He really needed to invest in a watch, or at least some way to accurately measure time. Being unable to tell if five minutes had passed or fifty felt like one of those headless-chicken sayings. As he tried to steady his breathing, his mind went to the 'associate' waiting for him at the end of his jog.
Barnaby was a bottom-feeder by choice, one who found comfort in the sediment of the Pride Ring. For him to describe someone as 'sensitive' implied a level of volatility or status that didn't mesh with his own ideology. Go figure.
Was this a supplier? No. It's unlikely. Barnaby's rant about the futility of climbing wouldn't make sense if he had gotten his supplies from someone that went against his philosophy. As fast as the ideas formed, a sound cut them off.
—CRACK!
—WHIZ!
A loud, sonic snap bit the air inches from his head. Felix felt the heat of something small and leaden as it tore through the space he had occupied a microsecond before.
"Get his ass!"
"He's mine! Look at that skin. He's worth a fortune!"
The voices were followed by the pounding of multiple sets of boots hitting the pavement and the unmistakable sound of weapons being chambered. Felix didn't look back. He didn't have the ego for a standoff, nor the hardware to back it up.
His strong persona shattered instantly, replaced by the raw, desperate survival instinct of the street rat he had always been. His legs propelled him forward, his casual jog exploding into an undignified sprint.
He was fast, but he felt pathetically light. Fortunately, for once, this worked in his favor when it came to running. If he could think, he'd probably credit that trait for surviving into his next life.
Although he couldn't see them, he could hear more rounds whistle past. One even chipped a brick near his shoulder, showering his white skin in red dust. Another tore through the tail of his shirt, which was already in poor condition.
His mind was a complete, static-filled blank, stripped of all ability to think at this moment in time. The only thing that remained was the singular, screaming command to not stop moving.
He ducked into a narrow side-street, gritting his teeth as he put everything into his legs.
Felix skidded to a halt, his boots kicking up red ash as he stared at the looming, bricked-off dead end. Before the realization could even settle, a heavy force slammed into the back of his skull, tilting the world sideways
He hit the grime-slicked floor face-first, the sound of a sickening crack echoing in his ears.
A throbbing migraine exploded behind his eyes, making his vision swim. He opened his mouth to shriek, but no sound came out. Only a mouthful of dry, red misty dust that felt like coarse grains of sand. Red sand.
—This was bad.
This was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. These things served as a reminder that he was in hell, and there was no guarantee of a quick end or mercy.
They fell on him without a shred of mercy, heavy boots crushing his hands into the pavement until he heard his own hand splinter. It nearly broke off, in fact.
Kicks rained down on his ribs and back, a relentless violence that spared him no air to breathe. "Please! It hurts!" The words were pathetic — born from the collapse of the pride he had so carefully cultivated.
He was who he was again, cowering in the dirt, abandoning every shred of dignity just for a second of respite. It was fruitless. One of the smaller demons began patting him down, and every time Felix flinched away, a brutal boot to the side corrected his posture.
Eventually, the demon's hand emerged from his pocket holding the pouch he was meant to deliver. "This is it?" the thug spat, his voice laced with disgust. He delivered a vicious kick to Felix's face.
Felix's hearing began to warp, the world fading into a high-pitched, pounding ringing.
In that terrible silence, Felix realized who he was. His prideful side tried to scream — It's natural to feel fear! It's instinct! — but the shame was deeper. In such a moment you find out who you are. For him — he was a coward.
Why couldn't he be strong? Why was he always the one on the ground, spiraling into a selfish, desperate hole? Then, the fear curdled into a manic, ground-fueled anger.
That's mine! He would've yelled, but couldn't.
The thugs were momentarily distracted, arguing over the meager haul. With a sudden, agonizing burst of movement that overrode the pain, Felix lunged.
He ripped the pouch from the demon's hand, the leather tearing open and spilling silver-soul coins and soul-bucks across the filthy ground.
"What the—?"
Felix didn't let them finish. He threw his body over the pile, shielding the currency with his mangled frame as he began desperately compiling the wealth into his palms.
The kicks came harder, heavier, but he just clenched his metallic teeth, muttering to himself.
I don't wanna die! I don't wanna die! I don't wanna die!
He was kicked over, rolling onto his back, but the thugs froze. They stared at the ground where the wealth had been just seconds before.
"What the fuck? Where'd it go?"
[9x SILVER SOUL-COIN COLLECTED!]
[15x TWENTY-FIVE SOUL-BUCK'S COLLECTED.]
[18x SINGLE SOUL-BUCK'S COLLECTED.]
[ACCUMULATED CURRENCY: 617 SOULS]
With a crazed thirst, Felix's mind bypassed the gutter options. He went for the highest tier, the most dangerous gamble.
[AVAILABLE: 1x THE PREMIUM MULTITUDE — RANK: R/J]
[COST: 500 SOULS (SALE! — REGULAR: 1,000)]
Everything. Take it all.
[617 SOULS CONSUMED. TOTALING ODDS...]
[500 + 117 SOULS ALLOTTED — 117% LUCK MODIFIER APPLIED!
[COMMENCING: THE PREMIUM MULTITUDE (BOOSTED!)]
[WOULD YOU LIKE TO COMMENCE A PULL? — Y/N]
As if instantaneously, mental-slam [Y]
[PULL COMPLETE!]
[RARITY: JACKPOT (RANK: J)]
[ABILITY: MONETARY DETONATION]
[DESCRIPTION: The User may convert any form of currency imbued with 'value' into volatile energy. Upon activation, the chosen currency is converted to a violent, unstable output, allowing it to be destabilized and detonated on command. The resulting explosion and power scales directly with the inherent worth of the offering.]
Felix stared at the text with hazy, bloodshot eyes that came from red light leaking through little cracks in the white of his eyes.
A Jackpot. He had pulled a jackpot, and in a cruel twist of irony, he had just spent every single soul he had which he needed to properly use its ability.
A shadow fell over him. A cold gun barrel pressed firmly against his forehead. "Where is it?" The demon roared, pistol-whipping Felix across the cheek once, then twice. Felix stuttered as he struggled to find words through the swelling and the sand in his throat.
"Answer me!" "Just shoot him," one of the other thugs urged. "No! I need that money for my sweet Angel!"
In that split second of hesitation, Felix's survival instinct snapped. He lunged upward, his cracked fingers snatching the gun with a speed he didn't know he possessed.
His fingers slipped once before being tightened. The weight of it felt wrong and unfamiliar in his hands, but he pulled the trigger anyway.
—BANG.
The gunman's head snapped back, his body hitting the floor like a sack of stones. The other demons, startled by the sudden violence, scrambled away.
In that moment, Felix didn't care. He stood up on shaky legs, his eyes glowing red as he fired blindly at the retreating shadows. Each shot nearly ripped the gun from his hands.
Hearing the creature beneath him groaning and clutching a ruined face, Felix snapped back to the demon on the floor, unloading the rest of the bullets into the demon's chest.
He continued to pull the trigger until he realized it was empty. With a guttural, animalistic scream, he threw the fire-arm at the demon's chest and began stomping him.
He brought his boot down again and again, his own skin cracking further with every blow, cursing the demon's very existence until the floor was stained with more than just red sand.