[PREQUEL] (W) ᴜɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ ♗

0| Prologue

TW: drug/substance abuse and the S word!

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The muffled sounds of tires screeching on uneven pavement echoes.

The smell of burning rubber could have lingered from the highest mountains of Nunavut to the deepest caves of the latino south.

The hand that commands the car into function makes a smooth entrance. Wheels swerve around pebbles sharp enough to puncture, bringing the car to a permanent halt. But they move out of the way. And they do so with reason.

A police car was what could only be deemed invisible by the above portion of the population who weren't one foot into crime. It allowed for the Japanese native behind the wheel to speed to limits higher than the law had allowed with little to no repercussions.

But a whole lot of attention.

It made for his premature presence where another underground counterpart had been expecting him.

Lights had shut. Sirens had reduced in sound before they had eventually died down fully. The engine idled for more than necessary. The Japanese man had taken in a final drag of his thick brown cigar before twisting the keys, ridding the car of life.

The side door shut just as fast as it opened.

The eastern pawn stepped out alone on western soil. His welcome was not anticipated by many. But many he didn't want anything from. With nothing but a dark coat on his back, thick gloves covering tattooed hands; it is topped off by a slightly perched beret.

The thin material of clothes serves him well against slight freezing winds. It's his armor.

The wind wavers in the background. It's a soothing song. A lullaby to lead the general population into a night of restlessness or ease. However their day went, prior. The city shook when news outlets had begun shooting out new 'breaking news' every couple of hours.

A father died here, a mother abducted there.

It's reasonable to have pushed your dining room table in front of the door, making it a barricade for any intruders wanting to invade the household. At least bullets —alone–weren't strong enough to push against a sort of 'shield'.

But as underground pawns continue to kill their own, and the general population begin to dip their fingers into the question of 'Who are they? What are they doing? Why are they doing this?' more and more casualties arise, and all the more innocent bystanders eat a bullet not worthy of their diet.

Even to those who mind their own affairs, crossfire doesn't exactly have a list of names it's meant to erase from existence.

Nobody wins but those who have enough power to push that immunity.

The driver whose loyalties lie east, steps up on the steady bridge platform. Covered, his face remains a mystery to all. Not even the beaming golden streetlights in a light gray night-sky could illuminate the shadow-like material.

For a moment, and a moment only, does the pawn spare a glance at the dark porches of city housing units. They were a handful of the poor living amongst the rich. But in this way they were situated on higher ground, for the first and last time; the poor had the privilege of rising above the rich.