Snippet #2391790

It was a little past dawn when Alastor stepped outside of the coffee shop, avoiding a few small circular tables, each seated by two or three chattering tweens. Blehk. He held what looked to be a blueberry muffin in one hand, cavalierly and off to the side, as if he had no problem with letting it slip from his grasp at a moment's inconvenience. In the other hand, he held a tight grip on a pale-white styrofoam cup. Steam wafted from it in waves—a testament to the lava-like properties of its contents—particularly where the skin of his hand made contact with the cup itself. Upon closer inspection, one would notice a watery blue substance acting as a buffer between his hand and the steaming hot beverage. The styrofoam cup itself was adorned with a square dark-green logo and the words "Squarebucks Coffee" in white. Breakfast of champions.
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Humming, Alastor skipped around the circular tables as if he were a Broadway dancer, deftly avoiding collisions with coffee lovers at each turn. In response, the various patrons of Squarebucks shot him dirty glares, but he couldn't care less. All these losers were dead back where he was from, anyway. He briefly pondered announcing that. "You're all dead in the future!" He decided against it as he reached the sidewalk though. He wasn't all that fond of pointing out the obvious.

That's when he remembered he had a blueberry muffin in his hand. With a smirk, he opened wide and took a particularly large bite... before suddenly voiding the contents of his mouth onto the sidewalk beside him. "Blehk! That's disgusting!" He complained to no one in particular, his tongue hanging from his mouth in a comical fashion. He spit a few more times, trying unsuccessfully to get rid of the taste. An older couple walking up the sidewalk in the opposite direction gave him a look. With his mouth still lolling, tongue out, eyes wide and fraught with displeasure, he stared right back. There was an unnerving sort of eccentricity within his expression. The look of a guy that is capable of anything. "What are you lookin' at?!" He spouted viciously, tossing the remainder of the muffin to the ground and stomping on it a few times for good measure. The couple averted their gaze, walking past him.

"How do you people eat this crap?" He asked as the two walked by. They didn't respond, ignoring him, so he turned and shouted at their backs. "Even the crappy future foods are a thousand times better than this! What are you doing with your lives?!" Satisfied, he turned and continued on his way, scraping the muffin bits from the bottom of his shoe with each step, humming again. That's when he remembered the steaming-hot cup of coffee in his other hand. They called it a "Mocha Frappuccino," which baffled Alastor to no end. What in the actual hell could this Moe-cha Frap-puk-keyno be? He blamed his incessant curiosity for forcing him into buying it. He just had to know what it was and why so many people around him were ordering it.

Don't ask where he got the money from. It's a somewhat long story involving three other people and a machete.

Earlier, when he had first grasped the styrofoam, he quickly discovered that it was hot. Very hot. So hot, in fact, that he had to use the cooling effect of his Comet flames to stop from dropping the cup in sheer surprise. Still buzzing along with the swagger of a man who is completely content with himself, Alastor turned the corner, taking a sip of the frothy beverage. Frowning slightly, he took another sip. And then another, smacking his lips like a professional wine taster. Towards the middle of the block sat a homeless man. Alastor stopped walking and just stared at him. "Not bad" he commented to the man, who raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"You talkin to me, kid?"

"Yes, I said 'not bad'." He held up the styrofoam cup in his hand. "Not bad at all. Nowhere near as good as the stuff in the future though. Not even close. You'll see." He looked somewhere off in the distance. "Or... maybe not. Who knows." He said, shrugging.

The homeless man gave him a blank stare, to which Alastor responded with a genuine smile before continuing his slow saunter. Shaking his head slightly, the homeless man eyed the kid's back as he rounded yet another corner. "Some odd people around here," he muttered under his breath.

Alastor dug in his pocket with his free hand, removing a piece of notebook paper. There seemed to be some sort of list written on its front side. Flipping the note over, he brought it closer to his face. On this new side, there was only one line: an address—something these humans of old used to identify distinct locations. It was so disgustingly primitive that he wanted to cry, but that wouldn't do in public, so instead he sighed heavily, hastily stuffing the piece of paper back in his pocket. How these people could stand to live such barbarous lives with their medieval technology was beyond him.

Fortunately, it wasn't long before he found his destination—though he did have to ask for directions on four separate occasions, which cost him some time, but he didn't really mind. It was early in the morning, and as long as he completed this little mission and returned in time to make it to this school they were supposedly going to attend, he'd be on schedule. It still didn't sit well with him, the prospect of "school". Things were much different in the future. These hairless primates and their travesty of an educational system... blehk. Then again it wasn't the prospect of schooling in and of itself that irked him. It was the fact that the Vongolas were still alive, and would be attending the same school. Stalking them on their own turf just seemed so... roundabout. Why not just wipe the entire school out. That way, there'd be zero chance of messing up, since everyone would be dead, Vongolas included. Perfection.

Eh. Whatever. Kurai's orders were absolute.

He was standing in front of a dilapidated auto-parts shop. A sign atop the rather large building read in big bold letters: K'S AUTO AND REPAIR. A smile appeared on Alastor's face. He'd finally arrived at the junk shop. Now he just needed to grab what he came for without too much commotion. If only things ever went that smoothly in real life.

Taking a quick look to his left and right, he concluded that he was alone on the street. People were still sleeping, or just waking up, getting ready for work or school or what not. Sucks to be them. Without further ado, Alastor walked up to the front entrance and tried to door's handle. Locked.

Of course.

He peeked in through a little square window atop the door, cupping his hands around his temples to get a better view. It was pitch black inside and he could see nothing. Grumbling, he took a few steps to his left and tried opening the large garage-door like entrance where cars were usually allowed in and out for repairs. Also locked.

Damn. Slightly annoying, but not unexpected.

Checking his surroundings one last time, Alastor slowly crept around the side of the building, eventually coming up to a door at the back of the complex, parallel to some shady service alley. Said door was of solid steel and completely featureless. No handles, no windows, nothing—save a keypad on the wall to the right. Raising an eyebrow, Alastor moved over to it, eyeing it from different angles. Baffling, that such primitive security devices were still in use. It being one hundred years in the past was no excuse. Alastor grabbed his chin. Then again, it does work to my favor!

With a yelp of glee, Alastor started pressing keys on the keypad. At first his keystrokes seemed random, but, after exactly twenty-three digits were entered, a blinking green light appeared above the pad, and the sound of the door's locking mechanism unhinging could be heard. "Nice," he muttered to himself, pushing the door open and closing it after him. He checked the inside of the door to make sure it had a handle. It did. He even tried it a few times, just to make sure he could use it to escape in a timely manner if necessary.

It was then that he turned to face the vast seemingly impenetrable blackness that occupied the room alongside him, his eyes slowly adjusting. A few dim strands of light leaked through the windows and glass garage door at the side of the building, a sign of the coming sun. Once his eyes completely adjusted to the darkness, Alastor was able to make out the faint adumbrations of various objects as he gave the room a once over. It was definitely an auto-parts shop, alright. Random tires; naked engines; cars suspended from the ceiling or on top of hydraulic lifts; tools, screws, and random bolts strewn across various tables; a lot of stuff. Car stuff.

However, Alastor wasn't here for this primitive tech.

Frowning, he surveyed the area once more. Everything about this time was just so... primitive. It was just the best word to describe it all. Primitive. "Primitive," he muttered very quietly to himself, a tinge of disgust evident in his voice. Blehk. It wasn't until his eyes adjusted a bit more and he was able to orient himself that he found what he was looking for. Two "doors," the exact same color as the wall, were over in the left corner, hidden behind the frame of a dismantled truck bed. He couldn't exactly see them per say, but, if memory served, he knew they'd be at that exact location. Alastor's soft disarming smile returned. In order to recognize that those gentle indents in the wall were actually doors—or even know where to look for them—you'd have to be intimately familiar with the layout of this building.

Luckily, he was. He'd read all about it, even explored it when he was allowed—though, in the future, it'd been heavily remodelled.

From his recollections of the place, he knew that the door on the left led downstairs, which is where he wanted to go; whereas, the door on the right lead up to this place's living quarters. The "secret" four bathroom three bedroom flat hidden atop the mechanic shop. The home was like a miniature mansion, and was loaded with enough tech to throw Bill Gates for a loop—or, so he'd been told. In the future, the "housing" piece had been dismantled, replaced by a command center.

But that's a different story. Right now, he was on a mission at the behest of Kurai.

As he bobbed and weaved through the mess of car parts to approach the wall where believed the hidden doors to have resided, Alastor briefly pondered taking the second door instead of the first and sneaking up on the unsuspecting people sleeping above. They wouldn't even know he was coming, and he'd be in complete control. I could even kill them. The thought of murdering these people in their sleep made Alastor grin, like a child unwrapping his first birthday present. Ultimately, he decided against it, as was usually the case with most of his... more "exotic" ideas. Nah, that'd probably mess up the timeline or something. Besides, too much mess for too little gain.

It was only because he was nodding in agreement with himself that he noticed a streak of neon green across the floor. He stopped mid-step, not moving a muscle. He'd caught the beam of green out of his peripheral vision, but he couldn't see it now. Tilting his head in various directions and angles, he eventually saw the flash of light again.

He recognized it. A motion detector. And he'd almost activated it.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he made a b-line for the nearest chopped car part lying on the ground. It was an engine that had been turned on its side. Someone was in the middle of tinkering with its internals. For Alastor, it represented an interruption in the motion detector's field of vision. Perfection. He'd also resumed scanning the room with his eyes, this time focused on the baseboards and upper walls, looking for any other security gadgets. He spotted a few, but they weren't any threat to him presently. They were pointed in other directions.

He'd gotten lucky. Sweet.

Finally reaching the doors, he began to feel his way along the surrounding wall until he came across a small playing card -sized indentation in the wall. He pressed on it twice in quick succession, causing the panel to raise, revealing yet another keypad. Typing quickly, Alastor entered a string of digits into this physical prompt as well, though the light blinked red instead of green—wrong code. He pursed his lips, entering the long string of digits once more, this time pressing harder on the keys. Again, it failed. "You piece of primitive garbage," he muttered, typing what he knew to be the key code a third time—though he pushed each button with a sage-like lack-of-speed, smashing each key with his index finger in what could only be described as a violent manner, obviously perplexed by the machine failing to accept the code.

This time, however, the light blinked green and the door slid open, accompanied by a loud click. Interestingly enough, it reminded Alastor of a shotgun round being chambered. What an odd noise—oh well. The secret door revealed an illuminated set of stairs, leading far down to yet another door with yet another keypad. This bulkhead door, however, unlike the previous ones, was reinforced. Extremely reinforced. Alastor remembered it from the future. It was fire-proof, and nothing short of a tactical nuke would get you past it. He took a casual sip of the coffee he still had in his hand, humming softly. The beverage had noticeably cooled, but it was still warm enough to be at least somewhat sating.

He wasn't sweating his predicament, for he had the code for this master door memorized as well. Perfection. He took a step—

"Take that step, kid, and you're dead." Came a cold voice from behind him. Instantly, Alastor put his hands up—or one hand, as he held the cup of coffee tight in the other—a universal sign of surrender. Though he knew this particular meeting was only a possibility, he was secretly hoping for this the entire time. Looks like I get to play.

"Hello," he started, turning slowly to face his aggressor, whom tensed ever so slightly at the kid's bold actions. "My name is Al. Alastor. Alastor L., but my friends call me Al." He now fully faced the man who was threatening him with a... hmm. Seemed to be some sort of old-world shotgun—well, "current" shotgun by this time's standards. Or, at least it looked like a shotgun. When dealing with people like this guy, Alastor knew that nothing was ever as first meets the eye. "You must be..." Alastor grinned, recognition dawning on his face, even though he could not see the man shrouded in shadow. "Well, I think I know who you are, old man. It's truly an honor to meet you. I've read so much. Big fan and all that. How are you doing this fine morning?"

The man with the gun did not respond, and was far enough away from Alastor that his face was effectively hidden in the pulpy twilight of the place. The silence in the room was deafening.

"Um... so I'll take it you're doing just fine then, sir?" He nodded slightly, oozing charm, eyebrows raised, face locked in a decidedly friendly countenance. "That's good." He somehow managed not to sound awkward, given the situation. If there wasn't a shotgun being aimed at someone's chest, the conversation might've passed as that of a reunion between friends.

Before Alastor could continue, the man spoke. "Listen, punk. I don't have patience for petty thieves." His voice was rough, his tone crass. He was a man who did not tolerate nonsense. "The only reason I haven't blown you half-way to kingdom come is because of what you just did there." He used the shotgun to motion towards the keypad on the wall. "How do you know that code? Who are you, boy? Make it quick."

Alastor's facade of the "polite and happy-go-lucky kid lost in a cruel cruel world" cracked slightly, a menacing smirk besmirching his otherwise innocent face. Without regard for his own life, he put his hand down and into his pocket, breaking the "I surrender" pose. He followed that by bringing the coffee cup to his lips and taking a long loud sip instead of responding to the question, keeping his eyes on the man in front of him. To his credit, said man didn't even flinch at Alastor's abrupt actions. He was obviously used to dealing with dangerous and/or rude people.

After another moment of silence, Alastor deigned to speak. "Petty?" He sounded offended. "Petty?! I've had some recurring... difficulties with the law, but nothing about me is petty, grampa." He drawled on "grampa," attempting to be snide. It was as if he didn't care that a gun was pointed at his chest. Grunting, he taking another sip of his coffee before continuing. "'Who am I,' though. Good question." He leaned against the door jam, demeanor completely cavalier—again, as if his life was in no possible danger. "You couldn't possibly recognize me, but I know all about you, Lorenzo."

For the first time, the man—Lorenzo—visibly reacted to something Alastor said. He lowered his gun ever-so slightly, his next words underlined with a mix of animus and curiosity. "What did you just say?"

Realizing that his words had had the intended effect, Alastor quickly pivoted on his heel, turning his back to Lorenzo, and quickly descended the stairs, giggling maniacally the whole way. Lorenzo followed him, moving to the top of the staircase and staring down at this intruder, gun still at bear, aiming at the Alastor's back. "Are you insane you little twerp? You've got three seconds to—"

Lorenzo was interrupted by the sound of his bulkhead door opening. The one that protected his work, his secret life. Not even his own son, who worked for the Vongolas, knew of what was down there—knew of Lorenzo's true occupation, or his infamy as a major player in the mafia underworld. No one... no one knew this stuff... his passwords, the layout of his garage. He'd never told a soul any of this information... so how does this little brat know so much about my operation?!

Downstairs, Alastor walked through the new opening and reached to the side for a light switch he already knew would be there. Even a hundred years later, this part of the warehouse hadn't changed. Throwing the switch, the whirl of aging electronics spinning to life could be heard somewhere in the background. After a moment, lights began flickering on, illuminating section by section the contents of a voluminous underground facility that stretched back into the distance. He knew exactly how large this place was: 583 acres or 2.36 square meters of underground land area in the shape of an octagon, though, currently, it was only 4.5 meters from ground to ceiling. In several decades, that would be changed as six extra layers are shoehorned in below this one.

He couldn't stop himself from gasping audibly. It's not everyday that you get to see what a place looks like before it becomes something famous... or infamous, depending on your perspective. The gray and white room was decked from head to toe with... machines. More specifically, Moscas. All sorts of Moscas, even some prototypes that hadn't even been discovered by the public yet. Taking a few steps forward, he spotted what were obviously illegal flame weapons. There were desks with box weapons that'd been disassembled, different odd looking gadgets, shiny buttons, glowing computer screens....

As Lorenzo entered his laboratory, gun still drawn, Alastor turned to greet him. "Wow, they weren't kidding when they said you were a genius engineer," he said, admiration in his eyes. Beaming at Lorenzo, the kid raised his cup of coffee up to his mouth, as if to take a sip, but didn't, electing instead to speak, the cup obstructing view of his lower face. "Super cool. Hey, how's the business?"

Lorenzo was effectively non-plussed. He wasn't sure how to react to this kid who knew everything about his life. Was he some sort of relation? A spy? Should he be killed? Questioned? Welcomed? Despite everything, this kid seemed somehow familiar to him, as if he... well, as if he knew him. It was for this reason that he lowered his gun and answered, curiosity temporarily overruling his gut instincts. "Shit." He said flatly and without hesitation, commenting on the state of his business before redirecting. "How's the coffee?" He nodded to the Squarebucks cup.

"Shit." Alastor said in almost the exact same monotone and with similar inflection—though if he realized it or not, Lorenzo did not know.

"So, who are you, kid? How do you know about me? My codes? My..." Lorenzo motioned to the room at large. "Things."

For a few moments, Alastor only stared, a blank expression upon his face, before suddenly reaching into his pocket, prompting the older male to aim his gun at the boy once more. After some digging, Alastor slowly removed a piece of paper from his pocket. "Calm down, grampa. I'm not a hitman..." He rolled his eyes, thinking that over. "Okay, well, I'm not after you or anyone you are yet familiar with. I'm just here to make a purchase from the legendary illegal arms trafficker."

Another possibility popped into Lorenzo's head. "Now, you wouldn't happen to be some son of mine I don't know about... right?"

Alastor laughed at that. It was a warm hearty laugh. Disarming. "Something like that." That earned a raised eyebrow. "Hey, so," Alastor started, his voice becoming an octave or two higher. "You wouldn't happen to have a—" he squinted at the note in his hand, attempting to read from it "—uhh... six-cell active voltage conditioner with a... uh, quad-fuse parallel-circuit xenon discharge arrestor?" Alastor brought the paper even closer to his face, squinting harder. "Damn this little kid writes small... uh—he also says something about it not being the ones that uses MOVs, but the experimental ones with the absurdly high cl... cl...."

"Clamping voltage?" Lorenzo finished for him, snatching the paper from Alastor's hands. Surprised that the man was able to get so close to him without his noticing, Alastor hopped back once, a deep frown on his face.

"Hey, give that back, old man!" But before Alastor could react, Lorenzo held up his index finger.

"The fact that you or whoever the hell wrote this," Lorenzo started, waving the paper in Alastor's face, "knows about my AHCV tech—something I just finished not several hours ago. That, combined with the fact that you're obviously nearsighted, a handicap that is arguably hereditary in nature..." He tapped the glasses on his face in a suggestive manner. "Don't tell me you're my son from some sort of dystopic alternate universe something."

On the surface, Alastor didn't respond, though he did seem to be flustered by the mention of "nearsightedness". He was perfect! Or so he believed. And perfection does not require modification. That included eyesight. You'd never catch me wearing one of those primitive glass holders around my face unless I was dead and stuffed. Internally, however, he was laughing. Alternate universe... the man wasn't all right, but he was close. After several seconds of complete silence, Lorenzo feigned a loss of interest, stuffing the note in his pocket and moving off to a deeper section of his lab, the shotgun still in his hands. Several minutes later, he came back holding a medium-sized metal box under his free arm, the shotgun swinging at his side.

"Alright kid, I don't know how you knew I made it, but I did, and here it is." Lorenzo nodded down to the box under his arm. "It's quite heavy," he sighed. Alastor held out his hands in an attempt to grab it, but Lorenzo aimed his shotgun point blank in his face. "Not so fast, kid." All the humor left his voice, replaced by something cold and bitter. "I'm curious as to why some punk kid wants a Mosca upgrade part like this. You know it's not a weapon, right? More like a..." He made a circling motion with his free hand, trying to think of a better descriptive phrase but failing. "... surge protector. Are you planning on catching a lightning storm or something?" Lorenzo paused and Alastor started to speak, but the man interrupted him, continuing his soliloquy. He'd paused on purpose. "Before we get to the more interesting answers, first things first: how are you paying me for this? It ain't cheap, and lunch money won't cover it."

A look of genuine surprise came over Alastor's face. "Huh?! No way you charge me!" He looked off to the side, as if he were pondering something. "What if... I told you I was family?"

"I'd tell you to get more specific." He pressed the shotgun barrel into Alastor's cheek. "This weapon is a special invention of mine, boy. Based on that new Mossberg 750AX. Each round is infused with my own Rain flames, each one embodying the Tranquility attribute. It's a new technology of mine." Lorenzo smirked. "Your internal organs will cease to function before what remains of the top half of your body hits the floor."

Alastor smirked back. "You won't do anything to me, gramps." He said it matter-of-factly.
"Shut your child mouth. If you don't have any money, then get the hell out, and be glad I'm letting you leave with your life. Very glad. I should kill you now for what you know."
"Would you believe me if I said I was your son?" He said in the highest-pitched most innocent voice he could muster.

In response, Lorenzo aimed his shotgun at Alastor's feet and pulled the trigger, though he adjusted his aim at the last second, birdshot striking the ground several centimeters from the boy's legs and feet. Although Alastor flinched slightly, his arrogant facial expression did not falter. Lorenzo brought the shotgun back up to bear. "My son is upstairs, asleep, and you're running out of wrong answers."

And in that instance, the facade shattered, the masquerade ceased, and the true creature behind the mask revealed itself. Alastor's facial expression became lax, his eyes drooping, head slightly bowed. An ominous sneer was plastered on his face. "Shit, gramps, so ruthless." His voice was much deeper than before. Much more raw and unrefined. You could sense an energy there, a type of anger—a rage, an eccentricity that gave a glimpse into the true nature of this creature claiming the shape of a sixteen year old kid.

He sounded like a demon.

"Just like the books said. You'd even kill a kid if he got in your way. I respect that. Admire, even."

In response, Lorenzo flipped his grip on the shotgun so that he was grasping the pump handle and, with a single downward motion, chambered another round, returning the barrel to its prior position.

"Okay okay," Alastor began, raising both hands, including the one with the coffee cup, above his head. "You win." However, before he finished his sentence, he'd dropped the cup from his hand. The falling object caught Lorenzo's eye for but a moment.

That was all the time Alastor needed.

His hands flashed out and he gripped the business end of the shotgun; however, Lorenzo was no fool and immediately fired his weapon... but no round exited the barrel. In fact, ice began to appear on the outer edges of the metal as the area around the two become noticeably colder, their smoky translucent exhalations visible in an otherwise warm room. The metal of the gun itself became as cold as ice within the span of a couple of seconds, prompting Lorenz to drop the gun entirely. The advanced weapon snapped in half when it hit the ground. It was completely covered in ice.

"What the f—" But before Lorenzo could finish his exclamation, Alaster threw a punch. No stranger to close-quarter combat, the man countered by snatching the boy's wrist and twisting, going for a joint break and leveraging his rain flame's Tranquility attribute; however, with a surprised shout, the man recoiled immediately after a few moments of contact with the boy's skin, falling backwards over a desk to land unceremoniously on the floor. Slightly dazed, he caught sight of his own hand—the one he'd grabbed the kid with. Lorenzo only saw blue. He couldn't feel his fingers. Could barely move them. What manner of flame attribute is this?!

"Hey! Old man!"

Lorenzo looked up. The kid was in the doorway, holding his box. The AHCV APC—lightning tamer, he'd nicknamed it. He must've accidentally dropped it when he took that tumble. "Wait you little shit!" He shouted viciously, attempting to get to his feet despite the sensation of vertigo.

Alastor only smiled. It was a warm, genuine, disarming smile—one Lorenzo now considered extremely out of character for this little monster. "Thanks for the gift, great grampa Koenig." The boy gave a little mock salute. "I'll be sure it is put to good use."

"I said wait!"

But it was too late. By the time Lorenzo Koenig, infamous black market arms dealer, one of the fathers of Box Weapon technology along with Verde and Innocenti, and frenemy to every famiglia had made it to his feet to snatch up a nearby weapon, the exuberant youth was nowhere to be found.