R.T.V.X.S - 1. Looking For Hell

15 Months Earlier

Dema, The Second Sanctuary

The girl cowered before him, her frail body trembling as she kept her eyes downcast. A filthy dress draped off her bony frame, stained from the black asphalt and dried blood, along with other fluids he didn't want to know about. A knife was clutched in her shriveled hands, shaking dangerously in her grasp as tears fell from her muddy brown eyes.

"I-I-I'm n-not a p-prostitute, I d-d-didn't do anything wrong. L-leave m-m-me alone!"

Rayden hid a sigh behind his black mask, running a hand through his messy blond hair. Why was it that everyone immediately assumed he was gang affiliated after seeing him? Sure, four swords were strapped to the back of his waist, but that didn't mean he beat people up for fun. And he definitely didn't mess up little girls, prostitute or not.

"Listen, I don't want anything to do with you." Raising his hands in a placating gesture, he slowly stepped backwards towards the sunlight. It was early evening in Dema, the only sanctuary that had sunshine practically all year round. It hardly ever got cold and rarely snowed or rained, but as he took the next step back, a sudden chill raced down his spine.

Spinning around, Rayden had a hand on one of his swords in an instant. But he was just a moment too slow as the metallic barrel of a gun flashed in the light, firing a shot with a resonating bang. The bullet grazed his shoulder, sending a trail of blood in the air as it continued it's journey into the girl's chest. With a shuddering cry, she slumped to the ground, sightless eyes staring at him in accusing innocence.

He felt the slightest twinge of pity as the flame of her soul extinguished, but greater concerns were making their way out of the shadows of the side street, stepping out of abandoned restaurants and decaying gas stations. The boys couldn't have been older than middle schoolers, and yet they carried themselves with the confidence of an older gang. All of them carried some sort of weapon, whether it was a bat or a knife or something they had found, but only one had a gun. And that was the six foot boy in front of him.

"Do ya have business here?" He had a slight accent to his cheerful tone, a faded scar stretching horizontally above his left eye. The others gathered close, forming a semicircle behind their boss.

Rayden's muscles involuntarily tensed, his foot sliding back into a ready stance. "No, I was actually looking for hell."

Scoffs and snickers began among the crowd, boys jostling each other and muttering furiously. The boss's black eyes narrowed as he swung the pistol handle around his fingers. "Hell's Rejects? Only the insane try to seek them out, what game are ya playin?"

Within the span of a couple seconds, Rayden had one of his swords drawn and held to the boy's neck. A line of blood dripped onto the thin blade. "Who said I was looking for the Rejects? Maybe," the sword slashed through his throat, "I was looking for hell."

A heavy silence descended upon the boys as they looked upon their fallen leader, until a gasp broke the moment. "Terrence!"

Immediately they erupted into chaos, charging towards Rayden with murder in their eyes. Flicking the blood off his sword, he quickly sheathed it before turning and bolting down the street, leaping over the bodies of the boy and girl. "AAAAAAAA!"

This was not how the wanderer had been trying to introduce himself. No, he would have much rather come in like a cool guy, saving the little girl and fighting off the gang and preventing anyone from dying. But life never worked out the way he expected it to, and more often than not, he was the villain, not the hero. Hell was the only place he truly belonged, but none could send him there.

He turned the corner of the side street and entered into the cooling heat of the evening, the sunlight warm upon his face. The gang behind him was catching up, dozens of feet slapping the asphalt in burning rage. Without sparing them a glance, Rayden dove into a nearby building, carefully shutting the rusting door and trapping him in darkness. Releasing a breath, he took a step inside, glass crunching beneath his shoes. He ran his hands along the door, following it along till it reached the wall. Once he reached it, he slid down it, his swords pushing further up his back as he sat on the floor.

But he should have never let his guard down; no one was truly alone in the sanctuaries.

There was a whoosh of air, and his head snapped to the side as something cold and hard smashed into it. Stars swarmed his limited vision as a throbbing pain branched from the impact, warm blood trickling down his temple. Another whoosh of air resounded, and Rayden was forced to duck as he couldn't see his opponent and was too disoriented to draw his swords.

Rolling away on the broken glass, he reached out to the floor, pushing himself up to his knees as the wound on his shoulder stretched in pain. There was a crunch behind him, but before he could move someone's arms stretched around his neck, holding a long, cold piece of what he assumed to be metal against his adam's apple. As his breathing was restricted, Rayden reacted fast, turning and digging his elbow into the hard stomach of his assailant. A grunt was heard, and the choke hold loosened, allowing him to grab the metal rod and wrestle it out of their hands. With just a few moves, he now had the upper hand, yanking on the cloth of his opponent's shirt and bringing them with a crash down to the ground.

Rayden kneeled over their chest, keeping their struggling arms to their sides and throwing the metal rod to the side. Reaching into one of his pockets, he pulled out a flashlight, switching on it's weak light to shine upon their face.

Or, the gas mask over their face.

"Who are you?"

The person stopped struggling, chest rising and falling rapidly. After a moment, they spoke in a distinctly masculine voice despite the contraption over their head.

"...Ray?"