Snippet #2584789

The man was tall, that was for sure. He weighed in at just over six feet two inches, 200 pounds. Maybe. He wasn't really counting anymore.

He completely towered over those that stood around him, that was for sure. Perhaps that was why he found it hard to pay them any mind, choosing instead to lean against a nearby wall, arms folded across his chest. These "mafia bosses," business executives, scientists, researchers... humans. Primitive humans. All of them scurrying about, full of their own self importance, unaware that their entire species rests fully within the shadow of annihilation. A shadow cast not by some potential environmental disaster or a coming war between families or atomic powers. No, this was something else entirely. Something they weren't prepared for. Something they weren't imagining.

Not in their wildest dreams.

From the inside of his trenchcoat, the man pulled a cigarette. Using a single hand, he brought the death stick up to his mouth. Immediately upon placing it against his lips, the cigarette's inert tip exploded into incandescence. It looked as if he'd just held it to an open flame. From the dirty looks several onlookers levelled at him, one would think he'd just strapped on a suicide vest. Still, he paid them little attention, choosing to focus his remaining eye on some other sight. Yes, he only had one eye. He lost the other a decade or so ago during a particularly nasty skirmish, employing what he believed to be a discreet black eyepatch to cover up what little remained.

Not that the prospect of being stared at phased him either way. These primitive humans... perhaps to them he looked edgy and mysterious.

Closing his eye, he took a slow drag from the cigarette, rocking his head back slightly, enjoying every second as the toxins pervaded his lungs. That possibility of lung cancer or the like didn't bother him. He wasn't really concerned with longevity at this point, and while he was here, in this foreign place and time, he would take care to savor such luxuries. Where he was from, the old ways—the old luxuries—were all but dead. There was nothing left but the day-to-day chore of survival.

Very soon, this world, this time, would look more like his own, and, like every other timeline he'd peeked into, the result would be the same. Humanity would be destroyed, here and everywhere else. It was inevitable, against an adversary superior in nearly every way.

The man exhaled through his nose, a thick stinky cloud of cigarette smoke enveloping the immediate area. Several of the more offended guests decided to move away, muttering under their breath, but again, the man paid them no mind.

After a moment, he opened his eye, sweeping his gaze over the crowd for the umpteenth time. Once more, he caught sight of a Rizzo. Tyde, this time. He had to admit, it was pleasant to see his guardians in person again, even if they were several decades younger than he remembered. Standing beside Tyde was another Rizzo, Cornelius. He recognized them from their hair styles.

Ah, now that brought back memories.

The Tyde and Cornelius of the timeline from which he hailed looked exceedingly similar to their younger counterparts in the here and now. His eye landed on the others as well. First Althaia, then Elysia, and finally Anna. They were all spitting images of their future selves. He was sure the same applied to the young Kurai, who was a regal being back in his timeline. She was too young in this present, her body too short, for him to catch sight of her now, wherever she was in the crowd. Still, it was fascinating. They weren't so different, these Rizzo and his own, except for one main point.

Despite himself, the man grinned. It wasn't a pleasant expression—more of a jackal's smirk than anything. It was the total irony of it all that brought about the facial contortion. The main difference between the Rizzo of his timeline and the Rizzo of this foreign timeline was simple.

In his future, all of his guardians were dead. Of the Rizzo main family, he was all that remained. He—Alastor Lorenzo Koenig Rizzo.

Of course, he became king like he'd always wanted. King. Lord of the Rizzo, or of whatever was left. In fact, he'd become a general of sorts. Coordinator for all that remained of the resistance, including the Vindice and survivors from the Cervello. Yes, that's what they'd been reduced to, a "resistance". Mere actors playing within someone else's game, someone else's rules. It was like admitting that they were already beaten. Their only option now was to resist. Not defeat, not cripple, not dominate, but simply to resist—and even that wasn't going well.

To top it all off, he was alone. His guardians were gone. His family, gone. There was nothing left and nowhere to go. His universe was doomed, just like the myriad others. Doomed.

Alastor took another puff from the cigarette, this one shorter, removing it from his mouth and exhaling yet another cloud of gray. This time, his gaze landed on another. Clear on the other side of the gymnasium, standing atop the balcony that separated the entrance area from the rest of the gymnasium, was a guy. Alastor was hesitant to call him a man, for he was yet more boy than man. He had not been shaped by the tragedy of inevitability. Of death and suffering. Of true war.

Not yet.

The guy was looking down from above, eyeing the crowd below him with what Alastor knew for sure was an unhealthy amount of disdain. Next to him stood a young child, a preteen by the look of him, balancing himself on the balcony railing with his forearms. The two looked very similar, with stringy black hair not unlike Alastor's own, though he had his gelled-over into a series of small stylish spikes. It was a future fad.

Still, in a way, Alastor pitied them. His experiences made him cold, merciless, and virtually undefeatable in combat. He'd seen every type of battle, every type of savagery, every manner of death conceivable at the hands of their enemy. By comparison, these younger greener versions of himself only thought they knew what it was to struggle. To crawl and scrape for every last inch on a battlefield littered with the remains of your comrades.

They would soon learn. Everyone would. It would be mankind's grand finale.

Suddenly, the guy atop the balcony raised a single finger. His index finger. Alastor immediately knew what that meant.

The time for action was nigh.

Alastor dropped his cigarette, giving it a curt stomp with the back of his heel. The number one had arrived. His target. The eleventh Vongola boss: Reida Sawada. Even in his timeline, she was legendary, renown for her fighting prowess and her reign over the final era of the Vongola empire. It'd be interesting to pit his full ability against the likes of such a historical figure. Hopefully she wouldn't disappoint, even if he was couple decades too early to meet her at her prime.

Once given the signal, he would engage.

Though the chances were essentially non-existent, perhaps this would be the timeline that would change things. Win the war in the past, before it even starts. Perhaps.

Or perhaps not.

The Vongola XI had already begun her speech when a distinct and all too familiar reverberation reached his ears. A SNAP! that could only come from one person. It was the signal. The time to strike was now.