I was with the multiverse at its infancy, where I led my race to its golden age, and—its eventual demise. Now I dwell among my lessers, my reckoning for defying fate, no doubt.
— The Champion.
———
Silence...
*Beep!*
*Ba-dump!* *Ba-dump!*
His heart began beating and he felt blood rush across his new body.
However, not long after he had gained consciousness, he felt multiple sharp, piercing, and searing pains across his torso and thighs.
Suddenly, his eyes popped open—revealing intricate, incandescent golden hexagonal patterns. They blossomed across the brown irises in layered, dizzying arrays, like fragments of divine artwork, so—eerily beautiful.
His gaze, from beneath the brim of his black fedora, took in the scene:
He was in a ruined retro cafe, seated on a barstool with his back against the counter, arms coolly splayed back.
The round tables and quaint wooden chairs were strewn about in chaos, and the floor was a carpet of debris and wreckage.
Across the room, two floor-to-ceiling, bullet-hole-ridden, and cracked glass pane windows framed fancy double doors—one dangling precariously from a single, twisted hinge.
Around, bodies lay still where they fell, and the place reeked of cordite and copper: a clear testament to a brutal firefight.
*Tinge!* *Tang!*
Bullets slowly pushed out of his black suit and pants, clattering to the floor as his flesh regenerated.
His fingerless-gloved hands twitched, and a torrent of the body's hazy memories flooded into his mind.
Although fragmented, the situation became clear. This body's former tenant was an initiate of a criminal organization, and this cafe was their bold new front—A fatal miscalculation, or gross underestimation, as this territory was already claimed...
Clearly, as the rival gang had just delivered their latest notice.
Before him, five men in garish beach shirts and cream-colored hats were preparing to depart, their variety of automatic rifles now slung loosely.
They moved with the casual air of men who had just finished a job.
*Beep!*
As he watched their retreating backs, a phantom resentment—a final, dying ember from the young man who once lived here, smoldered in his chest.
He exhaled, a soft sigh of cosmic empathy.
I understand. I understand so well, kiddo! I, too, had many times stood where you fell. To harbor such blazing hopes for the future, such aspirations of supremacy, only to have them extinguished by a hail of gunfire!
His eyes hardened.
...But fear not! I am the Champion, and for leasing me this vessel, I shall champion your cause! The combat skills of my last life are fresh in my soul! Witness me, friend, as I put them to use!
His calculating gaze swept up across the wreckage to the gangsters, and in an instant—he saw victory.
Taking a deep breath, he carefully rose to his feet and stretched his new muscles with feigned nonchalance.
Then he charged—or rather, he attempted to, launching into a staggering show of acrobatic exuberance. He leaped and somersaulted into multiple forward flips, over and across the obstacles in his way, gradually gathering momentum with nimble and self-assured flips.
It seemed apparent that he knew what he was doing—until his sole slipped in a slick of fresh blood, sending him crashing into a heap of cracked furniture.
*Crash!* *Clatter!*
At once, the rival gangsters spun around, rifles snapping up to their shoulders, eyes wide and alert.
Shit! Shit!! Shiiiit!!!
He cursed vehemently from his undignified position on the floor, partially shielded by the wreckage.
Damn it! Hoo~ Alright! Compose yourself. This is manageable! I simply need to—
He paused, and then his glowing eyes widened with revelation.
Wait! I can try that!
The gangsters exchanged tense glances, weapons trained on the source of the commotion. The leader gave a sharp nod, signaling one of his men to investigate. But before the thug could take a step, a low, guttural growl rippled through the air.
"Grrrr"
They watched, a knot of apprehension tightening in their guts, as he rose slowly from the ground, his body twitching and spasming intermittently with his back to them.
His movements were jerky, unnatural, and as he took a single step forward, his other leg dragged behind him like it was broken.
The gangsters all froze.
"Christ... It's one of the dead ones," one gangster breathed, his weapon trembling violently in his grasp.
"I-It can't be a z-zombie, right?" Whispered another, stuttering.
"What kind of sick fucking joke is this?!" the leader roared, but his bluster failed at masking the unease in his eyes.
The leader would, however, soon regret raising his voice when the creature's head snapped back toward them.
In a situation that begged disbelief, the gangsters found themselves face-to-face with a bloodied visage, locked in a crooked, ravenous snarl. Its piercing eyes illuminated gold, like a beast of folktale.
Without a word, one of the gangsters discarded his rifle and fled through the shattered doorway in a blind panic.
The remaining opened up with their rifles.
*Du!Du!Du!Du!Du!*
But the creature was already in motion, bounding left and right on all fours with the frenzied agility of a maddened beast. Their panicked fire went wild, chewing up what remained of the chairs and tables, filling the air with splinters.
The creature soon closed the distance in a heartbeat, pouncing upon the leader as he fumbled with a fresh magazine.
"Gahh! It's on me!! Somebody—!!"
*Bam!*
The leader's cry was abruptly silenced by a savage headbutt, rendering him limp.
The creature's luminous gaze then swerved to the remaining gangsters, gold wisps menacingly cutting arches through the air.
However, instead of pressing the attack, they were already shoving each other aside in a desperate scramble for the exit.
As the last one vanished from sight, the unearthly glow in the Champion's eyes dimmed, and the intricate patterns receded into nothingness.
He looked down at the unconscious gang leader in his grip and let out a heavy sigh of relief.
Haa~ I can't believe that worked! I knew that life spent earning Oscars as a horror actor would come in handy one day!
*Beep!*
!!, He flinched at the sound.
Hm? Now that I've considered it, that beeping had been a persistent backdrop. I'd dismissed it as part of the cafe's damaged alarm system or a dropped comms unit... but the gangsters' flight seemed fueled by more than just my performance just now.
*Beep!*
His eyes soon tracked the sound to a blocky device on the bar counter, wired ominously to several canisters.
A digital display ticked down its final moments, as a cold dread washed over him.
03...
Is that a—
02...
I gotta move!
01...
Oh, damn.
00...
He dashed for the cracked window and threw himself at it.
*BOOM!*
The world around him erupted into a concussive wave of fire and fury.
Then darkness.
—❦—
The city streets of Grayhaven were a river of morning activity. A car rolled past a cluster of business workers huddled around a newspaper stand, their faces a canvas of astonishment and grim speculation.
"Blimey! The GBG's got absolutely slaughtered yesterday."
"No surprise, that. The Beach Boys don't play around. The moment the GBG's toes crossed the line, they got properly sorted out."
"Well, sod the Beach Boys! And sod the GBG's too! That was my favourite spot for a coffee! Bloody hell!" One man slammed the newspaper down in frustration, paused, then fished out a pound note to claim the paper.
Another perused the papers with a disappointed sigh.
"The GBGs are a bit... poncey for a city like this. All that time lording it over their little paradise in Veridian Falls has made them soft. They don't have the bottle for Grayhaven."
"A shame, really. I'd take the GBGs' polite tyranny over the Beach Boys' heavy-handed nonsense any day."
"Haha! Too bad the GBG's are just a bunch of wankers now!"
"Shut your gob, you bloody idiot!" a panicked man hissed, desperately cutting the laughter off.
All eyes soon followed his terrified gaze down the road to where a young woman approached.
She moved with the silent, gathering intensity of a storm cloud, her steps measured and deliberate.
Her dark suit, visible beneath a flowing black coat, and the black suitcase in her gloved hand did nothing to lighten her severe air.
The sound of her boots was eerily absent, making her approach feel like a phantom's.
It was a wonder she had even been noticed at all.
Closing the distance, her mid-back length blond hair shifted with her movement, and her neutral expression turned slightly; hazel-green eyes glancing at the man who had called the GBG's wankers.
The look in them not angry, but deeply, silently disapproving.
The men could not afford to be captivated by her appearance. Instead, a collective pallor washed over them as their focus locked onto the fedora perched on her head.
Specifically, on the silver decorative pin affixed to its grey band with the acronym:
'GBG'.