New Fennec.
Even sixty years after The Blast, exposed to a derelict wasteland and only granting refuge to violent squatters, the city still stood tall amid the arid, sun-tortured expanse of sand and dried dirt. Even several miles away, the rotting, rusting husk of the city was visible, with the skies still being scraped by towering buildings as far as the horizon. From a high enough perspective, you could even see the point where the rest of the scorched desert gave way to fertile, untouched soil that stretched out far beyond the city's ramshackle remains.
Finding the actual city was very little issue, thankfully. Reaching it too, wasn't much of a barrier either. Besides a few crashed vehicles and steep cliffs, it was very much possible to simply
walk right up to the city. Even the walls surrounding the shell of the city weren't in very well shape, with some having exposed openings so deep you could waltz right in. Heck, there was even still a large highway leading straight into the city, albeit dotted with a few rusted pileups and potholes that served more as craters. Anyone brave enough could follow it straight into the city proper.
With that in mind, what was stopping people from reclaiming the land?
The Belligerents, of course.
It's no coincidence that even after the world began to rebuild itself in tattered settlements, New Fennec was written off as a bygone product of a past age. The entire city was the home turf of fighters across America. Some would even say it shouldn't be any surprise at all that despite being spared, it fell victim to an apocalypse all of it's own, one of violence for it's own sake.
But in the new savage wasteland, violence was the closest thing to actual law. That promise alone was incentive enough for all sorts of warriors, settlers, and scavengers to flock periodically towards the city, even getting past the sheer danger it provoked. Some even came in
anticipation of danger, looking to fill their headhunting quotas, while others come seeking knowledge and power.
Regardless of reason, the year of 2040 saw quite a few colorful characters migrating in, and might just have been the biggest year in the region's history, changing the entire city forever...
In the middle of New Fennec, four thugs hung around, each equally equipped with poorly-patched armor and hole-punctured clothing. They were decently armed, with makeshift spears, clubs, and daggers. One of which even went empty handed.
Leoroy Troy was the leader of the small ragtag, wielding a spear made from bent and twisted metal, slung over the shoulder of his massive frame. Being Red Hills, they would've loved nothing more than to bash some heads on a hot summer day like today. But nope, the Big Boss put them on guard station. Or was it standby? Either way, they weren't allowed to go out cracking skulls or spilling guts. So, they practiced their skill and fought off boredom by pitching glass bottles around at each other, smashing them right as they sailed out of the air.
"Alright boss, coming at you!" The glass-pitcher warned. He turned to the boss of their squad, who assumed a prepared position of wielding the spear in both hands, ready to thrust forward. He twirled the bottle in his hand by it's neck, tossing it in the air and catching it repeatedly. He then took a proper stance, hurling the bottle with all the might he could muster.
Moments before the spear lunged forth to pierce the flying bottle, it exploded in mid-air. After shielding himself from the flying shards with his arm, Leoroy looked around in confusion, before his dull eyes were traced down to a small, incredibly thin and sharp rod of metal implanted in the dirt. Obviously the object that flew and crushed the bottle before he could pierce it himself. The rest of the gang was equally confused, looking around their desolate surroundings in a mixture of stupidity and anticipation.
"Well, who do those points go towards?" The pitcher yelled out. Several seconds later, another of the needles flew, piercing him straight through the side of his exposed-neck, spurting out a bloodied death grunt before he hit the ground. The four remainers raised their weapons, Leoroy in particular keeping a watchful eye of the ruined skyscrapers towering over them... He couldn't quite see it yet, but he could hear three more needles sail through the air, followed by three similar sounds of flesh tearing. Damnit, another member of his crew was taken out by an invisible assailant, both lungs and their shoulder having needles lodged in them. They weren't quite dead yet, but they instantly fell to the ground, wind seeping from them as they gargled and gasped for leaking air.
"Damnit! Stop hiding! Come out and face us!" Leoroy yelled out in rage, yet still maintaining his guard. One of the axe-wielding thugs noticed a shivering silhouette in the distance.
"Boss, I see them!", they called to Leoroy, "Right ov--"
Suddenly, another projectile flew. Not a needle, but a steel metal ball, about the size of a thumbnail. It flew, hitting them straight in the eye and knocking them right off their feet. Given a lack of gasping, the blunt projectile must have lodged firmly in their brain, leaving Leoroy the sole survivor.
"Is this what you want? One-on-one? Believe me, I've been waiting for a good fight all day! Cmon!" Leoroy thrust his arms open, daring another cheap attack. After several moments of silence, a figure lunged from the top of one of the dilapidated buildings, a couple feet in front of the spearman. They were heavily cloaked, wearing a large jacket, pants, and absolutely bundled underneath bandages wrapping their entire body. All they shot Leoroy was a look of cold predation.
Leoroy growled, then charged forward, thrusting their spear far out from their body, only maintaining his grip by it's rear end. Yet the assailant lunged backwards effortlessly, throwing an entire handful of needles. Quickly retreating, Leoroy managed to deflect or dodge most of them, except for two which grazed both his left leg and right hip. The attacker then reached behind their hip, before aiming their hand and flicking three more pellets. Leoroy had much less luck blocking this volley, only deflecting one. One of them hit him straight in his fresh hip-wound, and the other hit him right in the left knee, buckling him downward and dropping his spear. He tried to rise, but by the time he raised his head, the assassin was standing directly over them, needle pinched between his fingers aimed right at Leoroy. A brief curse was the only real retaliation the thug-leader managed to squeeze out, before his life was snuffed out.
Bolus stood over the slain ruffian, holstering his remaining needles. After briefly recovering all of his scattered projectiles from the scene of battle, he lunged back into the shadows of the surrounding city. Once he was out of the open view, he removed a sheaf of paper from his pouch. On it was several roughly-drawn men and women, along with their name and a brief description of numerous charges. Taking a blood-coated needle out, Bolus crossed out "LEOROY" and his picture, before folding the leaflet back up and replacing it.
One down, a hell of a lot more to go.
