Location: The Crucible Grounds - Arena Floor
Time: Present Day - Tournament Finals
The arena fell into a heavy silence as Slate's words echoed through the stands. His body moved with theatrical precision, his hands gesturing dramatically as he addressed the unseen fugitive.
"Leo boy, you've got balls of steel, I'll give you that," Slate said, his voice dripping with sarcastic admiration. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for any sign of movement. "Pulling that stunt of yours took some serious nerve. And on top of it all, messing with the ones who put food on the table for your sorry orphaned ass? That's some backstabbing shit that they won't tolerate. Especially when a dog starts barking at its masters. Now that's a kicker."
He paused, letting his words sink in. His hand moved to his chin, his expression shifting to one of theatrical contemplation.
"There are plenty of wackos in today's time who like hiding in the dark, playing their shitty games while trying to cosplay some heroic fantasy gimmick to feed their emotional brain of a child. And then there are those who are straight-up sick—who see their games as a type of ploy to cure their boredom, and the ones caught up in it like toys they can mess around with."
He took a step forward, his voice dropping to a cold, measured tone.
"I've seen lots of criminals in this city. They come and they go. But you, Leo Jerkins, are one in a billion. Not in a good way. What you did managed to tip off a lot of people—politicians, the business class—they're all out to get you. Because you tried to slander the good, hard-working builders of this city as some type of monsters, while innocent lives were plucked from you."
He paused, his brow furrowing as if trying to recall a forgotten detail. He turned to one of his men, his voice carrying a note of theatrical confusion.
"Who was that mother you so sickly murdered? The one with the salon?"
The man beside him straightened, his voice crisp and professional. "Marlyne Wynter, sir."
Slate's expression shifted to one of dramatic recognition. His voice carried a note of exaggerated realization.
"Ah, yes. Marlyne Wynter. What about her, Leo? Did she—a middle-class, hard-earning citizen—deserve to be so cruelly done by you as some type of antic to send a message? Because I can tell you for one that Abigail girl didn't like that."
The man beside him cleared his throat, his voice carrying a note of polite correction. "It's Aubrey, sir. Miss Aubrey."
Slate's head snapped toward him, his voice sharp. "Did I ask you to correct me?"
The man's face paled. "No, sir."
Slate's expression shifted back to one of theatrical menace. "I heard you and that chick had some history. If that's true, then you are one cracky dude, that's for sure."
---
A spectator leaned toward his companion, his voice barely a whisper. "Wasn't this Madam Marlyne found to be involved in drift smuggling through that Maison salon of hers months ago? When those thugs got caught after its establishment was blown up?"
His companion nodded slowly. "Apparently so. And it turned out that this Slate and her were associates, along with other business vendors. All of it got revealed by an anonymous drive that had all that Intel."
Another spectator—a nervous-looking man with shaking hands—leaned in, his voice carrying a note of desperate fear. "Can you two keep it down? I don't want to suddenly find myself on the receiving end of whatever's about to happen. You two just can't seem to shut it."
The other two fell silent, their faces pale.
---
Slate's Impatience
Slate's expression shifted to one of cold impatience. His eyes scanned the crowd, his voice carrying a note of sharp command.
"Bring him here. Now."
The OSI agents moved with mechanical precision, their formation shifting. One of them raised a hand, signaling toward the stands. The gesture was unmistakable—a sniper's signal, directing attention toward a specific target.
Leo Jerkins began to move. His steps were deliberate, unhurried—as if he had somewhere else to be. The crowd parted around him, their eyes wide with fear and confusion.
Caspian's hand shot out, grabbing his brother's arm. His voice carried a note of desperate confusion.
"Are you out of your mind?! What are you doing?!"
Leo's expression remained unchanged. His voice was calm, almost bored. "Relax. I know what I'm doing."
---
The OSI agents converged on Leo's position, their movements synchronized and precise. Their hands raised, weapons trained on him. The air crackled with tension, the crowd's murmurs fading into a heavy, expectant silence.
Slate's eyes widened, his expression shifting from impatience to excitement. His voice carried a note of predatory triumph.
"Well, well, well. Look who we have here. I don't know how you've managed to hide your sorry ass from the Prism Eye, but you've done the impossible. And now, you're going to pay for the blunder you made—getting conned by your own lame, twisted game."
He paused, his voice dropping to a cold, triumphant whisper.
"Now, I get to be the one to chop your head off at the Garlow."
His hand gestured, a triumphant expression spreading across his face.
"Bring him over."
The OSI agents moved forward, their hands reaching for Leo. Red dots appeared on his face and body—lasers from snipers positioned around the arena.
Slate's voice carried a note of cold amusement. "I knew you were the messy type. But this? This is straight-up delusional crazy. I don't know what your game is, Jerkins, but it ends here."
---
The crowd's reaction was immediate—a chorus of dramatic gasps and disbelieving murmurs.
"Wait, Leo Jerkins?! The Jerkin base guy?! What did he do?!"
"Didn't he just quit the tournament? What's all this about?"
"Something's fishy here. First he's a nobody, then he's a star, now he's being hunted by the OSI?"
The murmurs grew louder, a chaotic symphony of confusion and speculation.
Slate's voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. "SHUT THE HELL UP!"
The crowd fell silent. Slate's eyes blazed with cold fury, his voice carrying a note of deadly promise.
"Or I'll start blowing some brains out. I'm not here to play with kids. So shut your mouths and let me work."
---
The OSI agents closed in, their movements deliberate and precise. Their hands reached out, grabbing Leo's arms and forcing them behind his back. The red dots on his face and body remained fixed, unwavering.
Leo's expression remained calm, almost bored. His voice carried a note of quiet amusement.
"Well, this is certainly an interesting development."
Slate's expression shifted to one of cold triumph. His voice carried a note of malicious satisfaction.
"Got you."
---
The arena fell into a heavy, expectant silence. The crowd watched with bated breath, their eyes fixed on the standoff unfolding before them.
Leo's gaze remained steady, his expression unreadable.
Slate's smile widened, his voice carrying a note of cold triumph.
"Let's see how long you can keep up that act, Jerkins."
The red dots on Leo's face and body remained fixed, unwavering.