[img]https://i.imgur.com/Kyik1j0.jpg[/img] Deep in the heart of Northbridge, where the green haze of industry was a choking fog, where blood-red searchlights leered upon barbed wire fences. It was a world of metal, with pillars of pipes that stretched and coiled like the tentacles of an eldritch beast, where the walls and railings were scarred green by acid storms and blackened by long-dried blood. Ruined structures coloured the landscape. The latticed ceiling of a great stadium, collapsed into the husks of old world trains, laid scattered and left for dead. Blocks of half-torn, windowless buildings, their rooftops manned by rows upon rows of anti-air cannons, their streets patrolled by gangsters clad in gas masks and bodysuits. And beyond that, within a sea of debris and desolation, was an abandoned warship, half-sunken into rubble, the letters faded but not gone from its starboard: JAHANNAM. High up on the bridge of the warship, beneath a ceiling of rust and tangled pipes. Music reverberated through metal in deep, synthetic beats. Blood red light washed over the rust, swinging here and there, stark and searing to the eyes. Men, women, anything in between. Chromed-up psychos and freaks mutated by the filth in the air. There was no uniformity in JAHANNAM, only a shared will for profit and dominance. And here they made their home, upon bullet-riddled couches, around half-moon tables of cards and chips, beside workbenches slathered by bullet casings and racks on racks of guns and blades, both scavenged and homemade. In the middle of it all, a woman writhed and twisted, wrapped in see-through silk that drew eyes to her every move. The light emphasised every curve and line of her body, yet her face was obscured behind a porcelain mask, devoid of even the barest features. She danced before a throne of metal, beneath the twisted knots of a hundred cables. And upon this throne, highlighted by a blood-red spotlight, was the leader of this cabal. His body was of black steel, with limbs as thick as pillars, and shoulders as wide as a man is tall. His muscles were cables, thick and taut and expanding his mass beneath the armour bolted into his very being. He slouched, with a chin rested upon metal fingers, his eyes deep and staring, like a hawk eyeing its prey. His face was flesh, unmistakably - even with the screws above his brows, and the code stamped between them. Thick, with oversized cheeks and a bald head carved by the lines of age. A hunched figure cut through the club, clumsily weaving its way around the dancers and gamblers. Blistered flesh caught on their clothes and the reek of cooked meat crossed the room with the new arrival. It left a trail of viscous dark fluid, glinting in the red light. Slowly, a few heads began to turn, looking after the panting, wounded creature dragging itself in. He staggered out from the crowd before the gang bosses’ throne. The movements of the dancer distracted from him, her silks trailing behind her and masking the man… then they fell. Drifted away to expose a sight that stopped the party. Ganta faltered on his feet, half his clothes burned and torn revealing scorched flesh. He clutched his right arm - or the stump of it. The sleeve was tattered and hanging loose, drenched in so much blood it looked like ink. Half his mask was chipped away. The brow above his eye swelled, and his eye looked down, hesitant to meet the glare of his boss, but he did. With a grave, urgent look that could not mask his shame. The man in black held his gaze upon Ganta for a moment. His head stirred from his hand, straightened and roused from his boredom. Brows lifted above his hawk-like eyes, eyes which gleamed with questions… and demanded answers. [b][color=DCC009]“Ganta. You’re late,”[/color] [/b]He spoke first, leaning against his throne, one hand outstretched to beckon the dancer. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. The woman came close and settled upon his knee, her legs crossed, her arm caressing his broad, armoured chest. [b][color=DCC009]“Was the Dancer too much to handle?”[/color][/b] He asked, his smile broadened into a grin that flashed unnaturally white teeth. He turned his gaze to his left, out the window of the warship’s bridge. One building stood out from the distant skyline, brought to life by the pinks and yellows flickering with its name: HYSTERIA. Ganta snorted a blood bubble. [b][color=#746733]“You think some slut did this to me?!”[/color][/b] He spat, [b][color=#746733]“We had her. Those fucking beasts. They got Kite and Canary. Threshers! Two of them, in Northbridge!”[/color] [/b] The music stopped. The crowd fell silent, then scrambled into murmurs. The man in black’s smile did not fade. No… it deepened, darkened by the lines of his face. “Bullshit!” A voice protested behind Ganta, a wide-shouldered man clad in worn tactical gear, with long, disheveled hair sprouting behind a ballistic mask. “Northbridge ain’t had Threshers for over a decade!” “Just cause they’re behind the walls don’t mean they can’t get through!” A woman in full biker gear retorted, shaking a chrome fist at the man. “We should load up and send EVERYONE before it gets worse!” A two-headed, reptilian mutant added. The crowd descended into debates. Shouts. Expletives were thrown, and dares summoned. Until the man in black sat up straight, and held up his hand. The crowd was silenced once more. The dancer in his lap snuggled her cheek against his shoulder. [b][color=DCC009]“Have you ever lied to me, Ganta?”[/color][/b] He asked. Ganta shook his head, but his eyes darted around the room, feeling cornered. [b][color=#746733]“No, boss.”[/color][/b] [b][color=DCC009]“Swindled me?”[/color][/b] [b][color=#746733]“No, boss.”[/color][/b] He sweated. This line of questioning was normally a prelude to the boss exposing otherwise. [b][color=DCC009]“Stabbed me in the back?”[/color][/b] [b][color=#746733]“NO! BOSS!”[/color][/b] The man in black nodded. Confidence surged through his dark-eyed smirk, bolstered by Ganta’s every answer. He flicked a finger, and something light and metal and jingling zipped through the air. Ganta caught it by reflex. A key. He almost melted in relief. [b][color=DCC009]“Northbridge belongs to JAHANNAM. I will send the message.”[/color][/b] The man in black arose from his throne, his full height drowning Ganta in his shadow. He gestured the Dancer to leave him, as a mask formed over his mouth; fanged like a beast's and complemented by the pitch-black eyes that rolled over his glare. [i][b][color=DCC009]“Personally.”[/color][/b][/i] And on the back of his head, etched in rigid capitals, was his name. Warchief of JAHANNAM. The Black King of Northbridge. LOCKDOWN.