ARCAVOR CITY, ANGLOVA - DECEMBER 1994
“Where the hell did he go?”
“There! There! I saw him running over there!”
“Find him! He shouldn’t be too far!”
The sound of police cars siren that has been echoing in the distance for a while now grows even louder. I thought it was just my ears, but the moment I hear the heavy, military-grade boots pounding on concrete between the loud and authoritative-mannered voices, I know that they’re getting closer.
Oh, fuck. I’m completely screwed. But what can I do?
My vision is currently working like a malfunctioning camera lens. Not even in my worst hangovers I’ve seen the world turning into a bad rendition of Claude Monet’s painting. And, I can already feel my life drifting away as each drop of blood spills out of that nasty open cut on my stomach – I had a glance of it, and that’s enough; I’m fully aware that I’m dying, and the last thing I need right now is a clear visual reminder of it. I've tried pressing the wound with my hands to prevent more blood spilling out, but I’m no Final Fantasy healer; there’s no way it’ll stop without professional help – those white-coated sadists with needles and scalpels, obviously. Thinking about them makes me shiver already; that, or the freezing weather really starts biting my skin through the holes of my tattered outfit, each puncture revealing a few scars with blood oozing nastily over the grazed skin.
Damn it! How the heck did it end up like this?
…I don’t know.
I don't even have the strength to recall everything right now, but whatever remains from my Ducati Monster and a green Alfa Romeo at the back of this brick wall behind me should be enough to explain what just happened.
Just an hour ago, that Ducati was still sitting nicely in my garage, its shiny paint job glistened so beautifully, the engine purred sweetly in my ears as I turned the ignition keys….remembering how beautiful it was only makes me even more furious. The Ducati was a Christmas present from my dad and my uncle, which was supposed to be kept within the grounds of my estate until I’m old enough to get a proper driving license to drive it in public, and I had to use it all the way here because I had no choice!
When I recover from all this, I swear… I’ll make that bastard who put me through this pay for the very last drop of cents and blood! I don’t fucking care if it’ll cost me more than the Ducati, I want him to suffer twice the pain that I feel right now. Nobody messes with Keishiro Bellrose and gets away with it!
…Well, that is, if I manage to get out of here alive. Without the cops, if God permits. It would be a miracle for that to happen, but there’s nothing wrong with praying for the impossible, right?
But here’s the problem: I don’t even have the slightest idea how to get help from someone without making the cops notice. And if I don’t get help within the hour, I’m pretty sure that by the time somebody find my whereabouts I’ll be nothing but a rotting corpse on a pile of garbage, eaten away by creatures of the dark and filthy sewers of Anglova-
Hold on, what the heck am I thinking? I’m still alive, dammit! And no, I don’t deserve a distasteful death like that from a scumbag; I am one of the most honorable Viscounts in this country, for Christ’s sake!
As I hold back a cough, I can hear the heavy footsteps growing louder. Oh shit…they must be searching the alleyways right now!
Afraid that they might see me, I plunge myself deeper among the garbage bags, which I regretted immediately. Putting myself into a fetal position twisted the very part where that nasty graze is located, and words of profanity were just dying to spit out of my lips as I feel my stomach burning with unspeakable pain. But the urge is soon washed away when I see the crimson liquid pooling on the wet and damp concrete where I lay, mixing in with all the dirty snow and rubbish. Like a knee-jerk reaction, I quickly bring myself off the ground, only to be tortured by more excruciating pain.
Well, I know that it’s not very smart to sit near a pile of garbage when you have fresh open wounds all over your body, but I don’t have the luxury of making a choice right now. One thing for sure, though, I have to get out of here. I still have a promise that I have to fulfill to someone very dear to me, and she’s waiting there, in the Royal Palace of Anglova.
And yes, my brain is still quite intact to realize that thinking about getting anywhere other than a hospital right now is very stupid. Even if I managed to reach the Royal Palace on time, there’s no way they’ll let me in – I look more like a half-dead garbage man rather than a Viscount at this state! Can’t expect a cashmere suit and leather shoes to survive hard collision on asphalt, right?
So…how the hell did an honorable Viscount ended up hiding from the cops in a dark and filthy alleyway, lying desperately next to a pile of garbage when he’s supposed to be in the Royal Palace?
it's a long story...