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Vengeance; Easy Quest
Topic Started: Sep 15 2016, 11:31 AM (251 Views)
Hercule
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Vengeance

Location: Earth

Difficulty: Easy

Description:

Tatsu Markil was once a great martial artist... until a rival clan lead by Crin Blackheart killed him, that is. They feared he would win the national tournament and take away their glory as he did the year previous. Jenna Markil, Tatsu's wife, has hired you to hunt down the Blackheart Clan and kill them all in cold blooded vengeance. Will you do as she asks, or will you find a more peaceful alternative?

Reward: +300 zeni, +2 DP, +20 all stats, +2 rp Credits 

Bonus: -2 Alignment for killing the clan

OR

Bonus: + 2 Alignment for finding a peaceful alternative
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Hercule
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Hercule was watching a boxing match on the TV from the couch in his living room. It was the second to last round and the fighters were barely standing, but they could still swing their fists. He jumped to his feet when his favorite got the advantage.

"Get him! Get him!" He was shouting too loud for a one bedroom apartment. The downstairs neighbor knocked a broom stick against her ceiling. Paper thin walls, he sat back down.

At the end of the round his phone rang at the same time as the bell. He reached over to the end table and snatched it off the hook.

"Hercule," he said in a dry tone.

"Hey Herc, it's Sid." Sid waited in silence for a greeting but got none. "Listen Herc, I've got a job for you."

"Not in the mood. I've got a fight in a few days." On the TV the corner teams were massaging and motivating their fighters.

"Hear me out...you know Markil?"

"Of course, fought him once or twice." One of his first fights had been against Tatsu Markil, he'd won by a narrow margin. If they'd fought in his prime it would have been a loss.

"Unfortunately he's moved on to the next life. Word is the Blackheart clan didn't want any competition in the nationals after their golden boy got pummeled last year."

"What's this got to do with me?" The bell rang again and the fighters were on their feet. There wasn't any indication who would come out on top.

"Well he had a wife, Jenna. And she's none to happy about it. Wants to see the Blackhearts sent off."

"Jeezus Sid, I don't do hits. Especially not in a mess like that."

"No, wait! You don't have to!" The fighters in the ring were putting their last into it. What a slugfest.

"What's the job then?"

"Enter the nationals. I'm sure Ms. Markil would pay just as much to see them humiliated."

The fight ended with a bang. His favorite was layed out on the mat in a pool of blood. Retirement kept coming up with the announcers, what a shame.

"That's a career move, Sid. I don't know about this."

"Alright then here, just go down and see if you qualify. Then you can decide whether you want it or not. Do that for me Herc?"

He was really twisting his arm. "Alright, I'll check it out. If I have to cancel my fight you're taking care of it, I don't want to hear a word about flaking."

"You've got it champ. Hit the gym, it's stiff competition out there."

"So I hear." He hung up the phone just as the sports channel was switching over to highlights. There was a pack of smokes on the table, he pulled one out and lit it on his thumb. It was stale but he kept on anyway.

"What a hassle," he said through the smoke.

[Word Count: 491/1,800]

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The national martial arts tournament qualifying rounds opened a few days later. Hercule hopped on the bus at the end of his street dressed in ratty jeans and a T-shirt. He sat in the first open seat next to an old lady.

"They've got no idea what they're up against." A guy in the back of the bus was talking loud enough for everyone to hear. "The amateurs are lining up this year."

"Why should there be more than last year," a smaller voice asked. Herc peaked over his shoulder to see a meathead in a muscle tank and his smaller toady.

"The dojos are pulling out since the blackhearts got their hands dirty."

"This is why they should get rid of the cash prize!" There were a few mutters of agreement from the people sitting closest.

"It's not about the cash, it's about pride. It's about whoze strongest."

For the rest of the ride he watched the buildings go by out the window and tried to tune them out. When the bus stopped at Main and Burt on the south side he jumped off. There was a crowd on the sidewalk, lots of photographers lighting the place up. They were holding the nationals at the west city arena. Big building, huge dome, the works.

"S'cuse me." He shouldered through towards the fighters entrance. The line was out the door. One of the ushers in red gave him a number and he settled in for the wait.

An hour or two later he was close enough to see the setup. There was a big punching drum that showed a number when it got hit. Once a fighter hit it they crowded off toward the side to rubberneck the other numbers too. No ceremony, just business. A group of ushers were writing them down so they knew who to call back. Only a handful would get to compete.

[Word Count: 808/1,800]

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It was his turn at the drum. No one was paying much attention. He pulled his fist back and held it for a second. Then he gave the drum a light punch off center and watched the number climb. The usher read it aloud to him and he walked off to the sides so the next fighter could try. It came out to a little above average.

There was a scoreboard at the front of the room. It showed the top ten qualifiers. Hercule was #10 on the list. Most of the others were either no names or obvious aliases. A few minutes after his turn he saw a young man wearing a Blackheart gui step up to the drum. All eyes were on him.

Herc leaned over and spoke to the fighter next to him, a chubby guy with unusually muscular arms. "Who's that kid?"

"That's Crin Blackheart's son, Cain."

He grunted and watched the kid swing. It was a hard hit, nearly tipped the drum over. The scoreboard rattled as the number climbed and so did the name 'Cain Blackheart', right to the top. Hercule turned around and headed for the exit.

A woman caught his eye. Short, thin, black hair down to her thighs. She caught his eye while he was looking, so he approached.

"This was the last place I expected to see you, Jenna."

"Heaven knows why." She offered a thin smile. Her clothes were pleated black, like a mourner. "I've been to every tournament for the past 17 years."

"How are you holding up?"

"Just fine, Herc." His eyebrows shot up. It had been a long time since they spoke, but she was just as familiar now.

"Sorry I lost touch, back then."

"You're here now." Her eyes drifted past him, a thousand yards further. "That counts for something."

"So you've come to cheer me on?"

"Maybe, I've got my hopes on a few others as well," Jenna said with a giggle.

He ran a hand through his hair. Behind them the last of the fighters were taking their turn, and the room was beginning to clear. He glanced over and saw no one new had entered the leader board since he was knocked down to #11.

"Well I won't disappoint anyway...Did Sid tell you about the change of plans?"

Her smile dried up. "Yes, the circumstances have changed a bit. Our arrangement works fine." Jenna's words were trailing off into silence as the last fighter stepped up to the drum.

Her pale grey eyes fixated on him. A young man with a cowl covering his face, and a robe covering his body. He shot his arm out like he was catching a ball and whacked the drum. The fist tore through the center and the machine made a loud crack that echoed through the arena.

Silence filled the room. Seconds passed and the scoreboard started to rattle. A word, not a name, rose to the top. 'Vengeance'.

The room burst into excited chatter while photographers shouldered their way to the front of the crowd. Without a word or hesitation the mysterious fighter merged into the mass of people and disappeared before they could question him. When Hercule turned to face Jenna again she was walking away.

The widow looked back just long enough for him to see a smile on her face.

[Word Count: 1,367/1,800]

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Hercule burned down a couple smokes while the crowd cleared. Jenna's smile was etched on the back of his eyelids. When the arena was empty he strolled out to the sidewalk and made a call on his cell.

Sid picked up after the first ring. "It's about time." There was muffled shouting and then a door slam before his voice came through again. "I watched it live on the TV, what a sissy punch that was Herc."

"Call it what you want, I qualified." It was getting dark out. Herc started walking up the sidewalk, there was a pizza joint a few blocks down and he hadn't eaten since breakfast. "Did you watch until the end?"

"Yeah, that Vengeance is scary isn't he?"

"Could be. Here's the thing though, I think he works for Jenna." A cab was stalking behind him, Hercule gave the driver the finger and kept walking.

"Who told you that?"

"She did. Or she might as well have."

"She was there?" Sid sounded like he'd seen a flying pig.

"In the flesh. But why would she hire both of us? The guy seemed more than capable."

Sid groaned. And then he groaned again. He was wracking his brain for answers. "Let me call you back in a few minutes," he said finally.

"Alright, thanks Sid."

Sid hung up and Herc put his hands in his pockets. He walked another block over and ducked into the pizza place, 'Slice of Sunny'. It had bars on the windows and rips in the seats, but the pizza was great. The kid at the register recognized him and rang him up for a slice of meat lovers.

"Thanks bud." Herc dropped a bill on the counter.

"Any time Herc."

He sat in the corner booth farthest from the door, where he could see the TV. The local news was recapping the qualifiers. A young woman was on screen for the moment, explaining the layout.

"Only the top twenty qualifiers are allowed to compete." On the screen behind her the qualifying punches were shown, starting from #20. A small text box displayed their names and the quantified power of their punch. "Instead of being matched according to strength, opponents are paired randomly against one another in one on one matches. The competition will take place in the West City Martial Arts arena." The picture on the screen switched to an image of the ring. It was identical to the one used in the world martial arts competition, but indoors under a large vaulted ceiling.

The broadcast was interrupted by a call from Sid.

"What'cha got," Herc asked.

"The way I see it, Jenna's not the only one missing Tatsu."

"Makes sense, he's popular. Are you saying it could be anybody? Because I already know that."

"I'm saying maybe she didn't hire him."

"Why would an amateur take that chance?" He was talking through a bite of pizza. It was great but his mind was wandering.

"You were there, did he look amateur to you?"

Herc chewed through the rest of his slice in a hurry. "The Markil Dojo," he said once he'd swallowed. "He must have a death wish...I'm going down there in the morning."

"Hey, we're probably not the first people to figure this out. You think they're just answering questions from everybody?"

"No Sid, but I'm not everybody. I'll see you at the first round right?"

"You bet champ."

When they hung up Herc bought another slice of pizza for the road. It was damn good.

[Word Count: 1,954/1,800]

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The clock on the bedside table sounded it's alarm at a quarter til eight. By fifteen after Hercule was boarding the city bus outside of his apartment building. It took him over to the east side, near the wealthy market district that Markil's dojo and a few other competitors called home. The martial arts capital of West City.

He got off a block away from the dojo when he spotted the Markil Dojo's flags waving at half mast. There was a small diner on the corner that was popular with the local fighters for it's cheap meals and lunch specials. When he opened the door he found a few familiar faces from nearby arenas, but none that he was happy to see. Their guis were pressed and pleated, while his was stretched and fit to the form.

At the counter he ordered a breakfast dish centered around a large filet of fish. There was a radio on the other side broadcasting predictions for the national tournament. He listened while the cooks prepared his food.

"Analysts don't know what to make of this 'Vengeance' character. We have a reporter from the scene here to try and shed some light on the situation...Good morning Seth."

"Good morning. Vengeance is unlike anything we've seen in this arena. Normally fighters this strong, and with this sort of motivation are very glad to receive attention. They do it for the cameras, for the watching eyes. But my theory is that the intended recipient of this message, 'Vengeance', was right there in the building. I believe there will be bad blood in the ring this year."

The cashier presented his breakfast and he handed her a few bills. "Doesn't take a genius to figure that out does it?"

"Wonder how much captain obvious gets paid."

"Too much," Hercule replied and dropped a dollar in the tip jar.

He took his breakfast to a table in the front of the store near the window. Students were filtering in and out of the Markil dojo, he watched everyone who went by while he ate. His food was finished a while before he left, but he'd stayed until he was bored. Waving a goodbye to the cashier he stepped out the door and headed toward the dojo.

[Word Count: 2,332/1,800]

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Hercule marched up the sidewalk toward the entrance of the widowed dojo. It was as modest as he remembered, but now had a stain of grief smudged over it in it's willowy black banners and smoldering incense. The door was guarded by Tastu himself in the form of an oil portrait, his vacant eyes followed Hercule up the steps despite their departed soul.

The ancient oak door creaked slowly open, wafting a musty mix of sweat and moist wood to Hercule's nose.

"Welcome," someone called before he'd crossed the threshold. Inside there were five men, four of which seemed to have just suspended their spars.

"Ah, Herc! It's good to see you," the fifth man said. He had a crooked nose and a polished bald head. Each of the five men wore the signature gui of the Markil martial arts academy.

"You too, cue ball." Hercule and his old acquaintance Flint gave each other a shortened embrace while the other students returned to their sparring pairs. "I'm sorry for your loss." He wasn't sure what else to say.

"Thanks Q tip, it's been weird around here."

"Weird how?"

"Well..." Flint glanced sideways toward the sparring men behind him. "Why not join me for a drink in the garden?"

"Why not," Hercule said.

Flint led him through a shadow cloaked hall and a narrow door to the outside. The garden had high walls that held in the reaching limbs of blossoming trees, it's ground was carpeted with sakura petals and soaked in sunlight. The fresh air made Hercule crave a cigarette. They found their seat on a bench with it's back to the dojo wall.

"Notice how we seem a bit on the empty side?" Flint always was the kind to get to the point.

"Yeah, it's a ghost town in there."

"That's right. Everyone got riled up when Tastu was...when rumors started going around." It seemed like Flint had forgotten the drink entirely. "But we told them not to compete in the nationals, for their own safety."

"Of course."

"Well they weren't too pleased about that, but they stayed. Anyway, some of the older students organized a viewing for the qualifiers."

"How did I look?"

"Scary like a kitten. But shut up. Anyway, when that Vengeance guy shredded the competition they all stormed out because they thought we'd backed someone outside the school."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Well me and Jenna. She told me not to let anyone from the school compete." Flint rubbed at his scalp to itch away the stress. Hercule produced a pack of smokes from his shirt pocket. He pointed one at Flint, who declined, before lighting it for himself.

"Do you think she's backing someone else?"

"Don't give me that garbage Herc, they got you two on camera. An undefeated amateur fighter talking to Jenna Markil at the national qualifiers? The vultures were all over that in the live coverage. Until Vengeance stopped the show."

"Do you think she's backing him?"

"If she's backing you, why not."

The pleasantness of his visit had soured to resentment. They had a curt chat about the state of the school, but it wasn't long before Flint escorted him out the front door. He hoped they could speak again soon. Hercule flew home to avoid being recognized on the bus, but being alone with those brooding thoughts left him with a sinking remorse.

[Word Count: 2,902/1,800]

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"One more time let's make some noise," the announcer shouted at the crowded stands of the West City Arena as 'The Saiyan Syncopation' carted their instruments away from the stage.

Hercule wasn't a fan of theirs, but the show had been full of energy and he couldn't wait to be in the spotlight. The roaring audience set him and every other fighter on a hair trigger, like caged circus beasts taunted with a hot poker. He shared a small room in the wall behind the stage with 19 other competitors, and while the noise outside was huge there was a tense breath of silence that each of them were holding.

"Are you ready for the main event," the announcer called to the audience. They howled in response, it could be heard from a few blocks away, but he wasn't satisfied.

"I said are you ready," he screamed, red in the face. The crowd exploded into a great thunder of clapping, yelling, and stomping feet. A little laugh burst out of Hercule, boiled over from the tension in his chest. The other fighters were no longer in the room with him, all he could see was himself, holding the championship belt in front of a chorus of praise from his fans. His fantasy was cut short by a touch on his shoulder.

"You're up first," the usher said. "Get ready."

Hercule swallowed, but couldn't budge the lump in his throat. He hadn't checked to see who he was fighting against, it didn't seem to matter at the time. But every second closer brought more regret. He could leave, no one would stop him. It would advance without him. In his panic he took a step back from the door leading to the stage.

"Our first man of the night," the announcer sunk a hook into his ego. All of these people would hear his name. They would all know. "A local favorite" This was worlds above the seedy bars and taverns that had hosted his fights so far. "The south side champ!"

Against his every thought, Hercule stepped through the door. He watched this stranger sprint up the steps onto the stage and stride to it's center from a far away place. The lights swung around to him, the champ.

"Hercule!"

Hercule put both fists high in the air and roared.

[Word Count: 3,292/1,800]
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"And now, the challenger!" The announcer's voice beat back the cries of the audience while a hooded figure approached the stage.

"I wouldn't call it a challenge just yet, ahahaha," Hercule spat from the opposite corner. His heart was trying to make an escape from his chest but on the surface he was stoic.

"As mysterious as he is deadly, The Cowl!" With that said the announcer vanished from the stage, leaving the two fighters to their craft.

The crowd reacted with a muddy mix of cheers and boos, a whole section to the left of the stage flipped an identical pointed hood over their heads.

"Are you ready for a beat down!?" The cowl had no response for Hercule's masterful taunting, but the audience doubled their volume. Just as he was packing together another insult in his head to hurl at the enemy the bell chimed, and The Cowl was upon him.

The shrouded figure appeared at arms length away. Hercule threw a wide right hook and connected with nothing but air, he hadn't even seen his target move, but he noticed a murky black shadow looming above his own and saw his chance. He kicked hard off the ground and propelled himself into flight. The Cowl's jabbing knee pressed into Hercule's spine, but the intended angle was ruined by his sudden motion. In a moment the small man was pressed flat against his back by the force of his lift. Faster than the audience could see The Cowl was body slammed through the ceiling of the arena.

With the advantage of surprise expended, Hercule turned to face his victim in the air above the arena. The air was knocked out of him, he was out of his comfort zone. The Cowl struck at his muscle clad attacker but was deflected. Before he could escape the brute had him by the hood and moved him into a choke hold.

The champ tightened his vice on The Cowl's neck. "You should've stayed home, kid!" As quickly as they'd risen the duo was plummeting back through the hole in the ceiling, past the slack jawed audience, and into the floor of the stage. Hercule held on for a few moments longer but could feel that his opponent wasn't getting back up. He stood before the audience a winner, throwing his hands into the air again.

"Yeeeahaha! You can't mess with the champ!"

[Word Count: 3,693/1,800]
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The matches that followed had the same result. Hercule, along with Cain Blackheart and Vengeance, climbed the ranks until only the three of them were remaining. The semi-final battle between Cain and Hercule would decide who faced Vengeance in the final. However Cain had retired to the inner rooms of the arena after his last bout and hadn't been found since. His fighting had been excellent, although his on stage persona needed plenty of development, and over the course of the tournament Hercule had gotten excited for this match. No one had died in the competition so far and he couldn't keep Jenna's face out of his head, he could vaguely make out her figure in the stands and sensed the same icy look that she'd had when he met her before.

He was in his own waiting room by now with a deep cushioned couch and a pack of smokes. It was far from the stage but he could still hear the mass of noise from the audience. His phone chirped on the side table, it was Sid. He reached for it to answer when his door opened, and Vengeance crossed the threshold.

"Do yourself a favor, save it for the stage." He hoped the kid wasn't going to do anything stupid, that would really put a damper on the publicity from this gig. But the way he moved didn't seem aggressive in the least.

"I'm not here to hurt you." Vengeance spoke with the melody of a wind chime, her voice was high and smooth as a stone at a river's bottom.

"Than why?" He tried to cover his surprise but it was obvious that he hadn't expected her.

"I want you to leave. Cain Blackheart is mine." She closed the door behind her.

"Did Jenna put you up to this? What is going on?"

"Jenna hired you in hopes that your competing would convince me not to, but I won't back down."

"Who are you?"

"The great master had no sons." Her voice was heavy as led with implication.

"Are you going to kill him?" Hercule didn't much care whether the kid lived or died, but he needed to know.

"You'll find out soon enough." She handed him a stack of zeni, the payment for his participation. And with that she left.

Hercule smoked one more cigarette before quietly leaving through the rear of the arena. The next morning Jet Markil was all over the news, new owner of the Markil dojo, national martial arts champ. Cain Blackheart was injured beyond the point of ever being able to fight again, and his father suffered great shame for it.

The champ turned off the TV and went to bed, he'd need a lot of rest before his fight the next day.

[Word Count: 4,156/1,800] Completed

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