Chapter 1 She’s Not What She Seems 

2057. The Underground. New London. Eurella. Forty years after the Great Merge.

 

In the depths of the Underground, where smog and mud clung to creaky, wooden buildings, and the stench of decay mingled with the faint glow of a flickering lamppost, a lone figure leaned wearily against the post. His face was weathered and partially concealed beneath a granddad's cap. Adorned in a worn, black leather duster that bore the marks of both time and trials, he stood as a sentinel amidst the refuse-strewn street. The grime of the enclosed city clung to his boots, their once-pristine black now marred by splashes from puddles, bearing witness to his location.

With a crinkled cigarette hanging from his lips, he exhaled a cloud of smoke, a fleeting respite from the relentless rhythm of the Underground. His finger pressed against an earpiece as he heard a posh voice speak through it. "Leader is in position, awaiting Entourage.”

The man in the worn leather duster surveyed his surroundings, his eyes taking in the drunken stumbling of fools and the provocative calls of prostitutes beckoning their patrons to brothels. He discretely pressed a finger to his ear once again, responding in a neutral accent, "This is Entourage. Where is Woman?"

"This is Leader," a rugged, deep voice whispered in reply. "Woman is in position. Awaiting Entourage."

The man in the duster couldn't help but inquire further, his curiosity piqued. "How does she look?"

"Like sex on a Sunday morning," the voice replied.

"ETA: two minutes," the man in the duster responded. Taking a final, contemplative drag of his cigarette, he let it drop from his lips, its ember extinguishing in a puddle. With purposeful strides, his boots splashed through murky water; he turned a corner where muffled voices began to seep into his senses. At the end of a dimly lit alleyway, a vibrant neon sign illuminated the darkness, proudly spelling out the words, 'Pink Fox'. Below it, a set of double doors beckoned, accompanied by additional signs that warned, 'NO MAGIC. NO GUNS. ONLY COIN.'

As the man in the worn leather duster approached, his eyes adjusted to the vibrant pink neon light that bathed the surroundings. With no surprise to him, five imposing silhouettes emerged from the shadows. They were known as Kobolds. They were much taller than an average human with naturally muscular builds. Though they possessed a human’s body, their heads belonged to wolves with sharp, glistening teeth.

"You a member?" the largest kobold questioned, his tone guarded.

The man cracked his neck, his gaze unwavering. "No."

"Fee is 2 silver," the kobold declared, brandishing a bat to which he opened up the leather duster. The action exposed two empty holsters on the man's chest, along with two empty sheaths at his waist.

"Busy day?" the kobold inquired. "At least you got the memo."

"Research is important," the man in the duster replied, his voice steady. Without lifting his eyes, he reached into his duster, the clanging of coins filling the air. Retrieving two silver pieces imprinted with the emblem 'EOC', he presented them to the kobold.

The kobold chuckled, his scarred hands closing around the offered coins. "A professional, huh? It'll be three silvers then."

Coin did not appear to be an issue as the man delved into his duster once more, producing an additional silver piece. He dropped it into the kobold's waiting hands.

"Thank you, patron. Enjoy the night," the kobold said with surprising politeness, stepping aside to clear the path. “She is quite something.”

"So I've heard," the man replied with a hidden smirk. He walked past the kobolds, their imposing forms looming behind him. Pressing both hands onto the double doors, he braced himself and exerted a heavy push. The doors swung open, revealing a woman's voice that slipped into his ears, beckoning him further into the depths of the Pink Fox's enigmatic embrace.

The man continued his journey, his footsteps treading upon the stained red carpets that led him to another set of doors. Standing next to them, was a mixture of human and goblin but far more goblin - they were dressed in a tailored suit. The half-goblin, donning a white glove, gracefully grasped the door handle and swung it open, ushering the man inside with a formal tone.

"Enjoy the night, patron," the di-human offered, a hint of deference in his voice.

Acknowledging the gesture, the man tipped his hat in silent gratitude and stepped into a vast, half-circular room. The glow of a spotlight drew his gaze to the left, where a woman stood on a stage, her voice weaving through the air. To his right were booths with greasy tables, and scantily clad women moved between them, serving pints and spirits. The red lights, piercing through the wavy cigarette smoke, cast an alluring aura, illuminating the space and revealing a second floor adorned with one-way glass, providing a secluded view of the stage. Gold-painted trimmings traced the contours of the bar at the back of the room, drawing the man's attention.

Silently, he made his way towards the bar, careful not to disrupt the ongoing performance. Taking a seat on a cushioned stool, he positioned himself with an air of quiet observance. As the woman on stage concluded her song, the room erupted in applause, filling the air with enthusiastic energy. Despite the commotion, the man remained unfazed, refusing to turn around.

"What will you have this evening?" the bartender inquired, his voice exuding refinement and sophistication.

The man looked up, revealing his striking green eyes to a person who would be categorised as a di-human, meaning that his blood was diluted with other races. The bartender possessed sharp ears that transitioned into a tuft of black, furry hair at the top. His well-tucked black ponytail complemented the pristine white and blue suit he wore, and a pair of thick glasses adorned his nose, which he instinctively adjusted, despite their firm placement.

"The usual," the man replied.

As the di-human bartender prepared the drinks, a formidable presence settled onto the stool adjacent to the man in the leather duster. The newcomer wore a black vest that strained against his bulging muscles, and his sheer size hinted at an stature of over eight feet if he were to stand tall. Veins traced a complex network across his rippling physique.

"And what may I get for you this evening, patron?" the bartender inquired, his focus on shaving an ice cube down to perfection.

"The usual," the large man replied, his voice rough and deep. As he leaned back on the stool, it creaked ominously under his weight.

"Right away," the di-human bartender acknowledged.

In unspoken agreement, both men turned their attention towards the stage, coinciding with the culmination of the long applause.

"Good weekend, Goliath?" the man in the duster addressed the towering figure beside him.

Goliath inhaled deeply, pivoting his head to face his companion. His shaved scalp and chin indicated recent grooming, yet it seemed his hair had already begun to grow back—a pair of thick, bushy eyebrows perched atop his hardened yellow eyes.

"You're really shit at this small talk thing, Roach," Goliath remarked, exhaling heavily. "We've been together the past month."

"I thought that was good," Roach responded, tilting his head slightly to the side. "I've been taking lessons, you know?”

"From who?" Goliath questioned, furrowing his eyebrows.

"A professional," Roach lied, placing a cigarette between his lips. He retrieved a dented silver lighter and electricity sparked out from the top. After taking a long, satisfying drag, he continued, "Where is she?"

Goliath nodded upward.

"Shit, can't even see her," Roach grumbled.

"That's the point, Roach," Goliath jested, releasing a light chuckle.

"Your drinks, gentlemen," the bartender interjected, presenting the completed beverages behind them.

In unison, the two men swiveled their stools, revealing two glasses of whiskey, each with a frosted ball of ice. The only noticeable distinction was that Goliath's glass was significantly larger than Roach's.

Simultaneously, once more, both men took a long sip, relishing the wonderful taste that danced upon their tongues.

“Stunning,” Roach stated, running his tongue across his teeth.

“New career path, Pointy?” Goliath questioned, looking at the perfectly spherical ball of ice.

The bartender, named Pointy, pushed his glasses up his face again when he didn’t need to. “Quite interesting really, might take some lessons this weekend coming if we’re not - you know.”

Goliath nodded enthusiastically as he set his drink down.

“Anyway, gentlemen, any snacks for this evening?”

“Peanuts?” Roach asked his acquaintance with a raised eyebrow.

“Peanuts,” Goliath agreed.

“Right away.”

With a seductive smile curling her lips, the woman on stage leaned forward, her voice dripping with honeyed allure. "Thank you, everyone," she purred, her words caressing the ears of the enthralled audience. "I have many more songs to sing tonight, but there's a new one I've been writing. So, my dear patrons, perhaps it's time to adjust your trousers and order another drink.”

Laughter and chuckles resonated from the booths as the men revelled in the playful banter. Others took her words as an earnest invitation, signalling the waitstaff for another round of drinks and shifting in their seats. The air crackled with anticipation and desire, fueled by the woman's magnetic presence.

In a whirlwind of efficiency, waitresses began replenishing drinks while the patrons discussed the show.

Barely two minutes later, the woman emerged from behind the curtain, resplendent in a regal purple nightgown. The delicate lace adorned the garment's hem, tracing its way across her plump chest, leaving a teasing trail of mystery. Her porcelain skin, kissed by the sun's gentle touch, spoke of carefree afternoons basking in its warm embrace - a true privilege in the Underground. The cascades of curly blonde locks framed her face, flowing down to her shoulders, halting just above her waist. And within her delicate hands, she cradled a classic guitar, its polished wood a vessel for the melodies yet to be unveiled.

Goliath, the ever-observant presence, couldn't help but interject. "Nice ankles," he grumbled, his voice a low rumble in the ambient murmurs.

"You and your ankles, huh?" Roach dismissed, shaking his head.

Goliath emitted a gruff grunt.

Suddenly, the grand double doors leading to the secluded viewing area swung open. Two kobold bodyguards, clad in sleek black suits, entered the large room, their presence commanding attention. 

Heads turned, acknowledging their intrusion before dismissing any lingering thoughts. And in their wake, emerged a man draped in a luxurious fur jacket, flanked by two scantily clad women who clung to his arms. Confidence oozed from every pore of his being, a swagger of authority that defied convention. The multitude of scars, glinting gold teeth, and chains whispered tales of a life lived on the fringes of legality. He was a Lion-Kin, a rare breed known for its strength and captivating visage. No one dared to tread upon the wrong side of this particular Lion-Kin - well, some do.

The woman on stage patiently waited for the man to take his seat.

"Now, gentlemen," she spoke in a low, sultry tone, “this song holds a special place in my heart, and you shall be the privileged few to hear it first. I hope it brings your ears pleasure."

With a graceful sweep of her hand, she lifted the guitar, her fingers finding purchase upon the strings.

 

“When I grace the world with my stride, Heads turn, entranced by my side, For I possess a charm they can't ignore, an enigmatic allure they all adore.”

 

With a seamless transition, she rose from her chair, guitar in hand, and gracefully walked off the stage. The room fell silent, consumed solely by the enchanting sound of her elegant voice and visage.

 

“So, as I walk out my door each day, I leave a trail of awe in my wake, A symphony of admiration at play, A journey of excitement I undertake. With so many men before me, I wonder which one I will take”

 

The tempo increased.

 

“I like butchers and beasts,”

“Oh, and accountants too,”

 

Audible laughs sounded around the room but they quickly died down. The woman made her way around each booth, meeting the various lustful eyes yet ignoring them. However, she only wanted one set.

 

“I like them petite, I like them big,”

“I like different races and prickly stubbles,”

“Clean shaven- oh my, what a haven,”

 

Sensually, she moved her way over to the two men sitting at the bar. Despite their evident disdain, she brushed against their legs. Quickly, she redirected her path, moving toward the centre of the room while strumming her guitar, a siren's melody trailing behind her. As her steps grew slower, her hips swayed with a mesmerizing rhythm, captivating the attention of all those in the room who had not yet succumbed to her aura.

Amidst the song, a whisper broke through the air towards the two men at the bar. "Your peanuts, gentlemen," Pointy murmured, gently placing a wooden basket between them with a cloth underneath and peanuts piled on.

"Thank you," Roach reciprocated.

Inconspicuously, Goliath pressed a finger to his ear. "This is Leader. We are a go," he transmitted.

 

“Do I like ‘em rough and tall or skinny and small?”

“Or perhaps I just want love,”

“For love is the strongest of them all,”

 

Perched atop the table in the important man's booth, the woman reclined, her back delicately supported as her melodic voice filled the air. In doing so, her position unveiled a glimpse of her cleavage and soft shoulders, instantly captivating the man's attention. The women who flanked him were quickly forgotten as he leaned forward, fixated on her every word.

With each passing moment, the woman inched closer to the man, gracefully descending until she lay just inches beneath him on the table. Her song reached its crescendo, her voice trailing off into a high, soft note that lingered in the air. 

Sensing the impending climax, Goliath's command resonated through the earpiece. "Activate E-Jammer," he instructed in a whisper, prompting Pointy to retrieve a device from his jacket pocket swiftly and press it into action. 

As the final strains of the song faded away, the woman's tone transformed, taking on a deep, masculine timbre with a distinct Cockney accent. "Alright, mate? Fuckin' about with the Children of Discordia, are we?" A slender but razor-sharp blade materialized from her nightgown, and in a single, swift motion, she dragged it across the man's jugular. 

Rackal Harren, the self-proclaimed important figure, clutched at his severed throat, blood spurting onto the table in a gruesome display. As the woman rose to her feet, her once elegant face became obscured by a shroud of grey mist, and the room froze in stunned disbelief. The deafening silence was shattered by a waitress when her tray of drinks clattered to the ground. 

Time seemed to stand still as she shrieked at the top of her lungs, her eyes bulging with terror. "IT’S THE UNWANTED!"

“We ain’t that bad, luv,” the former woman disagreed.

Rackal Harren's lifeblood stained the scene, and an eerie stillness settled over the room. But the respite was short-lived. In an instant, pandemonium erupted. Those with a shred of wit seized their belongings and sprinted toward the nearest exit, fueled by primal survival instincts. The foolish armed themselves with an assortment of weapons ranging from pistols to swords and attempted to confront the threat head-on.

At the bar, the three who had been talking; Roach, Goliath and Pointy, each had their faces distorted with mist like the ‘woman’. Roach pinched the corner of the cloth underneath the basket of peanuts and threw it upwards, revealing a set of black revolvers with purple engravings etched across them, a pair of grey daggers with jagged veins running through them and two golden knuckledusters at the bottom.

The former woman, now sat upright on the blood-soaked table, her face distorted in swirling mist. In a rough and male voice, she addressed the two inept kobold bodyguards, contempt dripping from her words. "You lot gonna stand there like useless twats or what? Fuck, he must pay you two sacks of shite coppers,” he cursed, pointing aggressively at them.

Their initial shock quickly transformed into rage and frustration. One of the kobolds brandished a fashionable gold pistol, pointing it at the transformed woman. However, the kobold's movements were sluggish, and he couldn't match her speed. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, she kicked the gun upward. A streak of black light shot from the pistol's barrel, striking a hanging lamp above their heads.

Seizing the opportunity, the former woman lunged forward, slashing at the kobold's stomach with her high-heeled shoe. Despite her efforts, the thick-skinned kobold only suffered a shallow scratch, seemingly unaffected by the attack.

"Can I get some fuckin’ help, you lazy cunts!" the once-woman shouted in frustration, her voice echoing through the room.

Hearing her cry, Roach responded. He tossed his set of daggers high into the air. Grasping his set of revolvers, he sprinted forward, firing shots at the kobolds. Each bullet was accompanied by purple and black light trailing behind them. Although the bullets struck the kobolds, they only left bruises and failed to pierce their skin, and shooting their eyes required pin-point precision. Roach had no intention of killing them - not yet anyway. The two bodyguards instinctively raised their forearms to shield their eyes, and the one in front charged blindly at Roach.

Once his revolvers were empty, he slotted them back inside the holsters on his chest and slid onto his knees. Right before he came into contact with the kobold, he caught the daggers he had thrown up previously and slashed into the ligaments behind their knees. The kobolds dropped like sacks of potatoes.

“You fucking prick!” the other kobold yelled in pain, clutching the back of his knee with his left hand and turning his focus to Roach. His finger became happy on his right hand and Roach ducked behind a table.

“A little help!” Roach shouted to the two at the bar.

Surprisingly, Goliath was finishing off his drink, savouring the taste of the delicious beverage. He looked over to his shoulder at Pointy who pulled out a metal compound bow from underneath the bar. Light from the white runes carved into the frame reflected off the silver string his finger pulled back. As he did, a blue transparent arrow filled the void between. Squinting his eyes through the mist on his face, he let it fly at the kobold.

The arrow sailed close to the speed of a bullet and entered through the kobold’s chest and out its spine. The kobold’s grip on the gun loosened and his body fell limp against the floor.

“All yours, Spike!” Roach shouted at him from behind the table.

With mist on their face, the former woman, now named Spike, hopped off the table and began to repeatedly punch the kobold in the face. As he did so, fake skin came off in droves. The elegant and beautiful woman was turning into a thin and terribly tattooed man with an unhealthy obsession with bloody violence.

“Stupid! Fucking! Cunt!” 

With every punch it revealed a letter on each knuckle, slowly spelling out the words ‘FUCK OFF :)’. Once the kobold’s face was unrecognisable, Spike grabbed the top of his locks and yanked it off, revealing a black mohawk that stretched his height to six feet and two inches.

“SPIKE!” Goliath called out, seeing a horde of thugs heading in his direction.

“Give me a minute!” Spike shouted back, trying to peel the rest of the fake skin off. “Ah, fuck, it’ll do!” He grabbed his classic acoustic guitar and began to tune it. With every adjustment, the wood turned shiny and black with rigid edges akin to a lightning bolt. He dropped behind the back of the booth and began strumming a deep, electric tune.

Roach, the seasoned gunslinger, sprang over the table with his revolvers freshly reloaded, his movements swift and precise. He unleashed a barrage of bullets, shooting past Spike, and targeting the approaching hostile patrons. Their sheer numbers posed a formidable challenge, but Roach knew better than to underestimate anyone.

The bullets whizzed past Spike, finding their mark with chilling accuracy. Two patrons met a gruesome fate as the projectiles pierced their skulls, resulting in a grotesque explosion of brain matter and dark red fluid that showered those unfortunate enough to be standing behind them.

With the immediate threat neutralized, Roach holstered his revolvers and closed the distance, transitioning into close combat. His opponent was a nimble half-goblin - a creature known for its diminutive stature, swiftness, and unscrupulous preference for wealth over the well-being of its own kin. Undeterred by the half-goblin's sudden lunge, Roach anticipated the attack and swiftly moved behind him.

In a fluid motion, Roach bent his arm backwards, bringing forth one of his daggers. With a single precise strike, the blade effortlessly sliced through the half-goblin's throat, as if cutting through mere paper. The severed head, held together by taut skin and strained veins, teetered for a moment before finally detaching from the lifeless body.

Meanwhile, at the rear of the belligerent mob, a scantily clad waitress positioned herself, her hands poised upwards with flames licking around her fingers, evidently preparing to unleash magic against Spike and Roach. Sensing the impending danger, a commanding voice roared from the back, shaking the room with its force.

"PYRO!" bellowed Goliath, issuing a call for a certain someone.

Inside the club's rear security room, a small elven woman stood vigilant over three lifeless bodies. Once-functional screens, which previously displayed a comprehensive view of the club's interior, now bore the corrupting marks of an E-Jammer, their surfaces tainted with splashes of blood. 

Measuring only five feet and four inches, she clutched a curved, green blade that appeared almost comically disproportionate to her size. A neat white bob adorned her head, with each strand styled to maintain uniformity in length. Her fair skin formed a striking contrast against the backdrop of her black cloak.

At the urgent cry of "PYRO!" resonating from beyond the room's open door, the elven woman's head snapped towards the sound. Acting swiftly, she embodied the agility of a panther. Despite her petite feet, they propelled her with astonishing force. Scaling a nearby wall while maintaining her velocity, she effortlessly ascended its surface. Then, she fearlessly hurled herself from the edge of the balcony above, executing a daring dive down below. 

In the main room of the club, a spinning, blurry image fell from the ceiling with a green glow trailing behind it.

The small elven woman dropped behind the waitress - her eyes bulged and grew wide, and then slowly turned soulless. In a direct line down her body, small rivers of blood crawled out. Then she split in two. As if done for a scientific experiment, her body became an exhibit, revealing organs, stomach, brain and mostly blood.

“Mute wins kill of the month!” Goliath shouted with cupped hands.

Goliath's initial excitement dissolved into a sense of foreboding as his gaze fell upon five kobolds entering the club, armed to the teeth with machine guns, bats, and swords. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Pointy, with his bow firmly drawn and eyes narrowed, calmly acknowledged, "I believe it's your time to shine, sir.”

"Eugh," Goliath grumbled, his massive frame rippling with anticipation as he flexed the gleaming golden knuckle dusters adorning his fingers. The stool screamed in pain as he got off.

Before he could even take a step, a deluge of bullets rained down upon him. Like the kobolds, he instinctively shielded his eyes, pressing forward. Yet, unlike his adversaries, the barrage of projectiles merely bounced harmlessly off his seemingly invulnerable skin, akin to mere pellets striking a steel surface. He continued his advance, defying the expectations of the kobolds manning the automatic weapons, whose astonishment grew with each futile attempt to stop him.

"Half-giants aren't bulletproof!" the leader of the kobolds bellowed in trepidation.

At that moment, Goliath's calm and composed demeanour seemed to invert. Emitting a greatly disgruntled grunt, he quickened his pace, his imposing presence causing the entire club to tremble. Like a mountain unleashed, the colossal man charged toward the kobolds. 

With a metal bat in hand, one of them sprinted toward Goliath, readying a powerful swing.

Goliath caught it, stopping it dead. With ease, the metal moulded around his curling fingers. An overwhelming fear swept over the kobold, and an angry backhand from Goliath sent the muscular bouncer flying into a brick wall, shaking paint and mortar from its place.

“What the fuck is this guy?!” the main kobold shouted again in panic, chucking an empty magazine to the floor and slotting a new one in. Cocking it, he dumped the entire magazine into Goliath - the mighty man kept walking while covering his eyes until he was a step away from the kobold. The kobold threw the automatic weapon at him and brandished a knife from his waist. Before he could even lunge, Goliath caught his head like a tennis ball.

Goliath picked him up and looked into his eyes. Only a distorted face stared back at the kobold. “‘Cause I’m not a half-giant, you mutt.” The kobold’s eyes went up into his skull as the strong fingers of Goliath pushed deep into his brain. Dark blood leaked out into the mane of the kobold and droplets hit the floor.

The kobolds just stopped and stared in horror and slight amazement. The strongest person they had ever met in their life, and who was their boss, had just been picked up and crushed as if they were a toddler.

“Well come on then,” Goliath teased, tossing the limp body aside.

One swung wildly with a sword but was left with four square imprints on their forehead. The last two tried to run but Goliath caught up to them with two strides and ended their retreat.

Among the booths, Roach and Spike were taking cover from gunfire. “Fucking, ah - fuck, heels, man. Why do bitches wear these?” Spike cursed while crouch-hopping on one foot. “AH!” His cramped toes were finally free. He began to take off the nightgown until he became a man without an appendage - his member was taped tightly against his gooch.

“Stop fucking about and get in ‘ere!” Goliath yelled back to them, seeing the fighting getting heavier. 

“Oh, well, fuck me—my apologies, giant. I’m sorry you didn’t have to put up with bald, greasy men touching your fucking arse every fucking night!” Spike screamed at him amidst the chaos.

This is the Ill-Favoured Five, a group of mercenaries who work for an illusive organisation known as the Unwanted, hence the grey mist distorting their faces. They were unorthodox and half-mad, but they worked well together—covering weakness, exploiting strengths; anything a mercenary team might need to do to get paid.

“Fuckin’ get in here!” Goliath yelled again at Spike.

“Fuck this!” Spike cursed with fake skin peeling off around his fingers. He grabbed the neck of his electric guitar and climbed onto a table. Raising it above his head, he leapt into the fray with a crazed look upon his face of veiled mist.