District II – Club Zenthra – Somewhere Between Buzzed and Blackout
They called him Darius "Death-Dealer", but tonight, he was just Darius—the retired Retributor, a man whose spine was more metal than memory, whose kill count outnumbered his birthdays. And tonight, he was a giggling mess in the middle of Club Zenthra, drenched in glow-paint and bad decisions.
The party was a caricature of celebration—off-duty officers grinding on android strippers, champagne sprayed across bio-synth skin, cake shaped like a pair of bouncing cybernetic boobs with icing that read "Thanks for All the Carnage!"
Darius laughed until he snorted. He held the cake knife like a weapon of justice. His friends roared. His daughter pretended not to see a synth dancer lick his cheek.
Then his comm buzzed.
Static. Distortion. A pixelated face trying to speak—then gone.
Back Alley – Glitch Hour
Darius stumbled into the alley, burping softly. The moment the cool air hit his face, something inside him clicked. His eyes glitched. Literally.
Flicker. Twitch. Buzz.
His fingers spasmed. The call hadn't just cut out. It had injected something. A trigger. A rewrite. A rewrite of him.
He twitched once more, and then—
Stillness.
One deep inhale. One long exhale.
His jaw unlatched with a wet, metallic snap.
Inside, the crowd roared. Someone was upside down on a hover-table. A synthetic DJ screamed, "CRANK THAT BEAT!" and dropped an obnoxiously loud bassline.
Darius returned.
No one noticed at first. Until he dragged two metheon assault rifles across the floor behind him, grinding them against the tiles like metal claws. His boots squealed. His face was... wrong. His smile was too calm.
"Grandpa's back!" someone shouted.
Then the doors slammed.
He opened fire. No warning. No hesitation. Just blood mist and screams.
He spun with joy—like a child on a carousel of carnage. People didn't just die; they combusted. His Bineth jaw peeled open like a mechanical flower from hell and vomited a torrent of napalm fire, reducing an entire booth of retirees, families friends and party girls to melted flesh slush.
Someone cried, "Why?!"
Darius muttered, voice glitching:
"Because I deserve a send-off."
Laughter burst from his throat—jagged, artificial. His vocal cords caught on corrupted code.
Sparks danced. Flesh peeled. A dancing drone exploded mid-twerk.
One guy slipped on his own intestines trying to crawl under a table, bullets tore through whatever was left of him into pieces.
And when it was over?
Silence.
He stood in the center of scorched vinyl and smoke. Bits of cake and brain matter steamed beside broken glasses. The icing still read:
"Thanks for All the—"
He turned on his self,a single bullet straight to the skull, it was fast and effective.
He laid flat as the flames engulfed everything.