>>5301944

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
199X
16 hours ago


The sound of a rooster's call outside your window awakens you, just before it's cut off by the dull, heavy thunk of a knife. Just like every morning. Sunlight beams in through the broken slats of your window shutters. Yawning, you sit up in bed and open the shutters on your second-floor window to let the light in. Looking down at the street, there's old man Eduardo as usual, his cooking stall set up and ready to go. He's plucking feathers from the now-headless rooster's body, surrounded by a clucking chorus of chickens tied up on wires. "Good morning, chica," he calls out to you. "Fine day today!"

"Good morning, Eduardo," you reply, then let out another big yawn. It does look like a fine day, with the morning sun rising over the mountains. Up here in the cramped hillside neighborhoods of the favela, you can see the whole city spread out below you, and the bay of a thousand islands beyond.

If there's any benefit to living in one the poorest slums of one of the worst cities in the world, it's this: you get a great view.

Getting out of bed, still in your underwear, you stand in the center of your small room and stretch, then drop to the floor and do some quick pushups, a warmup to start your day. Two hundred ... two fifty ... three hundred. That should do for now. You stand up and cross the room to the only other piece of furniture besides your bed, an old punching bag suspended by a rusty chain, and start hammering away. Fists and elbows first, giving the bag a good pummeling, then into kick combinations: front to side, roundhouse to side, back heel to hook.

After you've worked up a good sweat, you take a moment to towel off. Sitting on the creaky bed, you look up at the poster on the wall, a promo advertising last year's national Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu championship. Both contestants are photographed glaring at each other, framed in a dramatic showdown, their names written in big bold letters below them. You imagine what you would look like on a poster like that, with "Mariana Rosa" written for everyone to see. What it would feel like to have thousands of people buying tickets to see you fight it out in the ring.

"Mari!" Your reflections are interrupted by Uncle Pedrao's hoarse voice shouting at you from downstairs. "You're late!"

A sigh escapes you as you take one last look at the poster and run to take a quick shower. "Coming, uncle!"

>>5301955

When you get downstairs, still drying off your hair, the restaurant is already full. Uncle Pedrao is in the kitchen, rapidly cutting up cassava roots with a huge chef's knife, and a big pot of black beans is already stewing on the fire. "Glad you decided to join me," he growls. "It's not enough I have to listen to all that thumping around every morning, but you have to be late for work as well."

"Sorry, uncle, but I have to practice--"

"What you have to do is take these orders to table 5 and 7," Pedrao interrupts, thrusting six bowls of stew into your arms. "Go on, now."

Balancing the bowls with the ease of long practice, you head out into the seating area and hand out the orders. First, two to a married couple at table 5, and then four to table 7 for a group of old men, friends who often stop by in the morning. "Mari, my dear!" One of them calls out to you as you approach. "Favor this old man for a smile, for should this be my last day on earth, I'll go to the grave happy with the memory of your beauty."

You roll your eyes but can't help but smile at the old man's corny remarks. "Take your stew and enjoy it, old-timer," you say as you place the bowls around the table.

"What did I say, friends?" The old man grins toothlessly at his compaions. "As beautiful as the uncle is ugly."

Many of the customers greet you over the course of the morning. You know many of them by name as well, some as regular customers, others as locals and neighbors, and you ask many of them about their goings-on, hearing all kinds of stories and gossip. Over and over you sail back and forth from the kitchens with armloads of bowls, each filled with black bean stew and varying combinations of pork, cabbage, carrots, cassava, and other vegetables. You interrupt and smooth over an argument breaking out between your uncle and patrons. The restaurant hums with the noise of loud conversation and laughter, and fills with the sour smell of fresh-baked beans.

In short, it's an ordinary morning, on an ordinary day.

It's not until a lull in the orders, with both you and Uncle's hands covered in suds as you scrub bowls clean, that you get a chance to talk to him again. You ask him:

>If he's seen your little brother today.
>If he's had any more trouble with the local thugs.
>If he's ever thought about whether there's more to life than beans.

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>>5301961
>>If he's seen your little brother today.

>>5301961
>If he's seen your little brother today.

>>5301961
>If he's had any more trouble with the local thugs.

>>5301961
>If he's had any more trouble with the local thugs.
>>5301966
Bro, blue board. At least spoiler that shit.

>>5301961
>>If he's had any more trouble with the local thugs.
>Captcha: 84ASS

>>5301961
>If he's had any more trouble with the local thugs.

>>5301961

"Did those thugs come back around here?" you ask. Glancing over, you can see by Uncle's frown that they did. "What did they want?"

"The same thing they always want," Uncle says. "More." Disgust creeps into his voice. "At least when there was only one gang, they didn't have an excuse to keep raising the protection fees. Now with this war, with this Red Square gang taking over the district, they always need more money. More drugs, more guns, more soldiers. More of everything. And where does that leave the rest of us? Even poorer than we started."

Everyone knows there's only one way in the favela to make real money. You can see the evidence of it every time the local gangbangers swagger by with gold jewelry on display, or drive past slowly in their flashy, expensive cars. For most, it's a short, brutal, dangerous life that ends quickly, either in prison, or rotting in a ditch with a gunshot wound. But those few who succeed, the ones who survive long enough to climb to the top of the pack, find wealth beyond imagining.

"What can we do?" you ask.

"Nothing," Uncle says, wiping his soapy hands off with a rag. "We can't control it anymore than we can make clouds refuse to rain, or the wind to blow. All we can do is find shelter until the storm is over."

The telephone in the back rings. It's connected to the overhead lines with an illegal splice, common in this neighborhood. Uncle picks up the phone and grunts an inquiry, listens a few moments, then grunts an affirmative and hangs up. "Delivery!" he barks at you, already spooning stew into recycled plastic containers. "It's for Mrs. Costa, from ten streets down the hill, the red roof. You know the one?"

"Of course!" You fetch the delivery bag and hold it open as Uncle places the food containers inside, making sure to press down securely to tighten the lids. Then you tighten the laces on your shoes, do a couple quick stretches, and set off.

>>5302101

The narrow, winding streets of the favela form a maze, one in which any outsider would swiftly get lost in, and even an experienced resident has difficulty finding a direct path from one place to another. Almost any normal route involves twisting alleys, double-backs, and fighting through crowded spaces. Any kind of fast delivery under these circumstances is a struggle.

So you prefer to take alternative routes.

Double-checking again that the food containers' lids are tightly fastened, you spring into motion, running up a nearby set of stairs that gives you enough height to launch into the air and land on the adjacent tin roof. From there you set off across the rooftops and balconies and terraces, a route you're experienced in that takes you down the hill towards your destination. Colorfully painted walls, graffiti, rooftop garden beds, jury-rigged overhead power and phone lines, all of it passes by in a blur. Some of the neighbors watch you go by from their windows or rooftops. A few wave and call out greetings as you pass, others scowl or shout insults. You take it all in stride, thrilling in the exultation as you push your body to go faster, to jump farther.

Now, you've managed to give the restaurant a good reputation for speedy deliveries so far, even without a vehicle, and you want to continue that. Times are always tough, and with the gangs cracking down, the restaurant needs every advantage it can get. It's true that speed means nothing if you wipe out along the way and spill the food. But who doesn't like to live dangerously?

How will you get the food delivered as fast as possible?

>Maximum speed!
>Take a shortcut.
>Do something creative.

>>5302102
>>Take a shortcut

>>5302102
>>Take a shortcut.
If we really know our neighborhood then we should know the best paths around.

>>5302102
>Do something creative

>>5302102
>>Take a shortcut.

>>5302102
>Do something creative.

>>5302102
>Take a shortcut.

>>5302102

You decide to take a shortcut that involves leaping across a back lot to the opposite roof. It's risky, but you're pretty sure you can jump that far, right? Yeah, sure, no problem. Gaining up as much momentum as you can, you leap through the air and, after a moment of panic where you realize you misjudged it after all,just barely snag hold of the rooftop's edge. Breathing out a sigh of relief, you haul yourself up and back onto the roof, and continue your route. No more shortcuts, though.

You drop off the delivery at Mrs. Costa's house. You made good time, and not a drop was spilled, although you almost ended up as a pancake in that back lot. Still, everything worked out. You start the journey back to the restaurant in the regular way, using the streets. Not much point in fancy tricks when you're going uphill anyway.

On the way back, you spot a familiar face: your little brother, Leo, is loitering on a street corner. "Hey, Leo!" You wave as you approach.

Leo only glances at you as you arrive, then looks away again. "Hey, sis." He's in his early teens, not yet old enough to be called a man, but old enough to think of himself like one.

"What are you doing here? Just hanging out?" you ask. "Want to head back to the shop with me?"

"I can't." He's barely looking at you, his eyes shifting watchfully from one end of the street to the other.

"Why not?" you ask, puzzled. "What are you up to?"

>>5302222

Leo glances back over his shoulder, and you follow his gaze towards one of the shops on the street, a hardware store. Several people inside, a real commotion.

Just as you're looking, the door to the hardware store swings open wildly, and a wolfpack of thugs walks out, talking loudly and whooping. They all have red clothing somewhere, a bandana or armband, or a red square stitched onto a sleeve. Several of them are carrying fistfuls of cash, or are stuffing bands of bills into their pockets. Some have weapons -- machetes, hammers, a few pistols. The loudest of them has an assault rifle strapped to his back. "Well, well," he says as he recognizes you. He walks in your direction, the rest of the gang following him. "What's good, senorita?"

You try to control your fear. "Rafa," you greet him politely. "Good to see you." You're trying to focus on the gang leader, and as much as possible, ignore the armed goons surrounding him, men who would cut your head off on the sidewalk right here if Rafa ordered it. Beside the gang leader is his right-hand man, a fellow called Branco on account of his white-blonde hair. He's not especially big or muscular, in fact he's shorter than you are, but something about him exudes an aura of menace.

"Your little bro here was just doing a little job for us as a lookout," Rafa says with a big grin. "Seems like a reliable guy. Got high hopes for him the future."

"Leave him alone, Rafa," you say, marshalling all the courage you have. "I don't want him working for you."

"Oh, yeah? You going to reconsider my offer then? It's still open. Come work for me, I'll make sure you get paid real well. That old man of yours won't ever have to slave over his pot of beans ever again. It's a generous offer." His grin widens, becoming lascivious. "You know, most women, I make them beg before they can work for me."

You feel a wave of disgust. You can't tell the leader of the Red Square, carrying an assault rifle, surrounded by men carrying machetes, to fuck off. But you can think it as hard as you can.

Rafa sees your hostility. "Hey, you know I won't ask you to do that. You don't have to work on your back for me. I know you're a badass, that you got what it takes to join my enforcers. Come on, this is your only ticket to becoming somebody, and you know it. What is it going to be? Money and power, respect, everything you've ever wanted? Or would you rather stink like beans your whole life?"

>I want to earn an honest living.
>A little crime is one thing, but you're a dangerous maniac.
>I'll join you if you agree to leave my family alone from now on.

>>5302224
>I want to earn an honest living.

>>5302224
>>A little crime is one thing, but you're a dangerous maniac.
There's a major difference between petty shoplifting and favela gangbangers.

>>5302224
>A little crime is one thing, but you're a dangerous maniac.

>>5302224
>>A little crime is one thing, but you're a dangerous maniac.

>>5302224
>>I'll join you if you agree to leave my family alone from now on.

>>5302224
>in fact he's shorter than you are
Mogged

>I want to earn an honest living.
It's lame but maybe we shouldn't call this guy a dangerous maniac to his face, when he's got all his goons.

>>5302224
>>I'll join you if you agree to leave my family alone from now on.
Saying 'no' to favela gangbangers is a bad idea.

>>5302224
>I want to earn an honest living.

>>5302224
>I'll join you if you agree to leave my family alone from now on.

>>5302224
>I'll join you if you agree to leave my family alone from now on.

>>5302224
>A little crime is one thing, but you're a dangerous maniac.

>>5302224
>A little crime is one thing, you're a dangerious maniac.

We have said no before, and he won't pressure us further while he has some talons in our little brother.

>>5302224
>>I'll join you if you agree to leave my family alone from now on.
For the 'hood and great profit!

>>5302224
>>5302320
Tiebreaking change to
>A little crime is one thing, but you're a dangerous maniac.

Offering him the deal just gives him even more power over us and lets him know where to press us if he really wants us. Fuck that. Avoid this bullshit at all costs.

>>5302475
Time to turn this beat em up to a shoot em down

>>5302224
>A little crime is one thing, but you're a dangerous maniac.

>>5302224
>A little crime is one thing, but you're a dangerous maniac.

>>5302224

You shake your head, thinking of Uncle working long into the night to meet the extortionate protection fees, as well as the other local businesses, like that hardware store, that have been trashed or robbed for being unable to pay. And although you haven't witnessed it yourself, you've heard the stories of what happens to people who cross the gang, or try to sell drugs in their territory. Those who get shot are the lucky ones. "A little crime is one thing. Fake watches, scamming tourists, slinging weed and coke, these things I could live with. But you guys are --" You stop short of calling them dangerous maniacs to their faces. "You're serious trouble."

Rafa shakes his head with an exaggerated sadness. "Sorry to hear that, girl. I respect your decision, I really do. But you should know that most people don't get such a generous offer from me, and they definitely don't turn it down. I'm not sure you really understand who it is you're talking to right now. I'm a big fucking deal, you get me?"

"Rafa's the king around here," one of the cronies chimes in. "What he says, goes."

"Hey," Branco addresses the gangster who just spoke. His voice is quiet, oddly high-pitched. Everyone stops. "The boss was talking. You think he needs you to speak for him? Like he can't make a point on his own?"

"What? No, I just --" The gangster laughs awkwardly. "I was just saying, you know?"

"No, I don't know." Branco steps closer, staring at the gangster from right next to him. "Why don't you explain it to me? Tell me exactly what it is I don't understand. You think people are going to forget that Rafa is the boss if you don't remind them? Like his rep isn't good enough?"

The gangster looks frozen in place. His eyes dart back and forth from his boss to the enforcer, but Rafa doesn't offer any help, just shrugs. The gangster licks his lips nervously. "Look, Branco, I didn't mean anything -- I'm sorry --"

"Oh, you're sorry!" Branco turns around to look directly at you with narrow eyes and a wide smile. "That's okay, then. He says he's sorry. I'm sure he'll learn from his mistake."

"Branco, relax," you say, a feeling of dread looming over you. "It's not a big deal."

"Relax, she says. I'm always relaxed." Branco turns back to the gangster, the wide smile still on his face.

The gangster laughs nervously again, still confused.

With a sudden motion, Branco strikes the man's throat, dropping him to the ground. He sets to work with his fists, then his heavy boots. The repetitive thuds of the impacts mix with the sickening squish of flesh, then the cracking of bone. You cover Leo's eyes with your hand, and hold him close to you. It's over soon.

>>5302880

"What an idiot," Rafa says, laughing, and spits on the ground. Then he snaps his fingers and points towards Leo. One of the gangsters steps out from the crowd. You withdraw a couple steps, holding Leo protectively, all your danger senses blaring. But the gangster unfolds a crumpled 50-real note and stuffs it into Leo's hands. "Payment for the lookout job," Rafa says. "Like you said, nothing wrong with a little crime." He laughs again as he heads off, followed by his entourage of thugs, one fewer than they were a minute ago.

Branco is the last to leave, weighing you with a heavy stare before he goes. His boots leave bloody tracks on the concrete.

You haul Leo out of there, leaving the body behind.

On the way back to the restaurant, you try to see whether this incident has scared Leo off from working for the gangs, but he still seems adamant. "I'm not going to be like you and Pedrao, smelling like beans my whole life," he insists. "I'm going to be somebody. If working for Rafa is the only way to do it, then that's what I'll do."

How can you get this through to him? Isn't there some way to change his mind, show him there's another way?

>Sympathize, tell him about your own dreams.
>Warn him he could end up like that poor dead bastard back there.
>Remind him that, though life is tough, you have each other.

>>5302881
>>Sympathize, tell him about your own dreams.

>>5302881
>>Warn him he could end up like that poor dead bastard back there
Look, bro, I wouldn't be warning you if these people weren't absolutely nuts. But they are, so stay the fuck away from 'em.

>>5302881
>Warn him he could end up like that poor dead bastard back there.

>>5302881
>Warn him he could end up like that poor dead bastard back there.
Bro you literally watched a man get beaten to death for trying to be a hypeman, there are better ways.

>>5302881
>Remind him that, though life is tough, you have each other.

>>5302881
>Warn him he could end up like that poor dead bastard back there.
Does Leo have an aptitude for martial arts?
If he does, I would try and push him towards pursuing professionally as opposed to doing shit jobs for two-bit gangbangers.

>>5302881
>Warn him he could end up like that poor dead bastard back there.

If he says he thinks he is smarter than that, say the dead guy probably did too.

>>5302881
>Warn him he could end up like that poor dead bastard back there.

>>5302881

"Don't you get it, Leo? These people are insane! We just watched that psycho Branco beat a man to death for no good reason! Maybe you're saying to yourself, oh, I'll be more careful than him, it won't happen to me, but it doesn't matter! It doesn't matter how smart, or tough, or careful you. You just wind up dead, or worse!" You pause, trying to restrain yourself. "I understand wanting to make something of yourself. But signing up with the gangbangers isn't the way to do it."

"What is it, then?" Leo challenges you. "Start martial arts, so I can get kicked out of every tournament I sign up for, like you?"

You flinch at the reminder of your mistakes. "Look, maybe I'm a screw-up, but that doesn't mean you have to be. There has to be some other way."

Leo sadly shakes his head. "Face it, sis. This is it for us. This is all we have. Look at you. You're strong, beautiful, smart, talented ... and you're going to be delivering bean stew to people for the rest of your life. That's if the gangs let you! If Rafa and or one of his henchmen decide one day that the restaurant should go, then it's gone, and you've got nothing. I want something more. I want to be somebody. And the only way to get that is to work for Rafa." You reach for him, but he shakes you off. "Don't try to follow me," he says, heading into an alley.

You watch despondently as your brother disappears into the favela. You don't know how to keep him from being swallowed up by it.

But there's one thing you know for sure. You'll watch out for him. You'll protect him, as best you can. Besides Uncle Pedrao, who cares about you two in his own gruff way, Leo is all that you have in this world, and you're all that he has.

You will keep him safe. Whatever it takes.

>>5303121

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
199X
Now


Whatever it takes. You remember thinking that this morning. Funny how that works out.

The sounds of Rio at midnight fill the air elsewhere in the city, cars and music and laughter. But here in the heart of the favela, it's quiet. The crooked streets are lit up with a mixture of silver moonlight from the bright moon overhead, and the harsh gold glare of buzzing porch lights.

Above you stands a vast, ramshackle building complex, once several separate concrete apartment towers now welded together into one giant structure with rope bridges, platforms, and other improvised constructions. This is the headquarters of the Red Square, Rafa's gang. They took over these towers, sealed off most of the entrances, built these bridges, and turned the whole place into a fortified headquarters. The police, rival gangs, nobody would dare come here.

Here's where the gang manufactures drugs, and distributes it to local dealers. And it's where Rafa and the other big shots in his gang make their home, along with a bunch of his gangbanger flunkies, as well as anyone else who Rafa chooses to rent or offer shelter to: criminals, addicts, outlaws, the scum of the worst districts in the city.

Between you and the building is a chain link fence. On the other side of the fence is an entrance to one of the apartment towers, flanked by two guards, visible in the sickly yellow of a fading outdoor light. One of them is smoking a cigarette, the other is repeatedly bouncing a rubber ball off the wall and catching it again.

The reality of what you're about to do feels like a physical weight pressing down on you. But there's no turning back now. Taking a deep breath, you step forward.

The gate is locked with a key, but the fence doesn't keep you out for more than a moment. You land on the other side, agile as a cat. The smoking guard notices immediately. "Hey, what the fuck?" He tosses his cigarette on the ground and approaches. "You better get the fuck back over that fence right now, bitch, or--"

A right hook to the face interrupts whatever he was going to threaten you with. Your follow-up left sends him straight into the wall, leaving a patch of blood on the concrete before he collapses in a heap.

The other guard looks at you with his mouth agape. The rubber ball he was bouncing rolls away on the ground. He raises his fist, but it's too late. Your front kick to the stomach drives the air out of his lungs, the combo side kick knocks him down. You bend down, grab a handful of his hair to hold his head up, and drill him as hard as you can, knocking him senseless.

That should keep the two of them from raising the alarm, at least for a minute or two.

>>5303128

You look up at the shadowy hulk of the gang headquarters, looming above you. It's the last place you want to be in the world. And it's exactly where you need to go.

What now? How should you make an entrance?

>Show them you're not afraid. Head straight in the door.
>Play it cool, for now. Climb up to a window entrance.
>Get creative. Cause a big distraction, then enter elsewhere.

>>5303129
>Show them you're not afraid. Head straight in the door.

Has anyone on /qst/ ever voted for kicking in the doors instead of sneaking in a window?

>>5303129
>Show them you're not afraid. Head straight in the door.

>>5303129
>Play it cool, for now. Climb up to a window entrance.

>>5303137
Normally when we play superheroes or people who arent intimidated by AK-47s.

>>5303129
>Go in the front.

But hey

>>5303129
>Play it cool, for now. Climb up to a window entrance.
Parkour!

>>5303129
>Get creative. Cause a big distraction, then enter elsewhere

We are strong, but five guys with knives is going to tough to fight.

>>5303129
>>Play it cool, for now. Climb up to a window entrance.

>>5303129
>Show them you're not afraid. Head straight in the door.
Let's put the fear of god into these assholes

>>5303129
>>Get creative. Cause a big distraction, then enter elsewhere.

>>5303129
>Play it cool, for now. Climb up to a window entrance.
The longer we can avoid kicking the hornet's nest, the better.

>>5303129
>Get creative. Cause a big distraction, then enter elsewhere.

>>5303129
>>Show them you're not afraid. Head straight in the door.
I'm sure the direct approach will go swimmingly.

>>5303129
>>Play it cool, for now. Climb up to a window entrance.

>>5303129
>Play it cool, for now. Climb up to a window entrance.

>>5303129
>>Get creative. Cause a big distraction, then enter elsewhere.

>>5303129
>Show them you're not afraid. Head straight in the door.

>>5303129
>Get creative. Cause a big distraction, then enter elsewhere.

>>5303129
>>Play it cool, for now. Climb up to a window entrance

>>5303129

You hesitate for a few moments, deciding whether to announce your arrival in dramatic fashion: maybe set something on fire as a distraction, or even just walk straight in the front door. But you decide to be a bit more subtle. They'll know that you're here soon enough, anyway, so you might as well use the element of surprise while it lasts.

So you head upwards. With your experience in improvising your way across the rooftops of the favela, it's a simple matter. Step off the wall and spring off that exposed pipe, there; pull yourself up onto the second floor balcony; use that jutting concrete brick to leap up to the open window on the third floor, grab onto the ledge, haul yourself over. Easy.

You find yourself in an occupied living room/kitchen. Dirty dishes and empty bottles. A whirring electric fan, ineffectively trying to stir the hot and humid midnight air. Tinny gunshot sounds from a TV playing an American movie on VCR. One man with a mop of frizzy hair, sitting on the couch, just a few feet away from you, is watching the movie. Another man, a burly type with tattoos across his arms, sits at the table across the room, open liquor bottle in front of him. By his side is a girl, draping herself over his shoulders. They all turn to see you and freeze up for a moment in shock, not sure how to react to a woman suddenly entering their apartment through the third-story window.

Before they have a chance to react fully, you fire off a roundhouse kick that smacks the guy on the couch in the head as he's standing up. He goes crashing into the TV, knocking it over onto the ground. The movie continues to play, sideways.

The burly tattooed guy comes at you, yelling as he rears back and throws a huge heavy haymaker, but you see the blow coming a mile away and deflect it past you, knocking him off balance and leaving him wide open. Two blows to the stomach, a strike to the face, and a kick to finish him off, sending him stumbling backwards over the sofa.

Any hopes you had for the girl being an innocent caught up in this go out the window when she grabs a kitchen knife and launches herself at you, snarling like an angry stray cat. You dodge the first swing, but barely -- it leaves a cut in the lower part of your shirt -- so you cut the second swing off before it can happen, striking her on the wrist and knocking the weapon out of her hand, then grabbing hold of her arm and hurling her into the concrete wall.

>>5303839

Picking up an empty liquor bottle and hefting it one hand, you step out of the apartment and into the central stairway. A square block cut out from the interior of the building, stairs leading clockwise up from the bottom all the way to the top floor. The walls are covered in stains, scratches, and graffiti proclaiming NO CREDIT and BUYERS ONLY.

Three men, lounging against the railing nearby, see you exit the apartment and get suspicious. "Hey, who is that?" one asks. He step away from the rail and walk towards you. "What the fuck are you doing?"

In response, you throw the bottle. It shatters on impact, and the man staggers back clutching at his bloodied face. While he's otherwise occupied, you take a running jump and kick the second in the ribs, knocking him down. The third tries to grab hold of you, but with your long hours of mat training at the jiu-jitsu gym, you can evade a clumsy grapple attempt like that without even thinking. You reverse the hold and send the man over the rail. He yells as he plummets down through the central stairway, landing with a heavy thud on an old faded reception desk that crushes under his impact.

You start to hear shouts from the other apartments. Lights turn on, shadows and distorted silhouettes flicker across the walls.

The hornet's nest is awakening. Time to move.

You look upwards. From here you're able to see all the way up the central stairwell to the open roof, and the night sky beyond.

If the map you saw of this place was accurate, your destination is up there. All the way to the top.

>Head straight up the stairs, the fastest and most direct route.
>Slip around the edges, stay hidden as long as possible. It'll be safer, but take longer.
>Take a detour, cause some chaos. With enough confusion, they won't know what to do.

>>5303846
>>Head straight up the stairs, the fastest and most direct route.
Welp, element of surprise gone, might as well bumrush 'em.

>>5303846
>Head straight up the stairs, the fastest and most direct route.
We don't know the area as well as these goons, so trying to hide and circumvent them could lead to an ambush.

>>5303846
>Take a detour, cause some chaos. With enough confusion, they won't know what to do.

Keep 'em on the back foot.

>>5303846
>Take a detour, cause some chaos. With enough confusion, they won't know what to do.

Damn this feels like Sifu’s first level ngl.
Wished we grabbed the kitchen knife though.

>>5303846
>>Take a detour, cause some chaos. With enough confusion, they won't know what to do.

>>5303846
>Slip around the edges, stay hidden as long as possible. It'll be safer, but take longer.

>>5303846
>>Head straight up the stairs, the fastest and most direct route.

>>5303846
>Head straight up

>>5303846
>Head straight up the stairs, the fastest and most direct route.

>>5303846
>Take a detour, cause some chaos. With enough confusion, they won't know what to do.

>>5303846

You never were a patient woman, nor one for subtlety or misdirection. No reason to start now. You'll rush the bastards down before they have a chance to figure out what's going on get organized. You start up the steps, a few floors ahead of the rising tide of clamoring voices and shadows.

As you run up the stairs, a big clockwise circle around the interior court, you picture the maps you saw of the building and trace a route in your head. This hallway up here should take you to the rooftop of one of the shorter buildings. Out there is an outdoor stairway that should take you most of the rest of the way up. That should let you bypass the heavy security doors blocking off Rafa's domain on the top floors from the rest of the building.

This is the door to the hallway, right up ahead. The guard, a tall man in a striped shirt, hasn't moved from his spot, though he's trying to peer curiously over the railing from where he stands, trying to figure out what's happening.

You pick up the pace, turning a run into a sprint.

The guard sees you coming, but takes a moment to react in his confusion. By then, it's too late. You grab him by the head and slam it backwards into the door. Then, stepping back, you put all your weight and strength into a front kick that smashes him straight through the door, wood splintering as it breaks apart under the impact.

The guard lies still amidst the pile of broken wood. You step over him, into the hallway.

Ahead of you is a long, narrow corridor, lined by apartment doors on both sides. It's cramped and constricting, with exposed plumbing overhead and piles of trash everywhere.

At least a dozen men are out here, maybe more.

Half of them are grouped together in the middle, others just exiting their rooms. Some of them are still shirtless, having just been roused from their beds. A guy with dreadlocks and a red shirt is calling out to the others, getting them woken up and rallied together, but he stops as you make your entrance. "Well, well," he says, turning to face you along with the others. "Guess we know what the ruckus is about now, boys."

The hallway stands before you. There's nowhere to dodge, or sidestep, or hide. There's only two directions here: forward and back. And you aren't turning back. That only leaves one way to go.

>Brute force and speed. Bludgeon your way through.
>Watch your positioning. Fight only one at a time.
>Use your environment. Find weapons if you can.

>>5304178
>Watch your positioning

Speed and power are required, but the important thing is keeping our fights as 1 vs 1's so we don't get hit back. We're a match for all of them in a one vs one.

>>5304178
>Brute force and speed. Bludgeon your way through.

It's a narrowish hallway, there's no need to get too caught-up in positioning or environmental advantages. Beat some ass.

>>5304178
>Use your environment. Find weapons if you can.

Lethal force. They would do the same against us.

>>5304178
>Use your environment. Find weapons if you can.

>>5304178
>Use your environment. Find weapons if you can.
Then Oldboy the fuck out of them.

>>5304178
>Watch your positioning. Fight only one at a time.

>>5304178
>>Watch your positioning. Fight only one at a time.

>>5304178
>>Use your environment. Find weapons if you can.

>>5304178
>Watch your positioning. Fight only one at a time.

>>5304178
>Watch your positioning. Fight only one at a time.

>>5304178
>Use your environment. Find weapons if you can.

>>5304178
>Use your environment. Find weapons if you can.

>>5304178
>Brute force and speed. Bludgeon your way through.

>>5304178
>>Use your environment. Find weapons if you can.

>>5304178

No reason to fight fair. Is there something around here you could use as a weapon? A loose-fitting pipe on the wall catches your eye. It's already broken off on the top end. Taking hold, you give it a quick tug and wrench it free from its fittings. You end up with a good heavy section of pipe about as long as your arm. You toss it up with a half-flip to catch hold of the other end, give it a test swing. Seems good.

The gangsters approach you, but hesitate. The hall is only wide enough for two to approach at a time. The two up front are still working up the nerve to step into range of your improvised weapon. They keep glancing behind them, like they're hoping someone else will volunteer to go first. You decide to help the poor boys out. Taking a few quick steps to gain momentum, you jump into the air, bringing the pipe up behind as you rise, chopping down as you descend. It lands on the closest thug's shoulder, and you feel bones break underneath. He collapses, clutching his broken shoulder. The second prepares to fire a punch at you, but you bring up the short end of the pipe and stab it forward to drive him back, then take a big swing, knocking him down.

It's been a little while since you did any weapons training. But bludgeoning a man with a stick is like riding a bicycle. The feeling comes back right away.

You keep going. You swing the pipe back and forth, leaving cracked dents in the walls. The gangsters grab weapons as well. Boards, knives, a hammer. A drinking glass goes flying past your head. You manage to evade or parry each strike, just barely staying ahead of the onslaught. Dodge and swing, ribs break beneath the pipe. Forearm block, wood breaking on your forearm, pain lancing up to your shoulder. Punch, kick, kick, slam. A jiu-jitsu move your teacher told you never to use breaks a man's arm.

Your heart is racing, your muscles are burning. Your breath is starting to falter, your lungs just can't work fast enough to keep up with the exertion. Your forearms and shins hurt from blocking. You've broken at least one finger, maybe more.

One guy barrels into you, forcing his way into point-blank range. The pipe is knocked out of your hands. The man grabs onto you, trying to get you immobilized. You grab on in turn, gather strength into your legs, and haul him into the air to bring him crashing down in a suplex onto the ground behind you. It takes him out, but it leaves you in a vulnerable position.

The thugs who are left dogpile onto you, kicking, striking, stabbing. You get knocked down the ground under the rain of blows, barely able to think, just trying to protect yourself from the chaotic storm of violence. Pain and fear black out everything else. Fucking shit no no no you can't let it end like this, no way, not happening fffffuuuuck!

>>5305580

With a scream ripping itself out of your throat you stand up, shoving the gangsters back with all the strength you have. Ripping the hammer out of its user's hands, you start swinging. You bash and hammer and bludgeon away in a haze of red. Blood splatters on the concrete wall, as the dim overhead lights of the corridor cast on them the shadows of violence.

Finally, there's nobody left. Only you, standing alone, at the end of a hall filled with groaning and bloodied thugs.

You're breathing heavily and sweating, exhausted. Blood trickles down from shallow cuts on your forehead, your arms, the side of your neck. But you're alive. And you're standing.

Outside, onto the courtyard roof. The map is accurate so far. Nearby, an exterior stairway has been rigged with wood and scaffolding material. Take that upwards, and you should be getting close to the lair of the beast.

A man is sitting out here, lounging on one of the tables. A dark hood obscures his face, long dreadlocks dangling from within. "Something tells me you aren't supposed to be here," he says.

"I've got an idea," you manage to say, still trying to catch your breath. "How about you just ... you know ... let me pass? We don't have to do this."

"You're saying that like you don't want to. But we both know that's not true." You can see the man grinning under the shadow cast by his hood as he stands up. He slowly walks towards you, stopping just a few feet away. He strikes, throwing a high punch which you're ready for. But you're not ready for the kick followup which seems to come out of absolutely nowhere, striking you in the side of the head. Stars explode in your eyes as you're forced a few steps back before regaining your posture. Before you can counterattack, he performs an acrobatic maneuver and handsprings backwards, out of range.

Pausing to take off his hoodie and throw it to the ground, the man takes a distinct active stance, swinging back and forth. You recognize this style, now. Capoiera. Your nation's heritage. It's a flashy style, part dance, part martial art. Most learn it for show, but you've heard stories that in secret schools the true martial techniques of the old days are still passed down. Could this be one of those disciples?

You can sense the man's energy, the strength of it, the danger. This is your first true opponent tonight. You can sense his intent, his lust for violence, and you know that he's about to attack.

>Counterattack, fight fire with fire.
>Focus on evading, these unusual strikes could come from anywhere.
>Seize a better position, fight from an advantage.

Well that nearly went badly.

>>5305590
>Seize a better position, fight from an advantage.

Capoeira's a style that needs room, to my knowledge. Don't give it. Grapple, if we can.

>>5305590
>Seize a better position, fight from an advantage.

>>5305590
>Sieze a better position.

>>5305590
>Focus on evading, these unusual strikes could come from anywhere.
Been watching Oldboy?

>>5305590
>Seize a better position, fight from an advantage.

>>5305590
Seize a better position, fight from an advantage

Grab a goddamn table and use that as a shield if we must

>>5305590
>Seize a better position, fight from an advantage.

>>5305590
>>Seize a better position, fight from an advantage.

>>5305590
>>Seize a better position, fight from an advantage.

>>5305590
>Seize a better position, fight from an advantage.

>>5305590
>Seize a better position, fight from an advantage.

>>5305590

The attacks come, swift and aggressive. A low spinning kick leads immediately into a second, then a whirling high kick. You evade the first two and block the third, just barely, but he's not even finished, he lands on his hands for a fourth kick that comes in high over your guard, slamming down at the top of your skull. You manage to twist to the side at the last moment, turning it into a graze, but by Santa Maria that stings, almost took your ear clean off.

The fight is like trying to battle a nest of snakes. You can't find a solid purchase for any of your attacks, all it does it open yourself up for a counterattack to come in from a direction you didn't expect. Each time you think he's finished a combination and have a moment to attack, another kick lances out from an unexpected angle. Each time you think you have space to recover and reassert your defense, an acrobatic maneuver puts him within range again. Each time you try to land a strike or a grab, his flexibility lets him dodge out of the way in a direction you wouldn't think possible. He mocks you the whole time, grinning and making "come at me" gestures.

This isn't going to work. You need some kind of advantage. You hop up onto a big wooden outdoor table, thinking that high ground will put you out of range of those low spinning kicks. But he just follows you up there, acting too quickly for you to make any use of the position. He demonstrates that even with the shaky footing of this old rickety table, he easily has enough balance to continue the onslaught. He evades your punch, turns the movement into a side handstand, and lands a double kick to your ribs, one after the other. It forces you off the table and back down to the ground.

You're starting to get mad.

Planting your stance and putting all your strength into your arms, you yank sideways on the table. It shakes the man off, forcing him to dismount. Letting out a yell as you haul upwards, you lift the table into the air like a big clumsy shield and charge forward, slamming right into him. That staggers him, and in the opening you lift the table overhead and bring it crashing down, breaking the rotting wood over the man's head. He falls back to the ground, stunned.

Time to go to the mat. You're still holding a broken piece of the table, so you throw it down on him, hard as you can, then drop to the ground, take hold of and trap his leg, then wrench on the ankle. "Tap or I break it, bitch!" you snarl through gritted teeth. He doesn't stop, still clawing at you and squirming, trying to get loose, so you follow through on your threat. The grisly sound of a bone breaking is followed by your opponent's defiant attitude breaking alongside it.

"Give me any more shit and I'll break the other one," you say, standing up and wiping a trickle of blood from a cut on your lip.

>>5307288

You start up the half-built stairway of wood and scaffolding that leads to the higher floors. Halfway up, you realize you're still breathing hard from that last fight, and pause a moment to get your breath back. From up here, you can see the city even better than usual. For a moment, you forget everything, and watch look in awe at the bright lights of Rio at night, are like an ocean of gold and amber stars in the darkness.

This city is a prison. But it's beautiful one.

Pausing to reflect, you think about how it came to this, and how you got into this mess in the first place.

>>5307292


Hanamura Martial Arts & Fitness
8 hours ago


The rhythmic thumping of your fists on the speedball has a kind of meditative effect. Helps take your mind off the incident earlier. Seeing that poor bastard get killed by his own boss shook you up. People die every day in the favela, but seeing it happen right in front of you, to someone who spoke to you thirty seconds ago, well, it's hard to get it out of your mind.

Your teacher and the owner of the gym, the once-prestigious Kenichi Hanamura, is lounging nearby reading a motorcycle magazine. "Faster," he tells you as he turns a page, not looking up.

Annoyed, you nonetheless do as he says and pick up the pace a little.

"I said faster," he says again, cleaning out his ear by wiggling his little finger in it.

Your annoyance flares into aggravation, which you take out by smacking the speedball as hard and fast as you can.

"That's the spirit," Ken says, finally looking up. "Come on, where's your enthusiasm?"

>I saw some things earlier, still weighing on my mind.
>You said I'd get the next advanced lesson soon. When is 'soon'?
>Maybe I'd be more into it if my teacher wasn't a lazy bum.

>>5307305
>You said I'd get the next advanced lesson soon. When is 'soon'?

>>5307305
>>You said I'd get the next advanced lesson soon. When is 'soon'?

>>5307305
>You said I'd get the next advanced lesson soon. When is 'soon'?

>>5307305
>You said I'd get the next advanced lesson soon. When is 'soon'?

>>5307305
>Maybe I'd be more into it if my teacher wasn't a lazy bum.

>>5307305
>Maybe I'd be more into it if my teacher wasn't a lazy bum.
>You said I'd get the next advanced lesson soon. When is 'soon'?

>>5307305
>>5307305
>Advanced lesson

>>5307305

"You said I'd get the next advanced lesson soon," you say. You give the speedbag one last whack, then step away to pick up your water bottle. "When is 'soon'?"

Ken stifles a yawn as he turns back to his magazine. "Soon."

"How about today?"

"Oh, no, no. It will still take some time. Keep practicing, keep strengthening. Your tanden still need time to accumulate."

You turn back to the speedbag and fire off a punch. Your fist stops several inches short, but the bag still rips off from an impact and slams into the far wall.

"I say I've accumulated enough," you say, turning back to Ken. "Today."

Ken frowns, scratching at his patchy stubble. "What's gotten into you, Mari? You seem upset about something. I mean, more than you're usually upset at me."

You let out a sigh. "Ken ... am I always going to smell like beans?"

"Hmm ... you were thinking about the tournaments again."

"No. Well, yes. Maybe. Sometimes I think about what it would be like if it had gone differently."

"I keep telling you not to be too hard on yourself." Ken shakes his head sadly. "I should have only taught you the sporting forms. As your teacher, it's my responsibility."

"No. I wanted to know how to fight for real. If you hadn't taught me, I would have found somebody else. I just --" You cross over to the speedbag on the ground and pick it up. "I wish there was somewhere I could fight that was real. No tournaments with point systems or rules. No gang shit with pointless turf brawls. Somewhere I could be somebody, but as myself, by fighting my own way. Not for gangs, not for sponsorship deals, but for me."

You turn back to see Ken giving you an odd look. You can see him coming to a decision in his head. "We'll start the advanced lessons today, he says eventually. "I'll close up early. Take a break until then."

Shortly afterwards, the gym is empty except for you. Ken shooed the other customers away, telling them to come back tomorrow, then disappeared into his back office for a few minutes. You should be resting, but instead you find yourself pacing back and forth restlessly. Is it really time? You thought that Ken trusted you by how much he's taught you this far, but can you be sure?

You stop pacing and force yourself to relax. Your body is going to need to be in harmony for this. You slow the racing tide of your thoughts, and look inward, allowing your eight gates to open as Ken told you. The bright glow of your energy centers intensifies as it circulates, and you can feel the exterior warmth of your chi, see it manifesting as a shimmering aura around you.

The form that your fighting spirit takes is:

>Fire
>Electricity
>Wind

>>5307589
>Electricity

We are a tightly wound coil, ready to jump any which way.

>>5307589
>Electricity
I like >>5307599's analogy

>>5307589
>Fire
We're passionate about our family, and nobody will stop us from protecting them.

>>5307589
>>Wind

>>5307589
>Electricity
Always a lightning fan.

>>5307589
>Fire

>>5307589
>Electricity
Brazilians are electric types. It's the law.

>>5307589
>Fire
Why not

>>5307589
>>5307678
Changing vote to
>Fire

Do not question my motives.

>>5307589
>Wind

>>5307727
>>5307589
>Wind
At work, but changing to this.

File: Autist Ocelot.jpg (107 KB, 1200x595)

107 KB JPG

>>5307589
>>5307678
>>5307831
YOU FOOL, SNAKE! I WAS A WIND VOTER THE WHOLE TIME!
>Wind

>>5307589
>>Electricity

>>5307589
>>Electricity
Sparkzinha!

>>5307829
>>5307589
You know what, changing to
>Wind

>>5307589
>Wind
As much as I like the other two, I'm keen on seeing what kind of powers we can get with wind.

>>5307589
>Wind
It’s probably the most versatile out of the three

>>5307589


Your chi takes the form of wind, manifesting a visible effect in shimmering green threads that gust and blow about you. At first the effect is subtle, but then you begin to increase the intensity. Your hair blows out behind you, a little at first, then wildly, as the wind picks up from a gentle breeze, to a strong gust, to a raging gale.

You focus on controlling it, rotating it with increasing speed, until it becomes a miniature tornado surrounding you, spinning faster and faster; then all at once you expel it outwards, creating a strong gust in all directions, sending small objects flying away and clattering against the wall.

"You've been practicing," Ken says, entering from the back hallway leading to his office, carrying a box. "Truly, the secrets of the Hanamura clan can turn the most obnoxious and devilish of students into a true practioner of the subtle arts of the gentle way."

"Right, right." You let your aura die down. The air in the room goes back to normal. "Where did you say your family learned these secrets from, again? A magical bird-man?"

"My ancestor Hayate was granted knowledge of the hidden ways by a tengu spirit taking the form of a mountain monk, a yamabushi. A lesser man might have been fooled by the deception, but Hayate could see the man's mortal form was merely a guise to veil the spirit's true power."

You put one hand on your hip, fix your ruffled hair with the other. "And I'm supposed to believe that's a true story?"

"It's a true legend, at least. My grandfather swore by it. He brought the knowledge over with him when he came here to teach judo, the style which became known as jiu-jitsu. Regardless of where it came from, it works, doesn't it?"

You can't argue with that. Everything Ken has told you about chi has turned out to be true so far. It sounded crazy, at first, the idea that there was his hidden energy system inside the human body, one which certain people could be taught to sense and control. That with certain obscure methods, the body's chi could be strengthened and improved, just like muscles or blood vessels. And that, with enough time and practice, it could be manifested as a force outside the body.

"Anyway, I'm tired of listening to you complain, so I've decided to go ahead with the advanced lesson. You feel ready to learn your first arts technique?"

>>5309322

You feel a thrill of excitement and a little fear. You weren't sure until now if this is what he meant by an advanced lesson. Ken has said that techniques combining chi manifestations with martial moves are known as "arts". He claimed that you needed time to build up a pool of energy in your chi reservoirs, the "tanden" as he calls them, before he would teach you any. But he also said it would be years before you could call up and intensify your aura like you just did. It took you six months to to do it, raw and unfocused at first, and then six months more to be able to transform and control it like you just did. Maybe you've impressed him.

"Of course I'm ready," you bluster. "How does this work, are you going to finally show off your skills?"

"Hell no. I'm too out practice, I'd just embarass myself." Ken puts down the box on his desk and opens it. "I'll let better men than me explain." Inside the box are a set of scrolls. Ken carefully removes three of them, opens them open, and lays them out on the desk. Ink brush writing and diagrams. Each has human figures showing a sequence of moves and positions, along with a chart of what you guess is the body's chi meridians, some of which are marked or circled.

"These are arts techniques," you say, comprehending. "Your family made these?"

Ken nods. "Why don't you have a look and see which one catches your fancy? We can start there."

You look over the scrolls, trying to see the potential in all three. You get a vague idea of how each one works, what it would do in practice. Now you just have to make a decision.

>A kick that creates a wind vortex, extending the strike's range and piercing power
>A self-boosting wind dash swiftly closes the distance for a kick or throw
>An upwards gust in midair grants a second jump for height and mobility

>>5309323
>An upwards gust in midair grants a second jump for height and mobility
Almost objectively the least useful one in a slum tower scenario, but we must live up to Sam's legacy.

>>5309323
>Wind dash

Movement is king

>>5309323
While I'm all for air dashes usually, we must adhere to tradition.
>An upwards gust in midair grants a second jump for height and mobility
Here's hoping my ID didn't change again.

>>5309323
>An upwards gust in midair grants a second jump for height and mobility

>>5309323
>An upwards gust in midair grants a second jump for height and mobility
I'd go for the dash, but something tells me it's a linear move and that lends itself to getting read easily if used improperly.
Meanwhile the double jump can be used for all kinds of mix-ups and combo extensions.

>>5309323
>>An upwards gust in midair grants a second jump for height and mobility
Brazilians can double jump

>>5309323
>An upwards gust in midair grants a second jump for height and mobility

>>5309323
>A self-boosting wind dash swiftly closes the distance for a kick or throw

>>5309323
>An upwards gust in midair grants a second jump for height and mobility

>>5309323


It might not be the practical or direct choice, but the idea of jumping a second time in midair sounds too fun to pass up. It takes some work, but you start getting the hang of it pretty soon. Create a solid disk of air under your feet to jump off from, as well as an upwards current that adds force and momentum. It requires precise timing -- too early and it has practically no effect, too late and the downwards acceleration of gravity overpowers it. Do it right, however, and you now have a double jump, just like in that one game you played on the FES at Leo's friend's house.

"I wish my grandfather were here," Ken says morosely. "You're a goddamn prodigy. You deserve a better teacher."

"What do you mean? You've been a great teacher!" You remember the many times Ken would read magazines or smoke cigarettes instead of watching you perform a sequence. "At least, you've been a good teacher." You remember the time he told you to keep hitting a punching bag until he told you to stop, then went into another room and fell asleep. "Well, you're all right."

"If you're trying to make me feel better, you need better technique," Ken says wryly.

"I'm going somewhere with this." You stop and think about how to say this. "When I'm being honest, I'm just an 'all right' student myself, right? Even if I'm a prodigy like you say, I can't stand the kinds of rules and bullshit I'd have to put up with under a proper master. If I had to train under one of those guys, we'd drive each other crazy. Maybe it's better we're stuck with each other."

"Maybe so." Ken tosses you a water bottle. "Good work today, you've got the basics under control already. Let's wrap it up for now, give your circuits a chance to recover."

As usual, you get on the bus to head back to the favela. You watch the streets and sidewalks go by out the window, feeling exhausted everywhere. You're usually tired out after practice, but today even more so. This is the first time you've put your chi to use after months of cultivation exercises, and in addition to the usual muscle soreness there's the feeling of your tanden being drained of their reservoirs, and a strange buzzing enervation in the meridians you've been using for the double jump technique. You can see why Ken wanted you to do months of energy-strengthening work before even trying this.

>>5310333


The bus stops to let someone on. A middle-aged man in a well-tailored black suit, carrying a briefcase. You wonder what a sharp-looking guy in fancy duds like that is doing out here on the bad side of town.

Strangely enough, the man passes by several empty seats and sits down right next to you on the bench. You're expecting him to start hitting on you, some line about how he saw your face and blah blah blah, but instead he says nothing. Just sits properly, looking forward.

The bus starts up again. You decide to ignore the man until he makes some kind of move, or reveals his intentions.

After some time has passed and a few streets gone by, the man in the suit asks, "Tough day at Ken's gym?"

"Do I know you?" you say, your suspicion intensifying.

"No, but I know you," he says. "Mariana Rosa, twenty-four years old. One living relative, a younger brother, and an adoptive guardian. You work as a waitress at your guardian's restaurant, practice jiu-jitsu and kickboxing every afternoon at Hanamura Martial Arts, and sing at a local nightclub on weekends. You also help your neighbors by babysitting their kids, and by carrying groceries indoors. Cute."

"Who are you?" you ask. "Police?"

The man looks directly at you for the first time to give you a smirk, like 'come on now.'

"So you're not police. Who are you, then?"

"I'm Antonio Diaz. Nice to meet you."

"That doesn't tell me shit."

"Your first expulsion from a tournament was when you were sixteen," Diaz goes on as though you hadn't said anything. "You were disqualified on a technicality, and assaulted the referee. The most recent expulsion was after you struck your opponent before the match started, breaking her nose."

"You know that that bitch said to me about Leo? About our parents? She deserved worse."

"I believe you," Diaz says. "But that put you in a tough spot, doesn't it? After your previous incidents, you were already a pariah from any sporting martial arts organizations you could care to name. Ken Hanamura didn't have much clout left after spending so many years on the skids, but he scraped it together to get you that spot. Now you're blacklisted from the Brazilian jiu-jitsu tournament circuit, probably for life."

"So what?" Your blood is starting to boil. Who does this guy think he is, dredging all this up from the past? "You here to lecture me about how I couldn't keep my shit under control? Maybe you think you can fix me, is that it?"

"On the contrary," Diaz says. "It's that killer instinct that we like about you, Ms. Rosa, and it's because of that I'm here to offer you an opportunity. Think about it: haven't you ever wanted to fight in a tournament without rules or boundaries? No point systems, no banned moves or regulations, just one-on-one, a fair contest, with nothing to interfere?"

More than anything, you think. You don't say it out loud, not wanting to give Diaz the satisfaction of being right. But he can see it all the same.

>>5310335

"I represent an organization that has great interest in hiring you for an upcoming martial arts tournament," he says. "People from all over the world, every style, every nation, one battle to determine the strongest fighter. The risk is death, if your opponent goes too far. The reward, just for signing up, is ten thousand US dollars ... and a million for the winner."

This can't possibly be a serious offer, you think, trying to protect yourself against what's almost certainly some kind of scam or black market deal. But just hearing that amount of money causes your imagination to spin off crazy stories. With just that ten thousand, you could pay off Pedrao's debts to the gangs, fix up the restaurant, send Leo to a proper school, everything you need to stabilize your life as it is. With a million dollars, things would change completely. You could leave this rotten favela behind altogether, set up a completely different life for you and your family, somewhere safe. Away from all this.

But there's no way this could be real. You're about to object that this is clearly all a scam, when Diaz says, "Now, to show you I'm serious ..." He picks up the briefcase he brought in, clicks open the latches, and opens the lid slightly. You can see row upon row of neatly banded US dollars inside. "As I said, ten thousand." He closes the lid again. "Agree to participate, and this is yours. You can walk away with it right now."

>All right. This is weird, but I'm in.
>I need to think about it. Give me some time.
>No. This is all too convenient. I don't trust you.

>>5310339
>No. This is all too convenient. I don't trust you.
You don't survive in a favela by being trusting. Though of course we'll agree later anyway.

>>5310339
>check the money to see that it is real.
>Agree.

It's simply too good to pass up.

>>5310339
>All right. This is weird, but I'm in.

>>5310339
>>All right. This is weird, but I'm in.
M O N E Y
(also with enough money from the fight we can tell our brother to stop being a little shithead for cash)

>>5310339
>All right. This is weird, but I'm in.

>>5310339
>>All right. This is weird, but I'm in.

>>5310339
>>All right. This is weird, but I'm in.

>>5310339

"All right. Sure." This is weird, but it's worth taking a chance for that amount of money, enough to keep the gangs away from your brother and uncle. "What do I have to do? How do I sign up?

"A verbal contract is enough. Do you, Mariana Rosa, agree to participate in this year's Kumite tournament?"

"Yeah, whatever, sure. Do I get paid now?"

Diaz hands over the briefcase. You open it slightly, trying to hide the contents from the other occupants of the bus. Your eyes race over the stacks of bills inside. "How can I tell if this is real?"

"Take it to a bank and check for yourself. We aren't penny-pinchers, Ms. Rosa."

"What happens if I just take the money and run?"

"There would be severe consequences," Diaz says. "I suggest you don't find out what they are." It doesn't sound like a bluff at all.

Diaz reaches into his inside jacket pocket and withdraws an envelope. "This is something else that will interest you. Full details of your opponent. Name, measurements, personal history, fighting style ... and current location."

Your thoughts are spinning as you take the envelope. "And you're just giving this to me? Does this other guy get the same kind of envelope about me?"

"No. This is only for you."

"Really? What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just information for you to use, or not use, at your discretion."

There has to be some kind of catch to all this, you think, looking down at the envelope. He did say you could die, that's a pretty big catch, right? But it feels like something else is going on here. Something lurks under the surface, like a great vast shape swimming in the dark depths of the ocean, far from the sunlit waters.

"One last thing. Here's my card." Diaz hands you a business card displaying his name and a phone number, in neatly typed letters, along with some kind of strange symbol circled in the top right. "Contact me if you have any questions, or require assistance with logistics." He stands up and straightens his tie as the bus slows down. "This is my stop. Good luck, Ms. Rosa."

You want to call him back, to get more information, but by the time you can figure out what to say, he's already gone.

You're not really sure what you've just got yourself into, but hey, you're ten thousand US dollars richer than you were five minutes ago. Even if it turns out to be counterfeit, you could probably exchange it for three thousand or so real dollars. That's something.

Could what he said be true? A tournament with no rules or regulations, no borders or boundaries, only a contest to determine the world's strongest. It's like everything you ever dreamed about ... and that's why it feels too good to be true.

>This is my chance to fight as my true self.
>This is my chance to get myself and my family out of this life.
>This is something I worry I'm going to regret.

>>5311324
>This is my chance to fight as my true self.
The real appeal, at the end of the day.

>>5311324
>This is something I worry I'm going to regret.
Ain't no such thing as a free lunch and all that.

>>5311324
>This is my chance to get myself and my family out of this life.

>>5311324
>>This is something I worry I'm going to regret.

>>5311324
>This is my chance to get myself and my family out of this life.

>>5311324
>>This is my chance to get myself and my family out of this life.

>>5311324
>This is my chance to get myself and my family out of this life.

>>5311324
>This is my chance to get myself and my family out of this life.

>>5311324
>>This is something I worry I'm going to regret.

>>5311324
>>This is my chance to get myself and my family out of this life.

>>5311324

You might have self-centered desires about freedom, about proving yourself without compromising, but that's not important compared to what you can do for your family, and your future together. Without your help, Leo could easily end up as yet another casualty of gang life, killed by the police, a rival gang, or his own boss for laughs. Whatever your worries, you need to be strong, for his sake, and for Uncle, who's sacrificed so much for you over the years.

Cautiously, you open the envelope and peer inside. You can see a photograph, so that's the first thing you take out. Somehow, you're unsurprised to find a pale-skinned, white-haired man staring back at you with cold, dead eyes.

Branco. It had to be him.

There's a few sheets of data on him in here. One includes a list of known crimes. Your eyes go wide as you read the long, long list of murders. Some of these seem like ordinary civilians, no connection to the gang life at all. A few are directly contrary to Rafa's orders about who has protection. Maybe there's some grand scheme at work here. Or maybe Branco's just a goddamn killer who murders people for sport.

There's information on his lodgings, as well. You could already guess where it is: the Red Square headquarters, the big patchwork hybrid of four tenament towers that looms at the center of the favela. A detailed map showed the four buildings along with the various bridges and exterior constructions that connect them. Branco's apartment is marked near the top, in the floors reserved for Rafa and his personal retainers.

You'd have to be crazy to go in there, of course. What are you going to do, beat up every thug in Rafa's gang on your way to the top? Assuming everyone fights fair, and you don't get gunned down by an AK-47 halfway up, that leaves you to fight your way through, what, thirty men? Forty? And then, even if you somehow got through all that, you'd need to have enough endurance left to face a psycho killer in one-on-one combat.

Clearly that would be insane.

You'll have to come up with some way to hunt him down when he's out and about on gang business. As Rafa's #2 guy, he frequently leaves to handle gang business, or escort Rafa when he's about town. You could challenge him directly, then, or ambush him. But you'll have to wait until he's apart from his gang somehow. Somehow you doubt the gangbangers will play fair when it comes to the one-on-one part of the tournament.

There's a few minutes left until the bus gets to your stop. You have enough time to skim this whole file, but you'll need to pick something to focus on.

>Read about Branco's physical data and martial arts history, that seems the most obvious benefit.
>Read about Branco's personal history, maybe there's some leverage there.
>Think instead about the situation you're in now. Who's behind this guy Diaz? Why were you given this envelope?

>>5312553
>Read about Branco's personal history, maybe there's some leverage there.

Got to get the Dark Souls lore to understand why his dying words are "Zanzibart... forgive me..."

>>5312553
>Read about Branco's personal history, maybe there's some leverage there.

>>5312553
>>Think instead about the situation you're in now. Who's behind this guy Diaz? Why were you given this envelope?

>>5312553
>Read about Branco's personal history, maybe there's some leverage there.

>>5312553
>Personal history

Gives his psych profile and where his style comes from. We can exploit that.

>>5312553
>>Read about Branco's personal history, maybe there's some leverage there.

>>5312553
>>Read about Branco's physical data and martial arts history, that seems the most obvious benefit.

>>5312553
>>Read about Branco's physical data and martial arts history, that seems the most obvious benefit.
Psychofreaks like Branco won't have any leverage that we could really make use of. Now if we knew his style, we could prepare against it.

>>5312553
>Read about Branco's physical data and martial arts history, that seems the most obvious benefit.

>>5312553

You decide to look at the details of Branco's personal history. Maybe there's some leverage in here.

Most of this information in the early years is marked as [Informal] or [Questionable]. Nothing as simple as a criminal record out here in the wild lands, where the police don't dare tread. The history claims that Branco and Rafa were partners in crime from an all-too-early age. First involved in an arson and armed robbery at nine. They would go onto kill their older partners and take their share of the loot. It seems like one long string of killing and conquest after that, as Rafa and Branco fought their way to the top of the favela's pile of starving dogs.

This part is strange, though. Married? You have a hard time believing anyone would marry this man. Maybe some kind of psycho freak girl, his alt-gender match made in heaven. But according to this info, the woman was perfectly ordinary. They had a son together, lived for a few years together. The killings continued the whole time they were married. Then they divorced. That was several years ago now, back in the 80s.

There's a recent photograph: Branco and a well-dressed woman meeting in a cafe. Branco is handing over some money. The kid is nowhere to be found. You see that [No Visitation] is written on the sheet.

If it was anyone else, you might feel bad for them.

>>5319057


The bus pulls up to your stop, at the edge of the favela. You get out and start walking uphill towards your house, thinking about the strange encounter on the bus, and how you're going to handle this unexpected opportunity and challenge.

Before you reach the restaurant, you already sense that something is wrong. The street is deserted, but you can see the neighbors looking fearfully out their upper windows. You break into a run. Approaching your home you can see that the wooden sandwich board with the menu written on it on has been broken in pieces and left discarded on the sidewalk.

The inside isn't much better. Tables shoved over onto their sides, chairs broken against the wall, plates smashed. A light fixture hangs from the ceiling, blinking on and off randomly. You hear a groan coming from the kitchen and rush in to find Pedrao on the ground slumped up against the cupboards, blood leaking from a bad cut on his forehead. You grab a towel and start cleaning it off. "What happened?" you ask. But you already know.

The phone on the wall rings. Feeling a rising tempest inside of you, you stand up and pick up the phone. "What do you want?"

"Ah, chica! Just the fine lady I was hoping to talk to." It's Rafa, of course. "You know, Mari, you really hurt my feelings earlier today. I made you such a generous offer, and you refused, in front of my boys and everything. Now I could say that this is about upholding a reputation, about trying to maintain my image as a big man. But the truth is that I just don't like being told "no" about anything, and I especially don't like it when it's something I want. And I want you. First as my bodyguard, and then --" You hear a wet sound. Did he just lick the phone? "We'll see about the other thing later."

"I'm not going to work for you, Rafa."

You hear a tsk. "That's a real shame, you know. There's somebody here who's going to be very disappointed to hear that."

A cold pit drops away in your stomach. "What do you mean?" you ask. But you already know.

"Now, your little bro here isn't able to come to the phone right now, but let me just hear what he has to say and get back to you." You hear a muffled crying. A loud slap in a small, crowded room. "You hear that? He said that if you don't come work for me, he's going to be sorry he was ever born. He's going to beg me to kill him before it's over. Do you understand me?"

You've never felt an anger like this. The wind slowly rises as your aura builds. Small objects are blown away and scattered, the pots and pans on the wall rattle and shake. Your own personal hurricane of hate is growing.

>You don't have to do this. It doesn't have to go this way.
>I'll be seeing you, Rafa. Real soon.
>[Hang up]

>>5319058
>I'll be seeing you, Rafa. Real soon.

>>5319058
>I'll be seeing you, Rafa. Real soon.

>>5319058
>[Hang up]

>>5319058
>[Hang up]
We warned you bro.

>>5319058
>Hang up.

Let him stew in silence for a few seconds, then close it. Because oh boy. Its slaughtering time.

>>5319058
>[Hang up]

>>5319058
>>You don't have to do this. It doesn't have to go this way.

>>5319058
>>[Hang up]
Don't give him even one retort.

>>5319058
>[Hang up]

>>5319058
>>I'll be seeing you, Rafa. Real soon.

>>5319058
>[Hang up]

>>5319058
>>I'll be seeing you, Rafa. Real soon.

>>5319058

You wait a few seconds, then hang up the phone. Let him wonder what that means. He'll find out soon.

Your blood is boiling, but you need to calm yourself down long enough to make sure Pedrao is okay before you leave. You take a deep breath, trying to find a calm center. The eye of the storm. The wind slowly dies down, although it doesn't stop completely. The light objects around you gusting gently, your hair floating, shows that it's become a steady, forceful flow around you.

Uncle has taken a bad knock on the head, but he's getting his senses back. You clean off the blood with the towel and check for glass or splinters. No need to ask him what happened. It's pretty obvious by now. You're about to try helping him up to his feet when the phone rings again. Not sure who to expect, you pick it up and say nothing.

"Ms. Rosa." It's the man in the suit. Diaz. "My condolences on this recent turn of events. In case you're about to do what I think you're going to do, you'll find your brother in Rafa's personal suites, at the top of his headquarters. I'm afraid I don't know the exact room, but he should be easy enough to find. Incidentally, Branco is there as well. Happy hunting."

"How do you know all this?" you ask. But the line is already dead. You look at the phone in your hand before hanging up again.

>>5320826

Red Square gang headquarters
Now


And that's what led you here, to this moment. Climbing an apartment tower stuffed to the brim with dangerous criminals. Fighting your way towards Leo. One floor, one thug, one punch at a time.

You haven't stopped to think about how what you're doing should be impossible. You can't afford to. All you can do is keep moving forward.

And so you start back up the outdoor stairway, ascending towards Rafa's private floors.

If Branco does turn out to be here, like Diaz said? Great. You can settle that little matter of the tournament right away. But it's not important. All those ideas about the future for yourself and your family, about getting out of the favela and building a new life together, all that is a distant background memory now, like it happened years ago to some other person. All you can think about is Leo tied up somewhere, and what you're going to do to the men who put him there.

The stairs don't reach all the way up. But they get high enough. At the top, you come to a door. Going in this way, you'll still have to pass an interior security door to get into Rafa's floors. You can think of a few things that might get you through. You can also see an open window on the floor above you. They probably didn't think leaving it open was any kind of security risk. Nobody would be crazy enough to climb up there, right?

>Bluff your way through the security door.
>Take a hostage and get him to let you through.
>Jump for the window.

>>5320828
>Jump for the window
Hostage isn't wise, and the time for bluffing was before we beat the hell out of everyone on our way in. Should be easy with the double jump.

>>5320828
>Jump for the Window

>>5320828
>Jump for the window.

>>5320828
>Jump for the window

Lets kick their ass. But it looks like our first actual killer.

>>5320828
>>Jump for the window.
Time to put those parkour skills to work

>>5320828
>Take a hostage and get him to let you through.
Curious how bad things would've gotten if we said no to the Kumite.

>>5320828
>>Jump for the window.
Use our secret brazilian double jump technique.

>>5320828
>Jump for the window.

>>5320828
>Jump for the window.

>>5320828
>Jump for the window.

This is exactly what the double-jump is good for. Anyone voting against this is a certified moron.

>>5320828
>>Take a hostage and get him to let you through.

>>5320828
>>Jump for the window.

>>5320828
>Jump for the window.

>>5320828


Taking a few steps back, you break into a run and leap into the air. It would be just barely within reach, a dangerous jump that risked everything for a shortcut ... if earlier today, Ken hadn't taught you to jump in midair. Hope you can remember the technique under pressure. For an instant the memory deserts you and you think you've ruined everything. Then Ken's teaching flashes back to you. Form a solid platform, push off while boosting yourself upwards. You grab hold of the window easily, then haul yourself up and through.

You land inside. A grungy bathroom. A gangster is whistling as he pisses into a toilet. When he sees you, he tries to grab the pistol in his waistband and tuck himself back into his pants at the same time. He doesn't quite accomplish either. He gets the gun out, but before he's able to aim you've closed the distance, where you grab him by the wrist and slam that hand up against the wall, causing him to drop the gun. You use the other hand to grab his head and slam it into the dirty mirror, causing a spiderweb crack through the glass and dropping the gangster. A heavy stomp makes sure he doesn't think about getting up anytime soon.

You pick up the handgun from the floor and look at it distastefully. You've fired one of these before, but couldn't hit a damn thing with it. You doubt your accuracy will improve under pressure. But it should at least be useful to scare someone.

You exit the bathroom into a huge open room, either an unfinished floor or made by knocking down the walls of several apartments. Long tables are covered in chemistry equipment and piles of white powder. Men and women are standing at the tables packaging the powder, while others carry back and forth supplies. Two men in flashy clothes stand watching the whole thing. When they see you, they look at each other in surprise before they reach for their guns.

You raise the pistol in your hands and pull the trigger, the blasting sound ringing in your ears. You fire over and over, not hitting anything except a chemistry beaker and a window. But it does what you wanted it do, which is make everyone flinch and duck away for cover, including the two guards. When the gun clicks empty, you drop it and pick up a nearby chair which you hurl it full force at one guard, just as he stands up again. It slams into him and knocks him down. You sprint towards the other guard and dropkick him in the chest, sending him flying -- he bounces off a table and onto the ground.

That takes care of the guns, for the moment, but now you're in the middle of the room surrounded by a dozen or so thugs who are not happy about having their party crashed.

>[Judo] Use their numbers against them, throw them into each other as they approach.
>[Street Fighting] Use the heavy objects in the room as weapons.
>[Kickboxing] Rush down isolated opponents, use speed to stay one step ahead.

>>5323721
>>[Kickboxing] Rush down isolated opponents, use speed to stay one step ahead.
Move like the... wind.

>>5323721
>[Judo] Use their numbers against them, throw them into each other as they approach.

>>5323721
>[Judo] Use their numbers against them, throw them into each other as they approach.

>>5323721
>[Kickboxing] Rush down isolated opponents, use speed to stay one step ahead.

Grapples in a 1 vs many? Letting them dictate the pace of when they approach? No thanks. Rush them before they can group up.

>>5323721
>[Kickboxing] Rush down isolated opponents, use speed to stay one step ahead.
We need to take the initiative on this one, and fast.

>>5323721
>>[Kickboxing] Rush down isolated opponents, use speed to stay one step ahead

>>5323721
>[Kickboxing] Rush down isolated opponents, use speed to stay one step ahead.

>>5323721
>[Street Fighting] Use the heavy objects in the room as weapons.

>>5323721
>>[Kickboxing] Rush down isolated opponents, use speed to stay one step ahead.

>>5323721
I would have picked Judo, if the fact they are armed wasn't a sure bet.
Gotta get in their midst and break some jaws, don't give them room to shoot.
>[Kickboxing]

>>5323721
>>[Judo] Use their numbers against them, throw them into each other as they approach.

>>5323721

Instead of waiting for them to come to you, you rush to take them on while they're isolated. Barreling into the closest one, you grab him by the midsection as you charge forward, carrying him along a few steps until you throw him forward, where he crashes into the nearest table, bounces off, and lands in a pile of plastic barrels. You vault the table behind him, landing next to another man who you dispatch with a low-medium-high kick combination, the third and highest kick catching him the jaw and spinning him around as he falls.

Two men jump up on the table next to you, attacking from high ground. You duck their attacks then sweep their legs out from under them -- one of them leads over, but the other falls, hits his head on the table and rolls off. The fourth you follow up onto the table, blocking his attacks before grabbing hold. Your wind aura flares as you boost your strength to perform a pro wrestling move you saw on TV and hurl him away, colliding with several other gangsters and knocking down the whole group.

You use the tables and layout of the room to keep rushing down isolated opponents, picking off one and two at a time. Anytime you're close to being flanked or surrounded, you reposition by using your parkour skills, or throw something at them to keep them occupied while you finish off your current opponent. They can't use their numbers to their advantage, and none of them are a match for you straight up.

By the time they try to bunch up properly, there's only three of them left. It's too late. You haul one into the air by his collar and belt and use him like a bludgeoning weapon to slam into the other two. Feeling the wind of your aura surging around you, muscles straining, you raise him over your head with both hands into an overhead press position and send him flying into the door ahead of you, smashing it open.

You step over the man and begin to move forward slowly down the hallway, trying to catch your breath. There's a scattering of white dust off your clothes -- some got on you when you slammed that one guy's head onto the tabletop covered in powder. Your knuckles are bleeding. Your head hurts where that capoiera guy kicked you. Muscles aching. Starting to run out of stamina. Really, your body wants nothing more than to collapse right here on the floor. But you can't afford to give into those feelings. Keep your energy up. Keep moving. Keep fighting.

>>5326204

Trudging up a set of stairs, then following another hallway and turning a corner, you enter a big square room filled with tables and chairs, couches along the sides. There's a clear space at the other end of the room, with a door in the wall.

Flanking the door are a man and a woman, similar enough in their appearance and imposing height that you'd guess they're brother and sister. They're wearing ordinary street clothes, but you get a different vibe from them than the thugs you've been blasting your way through up until now.

That's before the man picks up a wooden staff leaning against the wall. He flips it into position with the ease of long practice. The woman unhooks a pair of sticks from her belt, each as long as her arm and holds them in a fighting stance, one high, one low.

Yeah, this isn't going to go well.

>[Attack] The best defense is a good offense. Go right at them.
>[Retaliate] Defend while looking for an opportunity to counterstrike.
>[Evade] Focus on not getting hit while you search for a weakness.
>[Arts] You don't have time for this.

>>5326209
>[Arts] You don't have time for this.
They wanna bring weapons into a lopsided fight? They deserve this.
Also I would have voted to take a bump of coke back in the packaging room. It's not healthy, but that shit WILL bring you back to life.

>>5326209
>[Arts] You don't have time for this.

>>5326209
>[Retaliate] Defend while looking for an opportunity to counterstrike.

>>5326209
>>[Attack] The best defense is a good offense. Go right at them.

>>5326209
>[Arts] You don't have time for this.

>>5326209
>[Arts] You don't have time for this.
Not entirely sure what we can do with a double-jump here, but it looks like we can gain wind strength. Any advantage we can get here, no point conserving our Arts energy if we're walking into Branco half-dead and too beaten down to use it right.

>>5326209
>>[Arts] You don't have time for this.
Don't fight harder, fight smarter. Which just so happens to be harder.

>>5326209
>Arts

>>5326209

The thought occurs to you: under other circumstances, you would be loving this. No holds barred, no rules or conditions, only skill against skill.

But you don't have time for this. Not now. Not today.

You open your eight gates, feeling the white-hot rush of energy through your meridians. When the man with the bo staff approaches and winds up for an attack, you unleash the energy at him. It's raw, unfocused, and brutal, hardly the efficient and precise spinning disks that Ken Hanamura demonstrated for you that one time. But it works. The brother goes flying, dropping his staff as he slams up against the wall.

The sister jumps forward and starts her own attack, first attacking with both sticks at once in an X pattern, then mixing it up and going for staggered attacks, first from the same direction, then from the opposite. You evade some of the blows, but are forced to block others, jarring strikes that crack painfully against your forearms and shins. Fending off the relentless offense long enough to spot an opening, you step in and thrust forward with both fists. The woman dodges backwards out of range of your hands, but your move doesn't end there, as another heavy wind blast fires off along with your attack, slamming her in the gut and causing her to flinch backwards. She tries to step back out of range, but you reach forward, grab onto her retreating wrist, and yank her back into close range. An illegal judo hold breaks her arm, then you shoulder throw her onto the ground.

The brother has gotten back to his feet and retrieved his staff. He comes at you with a wide low sweep, followed by an extremely fast high follow-up. A move that's probably caught many an opponent who tried to leap over the initial sweep, only to be left with nowhere to run against the high attack. None of them could jump a second time in midair, though. He has a shocked expression as you sail over his head. He tries to turn around to defend his backside, but before then your side kick to the midsection sends him staggering, and a chi-infused high kick sends him colliding into his sister on the ground.

You pause for a moment to survey your work, seeing if either of them plans on getting up again. Seems like you're good.

You take a step towards the door they were guarding, only for your legs to go weak and wobbly underneath you. You fall to your hands and knees, trying to get your energy flowing again, but your danten reservoirs are almost drained. You haven't trained for this, so all you could afford to do was blast all of your energy forwards and hope for the best. No efficiency, just brute force.

Maybe you should have taken a snort of whatever that white powder was back there. But Ken did warn you several times that drugs, specifically half-cut street drugs, weren't compatible with proper chi cultivation techniques. It might have just thrown you out entirely.

>>5327695

You're able to make yourself stand up, but after everything you've been through tonight, you have almost no energy left.

How are you going to deal with what's on the other side of the door like this?

No turning back. You push open the door and step forward.

Rafa is there, of course. Leo is there as well, tied to a chair with duct tape around his arms and legs, another piece over his mouth. Rafa has one arm loosely draped over the back of the chair, like a gesture of friendship and protectiveness. The other arm holds a gun to Leo's head. Branco stands behind the two, watching. Two other gangsters are here as well, off to the side next to a table. On the table is an open toolkit with the tools spread out -- hammer, pliers, crowbar. You don't want to think about what they were planning to use those for.

"Gotta say, I'm impressed," Rafa says with a smirk. "I knew you were a tough bitch, Mari, but this is on another level. How many of my guys did you just lay out on your way up here?" He shakes his head sadly, like he's sympathetic. "But then, after all that fighting, all that struggle, it's pointless."

Rafa jams the end of the pistol up against Leo's temple. You can see the terror in Leo's eyes as he looks at you.

"Make any sort of move," Rafa says. "And he eats a bullet to the head. You don't want that, right? That's what all this is about, right? You don't want him to get hurt. So just calm down, take it easy, and let's discuss the terms of our arrangement. I'm not even mad that you beat up my guys. See? I'm being reasonable here. Why don't you do the same? Then I won't have to splatter your little brother's brains on the floor over here."

You can't let this happen. If you let them use Leo as leverage against you, there's no telling when it will end. You'll be bound in service forever, with Leo held indefinitely as a threat against you. They might even go ahead and kill him, then tell you he's alive, just to keep you on the hook. But what can you do? The sight of the gun up against Leo's head, knowing what it could do, has you frozen in place.

Rafa gestures with his other hand, keeping the gun pointed straight at Leo. The two other gangsters approach you, one of them holding a set of police handcuffs.

>Fight back before it's too late
>Let it happen and search for an opportunity

>>5327698
>Fight back before it's too late

>>5327698
>Fight back before it's too late

>>5327698
>Fight back before it's too late

>>5327698
>Fight before it is too late.

Kill our brother and we kill you.
We save him and all is Forgiven

>>5327698
>>Fight back before it's too late

>>5327698
>>Let it happen and search for an opportunity

>>5327698

"This isn't what we agreed," you hear Branco saying, but you can't afford to figure out what he means. You have two assholes closing in on you with handcuffs, and if you let those go on, you won't have any say in what happens after that.

All you can do is fight back and pray.

Before the cuffs go on, you grab the approaching thug's arm and snap it back against itself, then shove him into the other one. While the two are both unbalanced, you kick their legs out from under them, then stomp down on the second one's stomach. It's enough to put them out of action for now.

You turn back to try and do something about Rafa, but a gunshot rings out, a boom in your ears like thunder. Something hot and sharp fires past you. A stinging slice on your cheek, under your eye.

"Stupid bitch," Rafa snarls. His gun is pointed at you, the barrel smoking. "Guess I'll just have to get rid of you. But first, say goodbye to your little bro here. You brought this on him."

The gun turns back towards Leo. You start to move forward, to channel your wind energy, to do something, anything. But it's too late, and you're too far away. Leo closes his eyes.

Two gunshots rings out, one right after the other. The noise booms in your ears like thunder.

Leo opens one eye, then the other, looks around, confused.

Rafa stares down at blood coming from his chest. "What ...?" He looks up to see Branco's gun pointed at him. "But you ..." Staring wide-eyed, acting only on instinct, he raises his gun.

Branco shoots again, the bullet hitting high in the shoulder. Rafa loses strength in his limbs as his blood ebbs, but as his legs give out under him, he pulls the trigger and fires. Branco grunts and jerks backwards. A dark wet patch starts growing on his shirt. Rafa crashes to the ground. Branco staggers back a few steps, braces himself against the wall, slides down it to a sitting position.

You're so confused about what just happened, but first things first, you make sure Leo is okay. There's a big dent in the floor right next to the chair, where the bullet struck. But your brother seems to be okay. Rafa's shot must have been second.

>>5328407

You look over at Branco, sitting up against the wall. "Why ...?"

A morose smile from the pale man. "Strange time to grow a conscience."

You remember reading the file on the bus. "I heard you had a son."

"The one good thing I ever did with my life," Branco says. "He would be about the same age as your brother there. I looked at him, and I just ... " He grimaces in pain. "Do you believe in hell, Mariana? Do you think ... one good deed can make up for a lifetime of sin?"

"I ..." You search for the words. "I think it counts. I don't know if it makes up for everything. But it's something."

"I hope so." Branco's pale eyes rove over to yours. "I'm guessing you were meant to be my opponent. In the tournament."

No point in beating around the bush now. "Yeah. I just got the file on you this afternoon. Before all this happened."

"The money ... I was going to try to buy my way back." His eyes unfocus, looking somewhere into the past. "Too much death. All those killings, all for territory, money, influence. All for Rafa. I started to enjoy it. My wife, she could see it. I didn't listen. She left ..." A wet-sounding cough. "I was going to buy my way out. Pay off Rafa. Pay off my wife's debts. Pray that she would forgive me." He looks back at you again. "It's a shame. I would have liked to see our fight, with us both at our full strength. Might have been a real contest. We'll never know, now." The dark patch on his shirt is spreading. "But it gives us a way to finish this."

"Finish ... what do you mean?"

With a great effort, Branco pushes himself back up to his feet. "If I'm not mistaken, you took a beating on your way up here, and spent most of your chi getting through the door guards. I'd say that makes us something close to even, wouldn't you say?" Blood drips to the ground. "We can still have our match."

>Give him what he wants. Finish things.
>Talk him out of it, take him to a hospital.
>Just get the hell out of here, before anyone else shows up.

>>5328409
>Its one way to die Branco. Least I can do.

>>5328409
>Talk him out of it, take him to a hospital.
Not like this.
We both deserve a real match, and Branco might have the slimmest chance at redemption.
Besides, he DID just save our little brother.

>>5328407
>Give him what he wants. Finish things.
Dont look gift horses in their mouths

>>5328409
>Give him what he wants. Finish things.

Either cool guy or this is a really good long con

>>5328409
>Talk him out of it, take him to a hospital.
There's no dignity in striking an injured man who did so to aid us, exhausted as we are. We certainly weren't shot regardless of the wounds we took. Also our brother is right here, we fight him now and we're likely to kill him, and I don't know if we want him to see that.

>>5328409
>Talk him out of it, take him to a hospital.

>>5328409
>Talk him out of it, take him to a hospital.
It doesn't have to be just one good deed, he might still have time for more.

>>5328409
>Give him what he wants. Finish things.
Redemption equals death is a time-honored trope.

>>5328760
Redemption Earns Life is a trope as well

>>5328912
Never heard of it.

>>5328933
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/RedemptionEarnsLife

>>5328409
>>Give him what he wants. Finish things.

>>5328409
>Give him what he wants. Finish things.
What a twist.

>>5328409
>Talk him out of it, take him to a hospital.
Let his actions redeem him

>>5329302
If he wants actual redemption, its through grace, not works. He needs a prayer and a confessor to mitigate the damages.

But redemption in life, he needs the hospital. All down to what he wants.

>>5328409
>Talk him out of it, take him to a hospital.

>>5328409

You can't decide. Give him what he wants, or trying to talk him out of it and get him to a hospital? You raise your fists into your fighting stance, but you're still hestitating, trying to make up your mind.

"Hmph. If your heart's not really in this, there's no point." Branco drops his stance and walks towards you. You guard yourself, cautious, but don't sense any killing intent. "Hit me once, here." He taps the shoulder on his uninjured side.

You cautiously hit it with a light jab, barely brushing him.

"There," he says. "You win. I concede. The Kumite belongs to you." He sinks down into a chair nearby, grunting in pain. "See to your brother."

You manage to get the tape off Leo's arms, then legs, until he's finally free from the chair. Rafa's blood is on his face, but he seems uninjured on inspection. He doesn't say anything, just holds you tightly. Not wanting to rub it in with some kind of moral or lesson, you just hold him back. You think he gets the message.

Looking back at Branco, you say, "Shouldn't you get to a hospital? You don't have to let it end here. If you really want to make up for your past, you should think about what you can do in the future. And, you know ... maybe we could still have a real match someday."

He waves you off. "The boys will get me a street doc soon enough. I might survive. We'll see. You, on the other hand, should start thinking about what comes next. In the very near future." Footsteps from outside the room. "From the sounds of it, you missed a few on the way up."

The door to the room bangs open. Three men. "She's killed the boss! And shot Branco! Get her!"

Branco shrugs and grins. "Good luck."

"Leo," you say, putting a protective hand on your brother's shoulder and moving him behind you. "Stay very close to me."

>>5331222


The hornet's nest is well and truly kicked. Every stinging pest you didn't squash on your initial climb has been following you, and is now on their way up the building, as you try to go down. You handle the three interlopers by using a huge wind blast to send one flying into the other two. But there's two more behind them, and three more behind those. You bludgeon and grapple and smash your way through, leaving broken limbs and bruises behind.

Five men on the scaffolding stairs, climbing up towards you just as you reach the top yourself. You kick the man in front back down the stairs, causing a chain reaction of collisions and crashes that takes out every man on the scaffold except the last, who you knock off altogether with a spinning kick. He screams on the way down, although it's only a floor, a painful but survivable landing.

You open the door to the hallway, then immediately shut it again and step away from it before a dozen bullets pierce through. "Okay, not going that way." You look around, trying to figure something out.

An idea occurs to you, a crazy idea, but you ran out of sane, reasonable ideas a long time.

You run to the edge of the rooftop courtyard and look across to the neighboring building, several floors down and across a side street. A normal person wouldn't be able to make that jump, but ...

"If you trust me, then get on," you say to Leo, turning to face away and ducking down. He grabs on piggyback style, just like when you were kids. You stand up, taking a deep breath. "Oh, fuck, I hope this works. Did I say that? I mean, this is definitely going to work. Don't be afraid."

"What are you doing?" Leo asks as you take a few steps back. You begin to run straight at the edge of the roof. "Oh no no no AAAAA---"

You launch yourself into the air. For a moment, ten stories of emptiness open up under you, and your gut lurches at the instinctual knowledge of what is about happen when you continue this fall. But before gravity takes hold, you use the double jump technique and spring off of nothing but air, giving you just enough distance to cross the gap to the neighboring roof. And before a lethal drop lands you on the other roof, you fire a blast of wind downwards, softening the impact into nothing more than a bruising and undignified crash landing.


"What the fuck was that?!" Leo is shocked to be alive.

"Something I learned from Ken," you say, grinning, exhilarated.

"You've been practicing this?"

"Just learned it today."

"Jesus christ, save me from my own sister," Leo says, throwing up his hands to the heavens. "I don't know whether she wants to rescue me or frighten me to death."

>>5331223

The sky is starting to lighten by the time you find a pay phone. You pick up the phone, then once again glance around cautiously, looking again for any sign of being followed or spotted. Then you insert a quarter and dial the number printed on the business card. Halfway through the second ring, it picks up. "This is Diaz. Good morning, Ms. Rosa. Congratulations on your first round victory."

Somehow, it doesn't surprise you that he already knows what happened. "You said you could help with 'logistics.'"

"I did."

"Can you get me and my family out of the city?"

"Certainly. Any place in particular you'd like to go?"

"Just ... away. Somewhere Rafa's men can't find us."

"I'll make arrangements immediately. I suggest not returning to the restaurant, it will be watched. Your adoptive uncle is at a neighbor's for the moment, I'll send a man to ensure he's taken care of. As for yourself and your brother, be at Dizzy's Bar in twenty minutes. You know it?"

"I know it," you say.

>Something's been bothering me ...
>I'll see you there.

>>5331225
>Something's been bothering me ...
Always exhaust dialogue options if you don't want to miss side-quests.

>>5331225
>Something's been bothering me...

>>5331225
>>Something's been bothering me ...

>>5331225

Voicing this out loud might not be the smartest idea, considering you're relying on this man's help to flee the city. Rafa had associates, men he reported to and paid money to up the ladder, and they won't be happy to hear about the night's events. Word will already be going on, photographs printed of the surveillance footage and passed around. Gangbangers, hard cases, maybe even cops, will all be looking for you. Your time and options are limited.

But you have to ask. "Something's been bothering me."

"Go on."

You hesitate, trying to sort out your thoughts on this. "Isn't this all a little convenient? My opponent in this worldwide tournament just happened to be a gang leader in my neighborhood? And the day you show up to deliver a file full of information on him, and a detailed layout of the gang headquarters, that just happens to be the day that his gang decides to kidnap my brother to try and force me to work for them."

"The world is full of strange coincidences," Diaz says.

"Am I supposed to believe that?" you ask. "What's the deal? What was this really about?"

"Ms. Rosa ..." Diaz pauses for a few seconds. "Your invitation to the Kumite is entirely legitimate. I assure you that everything I've said about the tournament is true. As for myself, my responsibility is to see to your transport, lodgings, and welfare. The decisions about who you are matched against, and under what circumstances, are not mine to make. The people who make those choices, and why -- it's not my place to speculate on their motives."

Bullshit, you want to say. There's something you know here that you're not telling me. But as you turn around you see Leo again, looking up at you with confusion. You remember the scene at the restaurant, the furniture smashed, finding Pedrao bleeding in the kitchen. You think about how this man and whatever shadowy organization he represents are your best shot at getting away from here before the hammer comes down. And you don't say anything.

"Perhaps you'll have an opportunity to learn more soon," Diaz says. "But for now, I suggest focusing on getting out of the city. Dizzy's, nineteen minutes."

You look down at the phone, frowning, before hanging it up.

"What was that about?" Leo asks.

"Nothing," you say. "Let's go."

File: tournament arc 5 teaser.png (35 KB, 756x569)

35 KB PNG

>>5331872

TOURNAMENT ARC will resume July 23rd.

Visit the community discord for discussion and further updates: https://discord.gg/4p9mmau

Thank YOU for playing!

>>5331876
Thanks for running!

Curious to see how this will go in the tournament. Who will we control?