January 6th, 2005
Cheering. It was the sound of hundreds of people, who'd seemingly left their morals at work, or home, or wherever they came from. Maybe they never had any in the first place, it sure didn't feel like they did, the way they roared in excitement after every punch, after every broken bone. "Violence is never the answer, Alan." That's what Alan's mother always told him whenever he got into a fight at school. "You can't just solve all of your problems with your fists, son." His father had tried to say. I wonder what they'd think of me now, Alan thought, as he cracked another one of his opponent's ribs. The man in front of him stumbled, battered and bruised, bleeding from both his mouth and nose. He charged forward, and Alan stepped to his left, before ramming his knee directly into his liver, and the crowd cheered. How ironic, Alan mused, a grim smile spreading across his face. That it really does solve all of my problems. The man tried to crawl to his feet again, and Alan waited patiently for him to stand back up. Gotta put on a good show after all. The man tried to charge again, and in one swift motion, Alan shattered his nose, knocking him out for good. The crowd went wild, celebrating The Prince's twenty seventh win. Sick bastards, Alan thought, stepping over the body in the middle of the ring. As Alan left the arena, he glanced over at the VIP seating area and noticed the large man in a black suit. He looked like he was about to explode with anger, and said something to another suited man beside him. Oh shit, I forgot about that, Alan thought to himself, before shrugging it off and heading back to the bar.
Tom's Bar was always a noisy place, but it was even busier that night. Tom was behind the bar as usual. He was an older, heavy-handed man, and the closest thing Alan had to family ever since the accident. Tom was the one who patched Alan up after his fights, and taught him about how the adult world worked once Alan turned eighteen. He was far from being a good role model, but he was a respectable man, and he carried himself with an authority that made even the drunkest of patrons think twice before starting a fight. Alan walked in, smiling triumphantly, and announced "Next round's on me guys!" The whole bar erupted into more cheering, a sound that Alan had heard all too much of over the last year. He settled into the corner of the bar, and like always, the shadowy figures emerged. They didn't look real, and no one besides Alan had ever noticed them, so he assumed that he was simply schizophrenic. With all that he'd seen in his life, it didn't seem like too much of a stretch. It was, however, very irritating when they would hover around him, asking him to sign contracts and commit atrocities. Alan never paid them much mind, opting to drink whenever they got too annoying, which usually did the trick. He ordered a bottle of whiskey, and the night flew by.
"Answer me, Prince." Alan's vision refocused, slowly processing his surroundings. He drank too much again, a fact affirmed by the pounding sensation in the back of his skull. "Huh? What are you on about?" Alan said, his speech slurring. Then he realised who was in front of him. Marco Sloane, a high ranking member of the local mafia. "Where's our money?" Sloane repeated, increasingly frustrated. "We paid you to throw that match, and what did you do?" Alan smirked, and lazily said "I don't recall agreeing to anything, Marco." Sloane's eyes narrowed further, and he made a gesture with his hand. Two large men dressed in suits pulled Alan out of his booth, restraining him. The whole room, which had been overwhelmingly loud moments earlier, went silent, and everyone's attention turned to Alan and Marco. "Where's the money, Prince?" Sloane said again. "Spent it all," Alan said with a shrug, keeping a smug expression on his face. "Got bills to pay, you know how it is." "I guess we're gonna have to teach you a lesson, then." Sloane replied, before hitting Alan in the jaw with a right hook. Audible gasps arose around the room. Tom braced for a fight behind the bar, and the regulars began to leave in a hurry. Alan spit blood on Sloane's polished shoes, before lowering his voice and saying "Thanks for that."
It happened in an instant. Alan ducked down, loosening the grip the thugs had on his arms, and he twisted, freeing himself. He turned to the first goon, the one that had been pinning his left arm, and attacked. Alan's fist slammed into his stomach, staggering him, and without hesitation, Alan slammed his skull into the edge of the table. A sickening crunching sound rang out, and the man crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around him. Oh crap, I probably went too far there, Alan thought, but he didn't have time for regrets. The other man came from the left, swinging a glass bottle at Alan's head. Alan ducked under the swing, driving his elbow into the man's ribs, before hooking his leg and sweeping. The man hit the floor hard, and Alan stomped on his wrist as the bottle rolled across the floor. The man on the floor screamed out, and Alan turned his attention to Marco. Sloane looked worried for only a moment, before a confident smile spread across his face again. Sloane casually reached into his pocket, and pulled out a gun. Before Alan could take another step, Sloane fired. A fiery sensation spread across Alan's shoulder, and he collapsed to the ground. His vision blurred, and as the room began to go dark, he saw Tom speaking, approaching the center of the bar. Then, another gunshot pierced the ringing noise in Alan's head, and he snapped back to reality.
Tom stumbled, a red stain growing on his shirt. Sloane had shot Tom. Tom, the man who'd taken Alan in when he was on the street. Tom, the man who'd raised him since he was 14. That man was bleeding out on the floor. In a rush, Alan grabbed the nearby bottle, and pushed himself to his feet. He turned to Marco, and hurled the bottle at his head. It shattered, embedding fragments of glass in his face, and his hands flew up to his bleeding head, dropping the handgun. Alan ran to Tom, but there was nothing he could do. Tom, nearing death, rasped out his final words between gasping breaths. "D- Don't blame yourself, kid. It was bound to happen eventually…" And then he was gone. Alan heard footsteps, as more men in suits burst through the door. Sloane had recovered, and as he pointed the gun at Alan, something shifted in the air. Alan's face went blank, the grief completely leaving his body, replaced with something new. Something powerful.
The air thickened, and the lightbulbs in the room dimmed. Alan's body was flooded with a searing heat, like with the gunshot wound from before, but magnitudes stronger. His blood felt like it was on fire, and a reddish aura began to fill the bar. The dark figures returned, screaming for him to kill everyone, to destroy everything. The atmosphere grew heavier, and the temperature in the room rose. For the first time in his life, Alan was on the same page as the shadow demons. The armed men by the door began throwing up, grabbing their heads. One started slamming his head into the wall, desperate to get what was trying to seep into his skull out. The wood around the bar began to darken in patches, and the bodies near Alan began to sizzle and burn. Screaming filled the air, and Sloane started to back away from Alan, terrified. He fired off one shot, hitting Alan's chest, but he kept walking forward, unfazed. The bottles at the bar bubbled, and glass began to explode. Sloane fired shot after shot, to no avail. The walls began to catch fire, and black smoke filled the air. One of the fallen men, trying to crawl away, let out a strangled scream as his hair caught and burned away in an instant. His skin charred, and he was ash and bones seconds later. Alan finally caught up to Marco, grabbing him by the throat with one hand. Marco's fingers scraped desperately against Alan's wrist as he tried to free himself. He tried to breathe, but only took in smoke. "You- bastard-" Sloane choked out, as Alan's grip tightened. Alan's voice came out rough, raw from the smoke in the air, as he said "Was all of this worth it? Was it, Marco?" He hurled Sloane across the room, into the now-burning bar. Sloane screamed, his expensive suit catching on fire. Alan slowly picked up the handgun Sloane had dropped, and stepped towards him. He lifted the gun, aimed at Sloane's head, and pulled the trigger. The heat in the room spiked, engulfing the building in fire, and Alan walked away, dropping the gun before walking past the charred corpses at the door, and into the snowy January weather. He barely made it two blocks away before the adrenaline faded away, and the pain in his body became all too real. Man, this is one wild dream… Alan thought, as he collapsed into a pile of trash in the nearby alleyway. His thoughts faded away as the comforting cold seeped into his skin, numbing the pain as he passed out, blood staining the fluffy white snow around him.