Vestuoso II was, in a word, a bad place. It was a small desert world out on the far fringes of the Black Eye galaxy, described by those who know of it as a world of intergalactic refugees, criminals, vagabonds, undesirables, and all other sorts of pariahs and refugees. The kind of place that reeks of raw sewage and sweat, and where sand walls can rise hundreds of miles and bury a city for days. The kind of place infamous for its shady merchants, even more shady black market merchants, crime rate and syndicates constantly vying for power over the plains. The kind of place where, if one so cared to, could find a quaint little 'oddities and relics' shop run out of an unassuming back alley garage, run by an eccentric and reclusive genius.
Lawliet "L" Einstein, handsome na'er-do-well and proud owner and proprieter of "L's Oddities, Inventions, and Relics", was in the middle of emptying the contents of his stomach into a trash can, his head resting perfectly inside and his body sprawled and stretched across the oily pavement as though he had simply collapsed there. Well, er, that's because he did collapse there. He was currently in the middle of going through a rather harsh come-down from a hefty hit of Cilaxian Dust, a naturally occurring but incredibly rare spore harvested by pirates from the dangerous feral world Cilax, that when dried and taken through a complex chemical process was made into one of the most powerful drugs on this side of the universe.
It offered an astoundingly intense but very fleeting high, that once begins to wear off comes with a slurry of nasty side effects; nausea being among them. A few others were vertigo, diarrhea, and migraines.
L finished vomiting, willing his head from the knocked over trashcan and rolling over onto his back, wild and thick raven locks sprawled across his sharp features and matted with garbage, vomit, and a cocktail of other various 'dumpster fluids.' His blood red tie, the only splash of color to be seen anywhere on him, was stained a dirty brown by the filth. Then, as though he had only just realized he was covered in shit and banana peels forced himself over to vomit again, this time missing the trash entirely. "Ce..leee...ste. Detox. N..ow" he said to seemingly no one in broken and slurred speech. However at that moment, as though at the beckoning of his soft baritone voice, a single, piercing crimson eye rolled into being on the back of his right gloved hand, seeming to be trapped behind an invisible pane of glass rather than actually attached to it. Its single lense rolled upward at the drunken inventor, rolling from left to right with clear disgust.
<What the fuck?! I told you the last one would be too much you idiot! Now look at you. We were supposed to prepare to hunt my meal, not for you to get so damn high you can't function!>
"Just... Fucking.... do it." was all the humbled scientist and inventor could manage in response to his sentient suit.
The feminine, robotic sounding voice heaved a heavy sigh of defeat in response as a series of hyper thin needles formed underneath and out of his dress-suit, injecting a personally made concoction into his bloodstream that destroyed whatever drugs remained within. In the span of a second he had regained full clarity - the world had stopped spinning, color had returned to his eyes, and he felt strong enough to stand, and so did. He struggled to regain his balance at first, almost falling, but quickly felt his strength returning. He flexed his fingers dextrously as he regained full control over his motor skills, balling them into fists in evenly timed intervals as he began to walk forward and out of the shop, and into the fresh rain that must have begun falling between the time he collapsed and got back up.
He reached into his pocket, retrieved a pair of black-framed glasses and donned them before curling his fingers around his sanguine tie, tightening it. As he walked into the rain, his suit seemed to change, bubbling and frothing like shaken soda. From fabric to liquid, It became an inky river of black coarsing over L like black snakes before resolidifying into a new form and guise. The combat skinsuit - a form fitting sleek, reflective black suit hugging his body closely but still offering absolute freedom of movement. Neon white light pulsed softly from the grooves carved across the suit in patterns like circuit wires. The glasses on his face changed as well - the black frames expanded and elongated to cover his head in a protective horned helmet, and the lenses impossibly fused and stretched into a sleek tinted retractable visor.
From within his helm, his visor was covered in techno jargain and strange symbols that to anyone else would be gibberish, but to the initiated was a simple language to understand. A few hands-free clicks later and from a glowing flash of prismatic light, a black sportsbike appeared before him. Key already in the ignition. Just like L liked it. That was the transmutative power of the Geomantic Watch, his most prized and saught after posession and creation which allowed him abilities that only those blessed with the gift of magic could achieve, disguised as a simple, but attractive golden hemmed leather banded wristwatch he always wore on his right hand. He threw a beautifully toned leg over the seat and turned the ignition, adding the low purr of a kawasaki ninja's engine to the industrial clatter of the city of Backwater.
He tapped the face of his watch thrice and turned the hand dials counter clockwise, after which it emitted a stream of pearlescent energy that splashed into a swirling vortex in a random field of space some three or so meters ahead of him, as though stopped by an invisible wall. Without hesitation L kicked up the bike-stand and sped off into the rip in spacetime, already at highway speeds by the time he came out of the other side just on the edge of a vast canyon. He came to a sliding dime stop, the wheels of his bike only centimeters away from a fall that would no doubt kill him. Not that it really bothered him, mind you. When you constantly danced on a razors edge, you eventually learned to stop fearing sharp things.
In less than a second flat the locale had changed from the smoggy, claustrophobic alleys of a city on a world of outlaws, to a vibrant vista. Looking all about him, he scanned the rising and falling canyons for any signs of life. He was expecting someone shortly, and after rushing to not be late, he hoped for his own sake that they'd hurry the hell up. Celeste was hungry, after all.