The bell above the diner's entrance jingled, a pathetic, off-key chime that announced another lost soul seeking refuge from the urban decay outside. The place was a time capsule of a bygone era, a greasy spoon haven where the aroma of stale coffee mingled with the ghosts of forgotten dreams. Four booths, upholstered in cracked and faded vinyl, lined the walls, offering a sorry view of the streets through grimy windows. Out there, the human dregs of Mira milled about, their faces etched with despair, while alien creatures, all sharp edges and chittering mandibles, picked through overflowing trash bins. This wasn't just a bad part of town; it was the city's festering wound. But to Eli, it was home.
Eli, a man who once held the promise of the future in his calloused hands, shuffled in. He was in his late thirties, but the years had dealt him a cruel hand, aging him prematurely. Short, once vibrant brown hair was now heavily streaked with gray, a permanent five o'clock shadow – more like a nine o'clock one these days – clung to his jaw, and the bags under his eyes were heavy enough to pack for a long, unwanted journey. He was a ghost of the coach he used to be, a man who'd sculpted raw talent into fighting machines. But each of his fighters, every single one, had crashed and burned, leaving him with nothing but scars on his soul and a job covering low-level fights for a rag no one read.
He slid into his usual booth, the third one down, the worn leather groaning in protest. From the pocket of his long, brown trench coat – a relic from better days – he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, the cheap, local kind that burned like hell and tasted like regret. He lit one, inhaled deep, the smoke a temporary balm for the ache in his chest. His gaze, though weary, still held a flicker of the sharp focus that had once allowed him to dissect a fighter's every move. It landed on the holoscreen above the counter, a flickering display showcasing the upcoming fight between Denole Rezcarr and the Eastern Cosmo Champion, Reyark Xser.
Reyark Xser, a beast from the planet Zeptar, was a walking nightmare. His green skin shimmered with an oily iridescence, and two blunt, bone-like protrusions jutted from his skull. His yellow eyes, cold and predatory, seemed to glow with an inner fire. He was a specimen of brutal efficiency, all lean muscle and barely contained savagery, a testament to the harsh realities of his homeworld.
Denole Rezcarr, hailing from the warrior planet Riptun, was a different kind of dangerous. His blue skin was smooth, almost delicate, contrasting sharply with his piercing green eyes. Pointed ears and subtly feline features gave him an otherworldly beauty, but his physique, honed and lethal, hinted at the explosive power he possessed. The Riptunians were known for their speed and lethal grace, traits that Denole possessed in spades.
"That's gonna be a bloodbath," Eli thought, a flicker of something akin to excitement stirring within him. Micky, the waitress, a permanent fixture in this monument to lost hope, approached his table, her holographic wrist display shimmering with orders.
"The usual, Eli?" Micky asked, her voice a blend of exhaustion and practiced friendliness.
"Coffee. Black," Eli rasped, his voice roughened by years of shouting instructions in training gyms and, more recently, by cheap cigarettes and cheaper whiskey.
"Coming right up," she replied, her fingers dancing across the projected hologram on her wrist. The diner hummed with the low thrum of ancient machinery and the quiet desperation of its patrons, a soundtrack to a life on the skids.
Eli's attention returned to the holoscreen, the images of the two fighters – so different, yet both so lethal – rekindling a dormant ember within him. He saw the potential, the raw power, the artistry of violence.
The upcoming fight gnawed at him, a stark reminder of the life he'd almost had, the glory he'd almost tasted. "Goddamn it," he muttered, running a hand through his thinning hair. Micky returned, placing a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. Her diner uniform—a black, form fitting short skirt and a white blouse—accentuated her curves.
"Here you go, Eli. Black as your soul. You sure you don't want to add some sugar? Sweeten up that mood a little?" she quipped, a playful smirk dancing on her lips.
"Har har," Eli grunted, taking a large gulp of the scalding liquid. "You know, I trained GUFA contenders. Had fighters on the verge of title shots. Was this close." He held up his thumb and forefinger, a sliver of space between them, a sliver that represented the vast gulf between what was and what could have been.
"Yeah, Eli, I know. You tell me every other day. Try not to dwell on the past, huh? Might do you some good," she said, her smile softening with a hint of pity before she turned to attend to other customers. He knew she was right, but the past was a cage, just like the one he used to train fighters in, and he was trapped inside, with no escape.
The bell above the diner door jingled again, its cheerful chime a stark contrast to the grim reality of their surroundings. Micky, ever vigilant, called out a greeting, her voice a practiced blend of warmth and efficiency. "Welcome! Counter's open if you're flying solo. Booths are full up, sorry about that!" Her short black hair, adorned with a perky red bow, bounced as she moved.
The newcomer grunted, a sound devoid of any pleasantries, and brushed past her with a dismissive wave. He was a walking embodiment of urban decay, clad in ripped, stained jeans and a long, black jacket that had seen better decades. Heavy, worn-out boots thudded against the floor, each step leaving an invisible trail of grime. An orange toque, pulled low, concealed most of his face, and a pungent odor, a mix of sweat, cheap booze, and something else, indefinable yet unsettling, clung to him like a shroud. He made a beeline for Eli's booth and slumped down opposite him, uninvited, unwelcome, yet undeniably present.
"Uh, can I help you?" Eli asked, his voice carefully neutral, though his senses were on high alert. This guy reeked of trouble, the kind you didn't want to meet in a dark alley, or, for that matter, in a brightly lit diner.
The man just stared, his eyes, when they finally met Eli's, were bloodshot and unfocused. Then, he grunted, "Cigarette." It wasn't a question; it was a demand.
"You want a cigarette?" Eli clarified, already reaching for his pack. He knew better than to escalate a situation with someone who was clearly on the edge, maybe even over it. "Probably just another lost soul," he thought, tossing a cigarette across the table.
The man caught it, placed it between his lips, and leaned forward, a silent expectation hanging in the air. Eli hesitated, then flicked his lighter, the small flame illuminating the man's face for a brief moment. It was a roadmap of hard living, etched with deep lines and scars. The man inhaled deeply, smoke curling around his face, his eyes never leaving Eli's.
"What the hell is this all about?" The thought echoed in Eli's mind, every instinct screaming at him that this was more than just a random encounter. There was something calculated in the man's movements, something deliberate in his silence.
Micky, her radar for trouble finely tuned after years in this place, approached the booth, her expression a mask of concern. "Eli, you alright? Want me to bounce this guy?" she asked, her gaze fixed on the unwelcome guest.
"No, it's fine, Micky. He's not bothering me," Eli said, his voice calm despite the knot of unease tightening in his stomach. He felt a strange flicker of pity for the man. He'd seen that look of desperation before, in the mirror, in the eyes of his failed fighters.
Another long drag from the cigarette, and then, finally, the man spoke, his voice a gravelly rasp, barely a whisper. "You Eli Harrow?"
Eli's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, that's me. And you are?"
The man leaned in closer, his breath a foul wave that made Eli want to recoil. "Name's Jarek. I'm from the Depths. You used to train fighters, right? Big time."
"Yeah, a lifetime ago," Eli admitted, his curiosity piqued despite his better judgment.
"You ever hear of the Underground?" Jarek asked, the lines around his eyes deepening, etched by hardship and something else…fear? Eli knew the whispers, the rumors of the Depths, a lawless undercity where the forgotten and the desperate fought for scraps.
"Can't say I have. What is it, exactly?" Eli asked, playing along.
"It's a fight club. Like the GUFA, but down below, in the Depths," Jarek explained, his voice low and urgent.
"So? What's that got to do with me?" Eli responded, feigning disinterest. He took a sip of his now-cold coffee, the bitter taste mirroring his mood. "The Underground," he mused internally. "Sounds about as glamorous as a rusty pipe."
"Word down in the Depths is... there's this fighter. Showed up outta nowhere. Taking out everyone. And I mean everyone," Jarek's voice dropped even lower, his eyes darting around as if he were sharing a dangerous secret, which, in fact, he was.
"Listen, Jarek, I'm out of that life. I've got nothing to do with fighting anymore," Eli said, the weariness in his voice heavy and genuine. He'd caused enough damage, lost enough people he cared for.
"I know about your fuck-ups, old man. I'm not asking you to train anyone. Just hear me out," Jarek hissed, a flash of something dangerous in his eyes, he leaned in closer and added. "It's just a story, for now."
"A story? About some nobody beating up other nobodies in some hole-in-the-wall fight club? Why should I care?" Eli challenged, his tone laced with sarcasm, but inside, a sliver of intrigue had taken root.
Jarek's face, barely visible beneath the shadow of his toque, turned ashen. He leaned in so close that Eli could almost taste the desperation on his breath. "Because this 'nobody'... this 'person'... killed Gorgra. Gorgra the Ogre. He's dead."
Eli choked, spitting out his coffee in a spray of bitter liquid. He doubled over, coughing, a laugh that was more disbelief than amusement escaping his lips. "Gorgra? Gorgra the fucking Ogre? You're shitting me!" But Jarek's face remained impassive, a stony mask of grim certainty. He reached into the pocket of his filthy jacket and pulled out a battered holophone, tapping it with a dirt-caked finger.
A holographic image flickered to life in the air between them, grainy and distorted, but clear enough. It showed Gorgra, the once-mighty Gorgra, sprawled face down on the ground, his massive body twisted at an unnatural angle. His neck was bent grotesquely, his lifeless eyes, usually burning with rage, stared blankly up at nothing.
The laughter died in Eli's throat, replaced by a cold dread that seeped into his bones. He stared at the image, his mind struggling to reconcile the brutal reality of it with everything he knew about Gorgra. The Ogre had been a force of nature, a one-man wrecking crew who'd terrorized the GUFA for years. To see him like this... it was like seeing a god felled by a mortal.
"How... how did this even happen?" Eli whispered, the words barely audible.
Jarek leaned back, his expression unreadable. "They say it was a kid. A fucking teenager. Showed up out of nowhere, challenged Gorgra in the Underground, and... well, you see the result. Took him apart like he was a training dummy. People are saying he's not human, that he's some kind of demon. They're calling him the Devil, this is what they say."
"The Devil? Don't tell me you believe in that religious hogwash. Isn't that some character from the old Christian bible?" Eli questioned, trying to inject some logic into this insane conversation.
"After seeing what happened to Gorgra? I'd believe in anything," Jarek muttered, taking another long drag of his cigarette, the smoke momentarily obscuring his face.
"Why are you telling me all this, Jarek? What's this got to do with me?" Eli asked, his voice regaining some of its former steel. He needed answers, and he needed them now.
Jarek's grin returned, but it was different now, colder, more calculating. "Figured you might want to see for yourself. Maybe find a little redemption. You're washed up, Eli, a has-been. This could be your ticket back in. Think of it as a good deed from an old... acquaintance."
Eli's mind was reeling. The Depths were a cesspool, and the Underground was its festering heart. Getting involved was suicide. But... the pull was undeniable. The chance to see this "Devil" in action, to maybe, just maybe, recapture a sliver of the glory he'd lost...
"And what's in it for you?" Eli asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Me? Nothing. I'm just an old, washed-up drunk. I just want a front-row seat to the show," Jarek claimed, but there was a flicker in his eyes that betrayed his words.
Then it hit Eli, a jolt of recognition. The way he carried himself, the set of his jaw, the glint in his eye, even hidden beneath the grime and the years of hard living… "Jacko? Jacko Rosencurt?" he breathed, the name a ghost from his past. It couldn't be... could it? Jacko Rosencurt, the Northern Champion, the man who'd vanished from the GUFA without a trace, reduced to this? He used to watch him on his holoscreen when he was a kid, admiring him.
"You're not as dumb as you look, are you, Harrow? But don't call me that. Not anymore. That man's dead and buried," Jarek – Jacko – said, his smile turning brittle.
"What the hell happened to you, Jacko?" Eli asked, a mixture of awe and pity in his voice. He was talking to a legend, a fallen idol, a man who had achieved everything Eli had ever dreamed of.
"That's a story for another time," Jacko replied, his eyes hardening, the momentary vulnerability gone. "So, what do you say? You want to see this 'Devil' for yourself? You want to go to the Underground?" He stubbed out his cigarette with a decisive jab, the gesture oddly final.
"Can you even get me in?" Eli asked, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. Excitement, fear, and a desperate yearning warred within him.
"I'm a Depth Dweller, ain't I?" Jacko retorted with a crooked grin, pushing himself up from the booth. "Come on, let's go before you lose your nerve."
Eli hesitated. He looked back at the diner, at Micky, who was watching them with a worried frown. He gave her a small nod, a silent goodbye, and then followed Jacko out the door, the bells jingling mockingly behind them as they stepped out into the neon-drenched night, heading towards the darkness that lay beneath the city's glittering facade, a darkness that promised both danger and the tantalizing possibility of redemption.