Art is Dead

Miki soup and... Murder?

All one can see is the harsh blue light from the tasteless advertisements clung to buildings and the smokey, barely visible silhouette of an ancient omnipresent moon. If asked about the stars most would respond with a tilt of the head followed by a question regarding these "stars" you mention.

The thick, smog ridden air of the overpopulated city leaks into the greyed lungs of all who felt the jaws of society. One of the few lucky enough to afford to live trudges through the polluted alleys with only the occasional ray of light to lead the way.

His skinny legs contrast with the suspiciously large hooded jacket he keeps his hands shoved deep into. He travels in a clear straight line, keeping his eyes to himself as he walks. Mud from occasional puddles splashes up, drenching the hem of his jeans. A group of three larger men fill half of the alley way's width. One of the three holds what looks like a nearly empty red duffle bag. They all lean against the brick wall, waiting. Waiting for something or someone. The man in the large hoodie squeezes past these men before quickly stopping in his tracks. He turns around slowly as if realizing something.

"Would you happen to know where I could find a man named 'Lorenzo'?" the man asks, pulling his hood off, revealing an oxygen filter mask that muffles his voice. His long black hair tied back into a bun, presumably to keep the hair out of his eyes. This theory is proven false by the long curly bangs shielding his face. He stares menacingly with taupe eyes through round glasses that seem to be cracked slightly. It is a quite fearsome gaze, though its effects are more than questionable once taken into account his height.

"May I ask what it is you want from this 'Lorenzo' you speak of?" One of the large men says with a muffled voice from the similar mask he wears.

"Buisness. And it's in your best interest to ask no further questions." He hisses.

The man who spoke talks once again. "Watch who you're talking to, Finnigan." He says in a gruff voice. His skin a sickly warm grey and his eye bearing a large scar from what seems to be some sort of slash from years past.

"Apologies. This lighting is not too good." Finnigan lets out a dry laugh. "Do you have what I requested?" He changes the subject.

"I wouldn't show my face if I didn't. Better have all of your payment lest you have an accident." He puts out a hand.

"Uh ah, show what you have first." Finnigan grins through his eyes. The man named Lorenzo hesitates. "What, don't you want to keep up your end of the deal? Are your men that incompetent? Surely you do have what I'm paying you to retrieve."

Lorenzo sighs and waves over to the man standing behind him with the duffle bag. The large man steps up, handing the bag not too gently over to him. The man lets out an intimidating huff and stares daggers. He says not one word before walking back to where he was standing.

"See," Lorenzo says while unzipping the crimson bag letting the short man peer inside at its content. A purple luminescent glow can be seen hailing from the unzipped bag. "It's what you were looking for, no?"

"Exactly what I was looking for." He murmurs, marveling at the treasures the bag hid.

"10000 Hex." He yanks away the bag from the man's fixed glare.

He seems almost confused as he tilts his head. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. 10000 Hex."

"That is not what we agreed on. We said 5000. 2500 before, 2500 after. You can't just change the deal. W-we shook." He slowly raises his voice, his ears turning red with anger.

"Deals change, don't they?" Lorenzo mocks, keeping his calm. The boiling man starts breathing heavily, teeth clenched. "Is the infamous inventor angry?" He chuckles, clearly having fun with himself. He crouches down to be eye to eye with the inventor, expression suddenly darker. "After that stunt you pulled last week, don't think I intend on letting you go so easily." This statement makes the inventor gulp nervously. "What was it- let me think- stealing from me. I know it was you, Philips, that stole that battery."