Cutscene: Deal with The Devil (Patreon)

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THEN

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The room was a chaos of violence, the air thick with the stench of blood and sweat. It was just another day in this South Docks' hideout—a recently refurbished tenement building that served as a haven for the sorts of activities that decent folks whispered about but never dared to confirm. Hidden from the prying eyes of both cops and capes, it was the perfect sanctuary of drugs, violence and sex. 

Sometimes, all three at once.

Today, the second reigned.

A long-haired Japanese man let out a pained gasp as a casual blow to his stomach left him gasping for air, the gangster sent stumbling back. His legs trembled as he kept standing, surrounded by broken bodies and shattered walls. Fuck, this kid hits like a freight train, he thought, trying to steady his breathing.

He stared back at the figure opposite him, fear making his heart race even faster. A blond teenage boy, garbed in red leather that clung to his form like a second skin, his face obscured by a demonic-looking, shattered scarlet mask. Each movement he made was precise and brutal, harsh and uncaring, casual blows sending men to the ground and angry ones sending them flying or shattering bone.

As the last man standing and the effective boss of at least a third of them, the quivering Japanese man had no choice but to fight. He held a rusted, chipped katana firm in his grip, the blade having seen better days. Despite being not yet half done with his twenties, his youth did nothing to mask the weariness of his eyes or the scars that marred his skin. 

The gang member's hands tightened around the hilt of his blade, muscles tensed as he prepared to defend what little ground he had left. This kid's not just strong, he's something else, the man thought, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His back ached from being thrown through a plywood wall earlier, the splinters having left their mark both on his flesh and his blackened outfit. Blood trickled down his forehead, mixing with the sweat that dripped into his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision.

Gotta end this quick, or I'm toast, he thought, gritting his teeth. Ignoring the pain, he rushed forward again, not even able to scream with his throat raw. The fight was brutal and one-sided as it had been before. Every block and parry he made was countered effortlessly by the boy in red. The boy moved with a superhuman grace, dodging strikes that should have hit and responding with punishing blows that left the man reeling.

Even still, he could tell the other kid was holding back. After all, I'm still standing. 

For now.

With a feral yell, he lunged forward, the katana slicing through the air aimed at the boy's midsection.

But the strike met only air. 

The boy sidestepped, his movements fluid, almost supernatural. How? Confusion warred with rising panic as he barely registered the boy's counter—a swift, precise strike to his ribs that knocked the wind out of him.

"That all you got?" the boy taunted, his voice muffled by the mask but still dripping with amusement. "C'mon, man, I've seen grannies do better…" His visible eye went cold. “Literally.”

Fucking smartass, the gangster thought, anger flaring up alongside the pain. He swung again, a wide arc meant to cleave through bone and sinew. The boy ducked under the blade, close enough that he could feel the whisper of the boy's jacket against his skin. Then, in a blur of motion, the boy was behind him, delivering a crushing blow to the back of his knee. Pain buckled his legs, sending him staggering forward, struggling to maintain his grip on the katana.

"Shit!" he hissed, barely catching himself before face-planting on the floor. His knee throbbed, threatening to give out entirely. This is bad. Real bad.

Gasping, he whirled around, his movements now driven by instinct rather than thought. The boy was there, just out of reach, his posture relaxed, almost bored. With a shout that tore at his ragged throat, he charged with his blade raised for a downward strike.

But again, the boy was no longer there when his blade came down. Instead, the cold floor greeted his sword with a jarring clang that sent vibrations up his arms. The impact nearly dislodged the weapon from his grasp. This can't be happening.

"Dude, seriously?" The boy's voice came from behind him, laced with disappointment. "I was hoping for at least a bit of a challenge. Y'know, given you're supposed to be running things around here."

The gangster spun around, his vision swimming from the sudden movement. Running things? How does he— His thoughts were cut short as he looked up just in time for a lazy backhand to connect with his jaw, sending him sprawling across the floor. The katana clattered away, sliding across the blood-slicked floor.

He lay there, dazed and beaten, every breath sending jolts of pain through his battered body. The boy in red loomed over him, his mask somehow more terrifying from this angle. The flickering fluorescent lights cast eerie shadows across the scarred surface of the plastic face covering, making it seem alive and hungry. 

His nose was thick with the sharp smell of blood, the coppery tang enough to mask the sweat and dirtiness that the place was full of. 

“Where’d you get these swords?” The voice came from above him, tinged with a curiosity that almost seemed innocent. He glanced up to see the boy looming over him, a single golden eye visible behind the half-shattered scarlet mask.The eye seemed to glow, unnaturally bright in the dim warehouse.

"Gaaaah… my nothe... " He struggled to speak, his voice muffled and distorted by the swelling. Shit, he probably broke it, he thought, tasting blood in the back of his throat.

“Where did you... Get. These. Swords?” The boy's tone hardened, insistence threading through each word.

"Holy… Duke… Duke's Pawn Shop… god..." His response came out in gasps, each word punctuated by a sharp throb of pain that radiated across his face. Just let it end, he pleaded silently, his eyes squeezing shut against the agony.

"Alright. I'll make you a deal." There was a shift in the air as the boy's stance relaxed slightly, golden eye locked onto both of his with an intensity that felt almost physical. The change in tone was jarring, almost casual, as if they were discussing the weather.

"What?" Confusion clouded his mind, pain and adrenaline making it hard to follow.

"The sword. I want it." The boy's tone was even, but there was an edge to it that spoke of underlying threats. "So, I'm gonna make you a deal. The swords for your legs."

"But… but… what?" His voice was weak, incredulous. This can't be happening. This is insane.

"...The swords or your legs." The finality in the boy's voice left no room for argument. The air seemed to grow colder, the silence in the warehouse oppressive.

"What?" Panic flared within him, a desperate kind of fear that made his heart pound painfully against his ribs. His eyes darted around, searching for an escape that didn't exist.

"I keep the swords or I keep your legs. Choose." The simplicity of the choice did nothing to ease the dread that settled heavy in his stomach. The boy's voice was calm, almost bored, as if he were asking about lunch preferences.

The sword, his sword, was now pointed menacingly at his legs, the steel glinting coldly under the flickering light. He swallowed hard, his throat dry as he tried to muster the courage to look the boy in the eye. This is it. This is how it ends.

"Y-... Y- You could have just taken the swords though." His voice was barely a whisper, a mix of defiance and resignation. 

"I could have…” The cape kid nodded. “Yeah, I really could have. But that'd be mugging you. That's what villains do. I'm putting the choice in your hands here."

"Ch-shit… choice, huh?" His laugh was hollow, pain-laced, and it hurt even more but he couldn’t help it.

The boy’s smile was thin, almost amused. "Exactly."

There was a beat of silence, heavy and thick, before he finally exhaled a shaky breath. "You're funny," the words scraped out of him, a ragged, manic laugh that hurt his chest with every secondl. “Take 'em.”

“Hn… Thanks for the swords.”

“...you’re welcome.”

"What's your name?" The question was unexpected, almost curious. The boy paused, his head tilting slightly as he waited for an answer.

Fuck it. If he wants to kill me, he would have already. “...Asada. Asada Seo.” 

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NOW

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Seo adjusted his rearview mirror, casting a watchful eye on the blond woman they had been tailing as she walked down the street. Downtown bustled around them, the thrum of city life a stark contrast to the silence in their car. Leaning back in the driver's seat of the nondescript black sedan, Seo did his best to blend into the scenery, which was easier said than done, considering…

Even after the events of the Bombings, Downtown was still a hive of activity, the kind of place where a person could get lost in the crowd—or in plain sight, if they weren't careful. Just like old times, Seo thought, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Except now we're the good guys. Sort of.

Beside him, his fellow ABB captain, Jonouchi, sat like a statue, the martial artist's muscular frame barely fitting in the passenger seat. The man's stern face was framed by the tinted window, his gaze fixed intensely on the woman they were tasked with shadowing as she walked towards the boutique they were told of. He looked every bit the part of a gang enforcer all the way down to his black and yellow motorcycle jacket.

"Jonouchi, question… do you ever smile?" Seo's voice broke the silence, an attempt at lightening the mood. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the steering wheel.

Jonouchi's eyes flickered towards Seo, the hint of annoyance quick to surface. His arms, covered in intricate dragon tattoos that snaked their way from his shoulders down to his wrists, crossed defensively. "Focus, Seo. We're not here to chat."

Seo sighed, his gaze wandering back to the woman as she disappeared into a boutique, the bell tinkling softly as the door closed. God, this is boring as hell. Silence settled over the car like a thick blanket and after a moment, he ventured another question, unable to keep his curiosity down. "Been thinking, man. Why the loyalty, though? I mean, I get why I'm here, and everyone else has their reasons, but you… I don't get you."

Jonouchi's gaze flickered toward Seo, a frown creasing his brow. He seemed to consider the question, his jaw tightening for a moment. Finally, he turned slightly, his voice oddly low and soft-spoken for a man that looked like he did. "Why do you think the others don't defect? Why do they follow him instead of joining the gangs trying to encroach on our territory?"

Seo chuckled dryly, his eyes scanning the rearview mirror. A couple of teenagers walked by, laughing and shoving each other playfully. To be that carefree again... "Well, the Boston gang's more like a bunch of mercenaries than a proper gang. Spend more time out of the city than in it, always running scared whenever Lung's name pops up. And the New Yorkers? Flashy idiots trying too hard not to look scared of Legend."

He paused, watching a couple of pedestrians narrowly avoid a cyclist. The rider flipped them off, earning a chorus of curses. Just another day in the Bay. "Wesley's just looking for the strongest lead, someone who can make decisions so he doesn't have to. And Joon Lee? That guy's tied up in so many deals in the Bay, he can't afford to jump ship without losing everything."

Jonouchi nodded, his expression thoughtful. "And what about you, Seo? Why do you follow the White Dragon?"

Seo's grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. The White Dragon. It still felt strange to use that name, to think of the kid who had beaten him down as some kind of savior. But wasn't that exactly what he'd become? "He gave me a choice," Seo said finally, his voice low. "More than Lung ever did. And he's... fair. Doesn't abuse his power. Doesn't treat us like we're expendable."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Jonouchi's face. "He's not perfect, but at the very least, we're not expected to be criminals. We have the freedom to do better, to build a community. Something that can actually help our people instead of bleeding them dry."

Seo smiled, a rare, genuine twitch of lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. His fingers tapped an irregular rhythm on the steering wheel, a nervous tic he'd never quite managed to shake. "On top of that? I'm just trying to stay alive, man. I stick with who I think can keep me that way and not turn on me when he gets in a mood." The sarcasm in his voice was biting but the seriousness in his eyes didn’t fade.. And isn't that the fucking truth.

The other man nodded, his expression softening slightly. The harsh lines of his face smoothed out, making him look almost paternal for a moment. "Loyalty's not about the easy choice, Seo. It's about making the right one."

Seo let out a low whistle. "Damn, that's deep. You been practicing that speech?"

Jonouchi's smile widened slightly. "Maybe. I have a lot of time in my own head.”

The conversation hung between them as Seo found himself pondering Jonouchi's words. Loyalty. The right choice. He'd made plenty of choices in his life, most of them far from right. Joining the ABB hadn't been about loyalty or morality – it had been about survival, plain and simple. The right choice, huh? As if anything in this fucked up world is that simple.

He turned his attention back to the boutique, the woman now exiting with a shopping bag in hand. Her blonde hair caught the sunlight, a beacon in the crowd. Guess the right choice requires playing secret bodyguard for some single mom?

Seo started the car, ready to follow at a discreet distance. "You know," he said as they pulled out into traffic, "I think that's the most I've ever heard you say at once. We should do this more often."

Jonouchi's only response was a soft grunt, but Seo could swear he saw the hint of a smile on the older man's face. Maybe there's hope for us yet, he thought, turning his attention back to the road and the task at hand.