, the delicate line of her collarbone.

A gasp escaped her as his hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs tracing the hardening peaks. The combination of the cold air and his hot touch was an exquisite shock. He pressed her back against the rough brick wall of the alley, the uneven surface biting into her naked skin. The hard ridge of his erection pressed against her underbelly through his wet trousers.

His hand slipped between her legs, pushing aside her silken underwear. She was already slick, wet not just from the rain, but from a rising tide of arousal mingled with fear. His fingers found their way inside of her. She whimpered, arching her back, her head falling back against the cold brick. His mouth covered hers again, silencing her soft cries as his tongue plunged deep into her mouth.

Mika fumbled to undo his hakama. Then, her breath hitched as he entered her with a powerful thrust. The world outside the narrow alley, the storm, the distant neon glow – it all faded, narrowing to the intense, all-consuming sensation of his body filling hers. The initial tightness gave way, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside of her. He moved inside her with a relentless, urgent rhythm, a driving force that pressed her harder against the rough wall. The friction, the heat building between their bodies in the cool night air, the raw, visceral connection – it was overwhelming.

Mika dug her fingernails into the wet fabric of his tunic, dragging the rough material down his back. Her breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with his low grunts of effort. Each thrust sent a wave of pleasure through her, building inexorably towards a fiery peak. Her hips bucked against his, meeting his rhythm, desperate to chase the sensation higher, faster. She was a creature of pure sensation in that moment, locked in this dark, damp space with the man who had come to kill her. The world was a blur of touch, heat, and the pounding rhythm.

As she teetered on the very edge, she could feel Kazuo’s restraint. She tightened her legs around him as he tried to pull away from her. “It’s OK,” the words coming out of her in a hushed whisper. “I want you to.” Moments later, Kazuo groaned and closed his eyes - she could feel a gush of warmth as he came inside her. 

This was her moment. With a sudden move, Mika reached for one of the smaller wakizashi blades under Kazuo’s belt, the blade singing as it slipped free. In one fluid motion she brought up the blade to slash his throat, but she never got that far. Kazuo’s rough hand caught her wrist in a vice-like grip, twisting the blade away at the last moment. A fine line of blood trickled down his neck where the blade had nicked his skin.

"Why?" Kazuo gasped, his breath hot against her ear. He wrested the blade away from her and threw it out of reach onto the rain-slicked ground. "I might have forgotten I ever found you," he added, his voice low and grim. He was still gently moving inside her, and despite the fear and pain, Mika’s body was finally pushed over the edge, convulsing as she finally came with a soft moan on her lips.

As her climax made her shudder in waves of pleasure, she met his gaze in the dim light filtering into the alley. “I don’t want to have to look over my shoulder forever," she finally said, catching her breath.There was no lust in Kazuo’s eyes anymore, only a profound sadness and a terrifying, cold resolve that sent a shiver down Mika’s spine – a chill far deeper than the rain.

"Are you going to kill me?" she finally asked him, her voice a trembling whisper.

Kazuo slowly shook his head. “No, not after what we just… It would be dishonourable.”

Mika laughed. “You? Honour? I didn’t think…”

She felt the cold, hard press of metal against her side, just below her ribcage. It was the briefest pressure before a searing, unimaginable pain bloomed within her. The sharp bite of the blade as it sliced through her flesh was instantaneous, a brutal intrusion into the ripples of pleasure that were still consuming her at the same time. The sensations collided violently – the exquisite, almost painful tightness of her muscles clenching around Kazuo in the final throes of her climax suddenly met the tearing agony of a knife.

The wounded escort’s grip on the knife was steady, her thrust swift and deep, despite struggling with her own injury. Mika's body stiffened against the wall, a strangled cry escaping her throat. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and defiance, stared up at the escort and Kazuo. She felt a gurgling sensation in her chest, the sudden warmth of her own blood pooling inside her. She tried to speak, to form words, but the air wouldn't come. Her legs, still wrapped around Kazuo’s waist, went slack. Her grip on his tunic loosened, her fingers scraping feebly. The world tilted, the edges blurring as darkness began to creep in from the periphery of her vision.

Kazuo's face, illuminated by a stray shard of neon from above, was a mask of sorrow etched with grim acceptance. As he pulled the wounded escort away, Mika’s body slid down against the rough brick wall, leaving a wide smear of blood even the rain couldn’t wash away immediately.

The last thing she saw was his face, looming above her, the rain washing streaks down his cheeks that could have been tears. Then, the world went black.

"Sometimes you have to pay in blood Mika, no matter what," Kazuo whispered, his voice barely audible above the renewed howl of the storm, as he gently lowered her lifeless body the rest of the way to the damp, litter-strewn ground of the alley. He gently covered her dead body with her Kimono blouse.

He stood there for a moment, silhouetted against the alley entrance, before turning around. The injured escort, her blue blouse drenched in her own blood, was barely standing there, leaning against the wall, leaving smears of blood. Her hand still clenched around Kazuo’s wakizashi blade, Mika’s blood dripping from it. “Are you going to finish me now?” she asked with a raspy voice, struggling for breath. Kazuo looked at her, flooded with guilt at what he had done to her earlier in the fight. 

“It depends,” he said after a moment. “What is your name?”

“Amaya” she said flatly, seemingly ready for whatever fate had in store for her.

“You’re not on the list, Amaya,” Kazuo replied. After a pause he added “Why did you kill her?”

Amaya slid down the rough brick wall, gasping in pain. “I was her property,” she whispered. “One of her playthings - and I was worried you were gonna let her go.” Kazuo knelt in front of her, taking her hand and steadying her. “Well, then you’re free now Amaya. Let’s get you to a healer.” He gently lifted her off the ground and began to walk while carrying her in his arms.

Together, they disappeared into the rain-soaked anonymity of Neon City's labyrinthine streets, their forms gradually melting into one and fading into the misty, neon-hued night.