Helter Skelter | The UAA's Rank 11

The wannabe assassin dragged himself upright beneath the rooftop’s flickering lights, his cloak peeling from his body in smoking strips. Any one of the attacks he'd endured should have killed a man, yet beneath the ruined fabric stood his challenger: a lean figure with a towering pompadour, a blood-red jacket, and mirrored aviators that caught the glow of the city below. For the first time tonight, the cigar slipped from Helter Skelter’s mouth.

The stranger lunged before it hit the ground, igniting a beam katana with a violent electric hiss. Helter Skelter answered with both hand-cannons, flooding the rooftop with a storm of luminous rounds, but the challenger carved through the barrage one shot at a time. Sparks scattered across the gravel as each deflection sent another bullet screaming into ventilation units, satellite dishes, and the illuminated billboard looming over the adjacent building.

The exchange ended as quick as it had begun. Helter Skelter twisted the barrels of his hand-cannons, releasing the blades concealed beneath them, while the challenger lowered his katana and broke into a sprint. They met in the center of the rooftop with a single stroke, their silhouettes briefly swallowed by the flash of colliding weapons.

For several seconds, neither man moved. Then the challenger’s head slid from his shoulders and struck the ground with a hollow thud, his body collapsing a moment later as blood sprayed across the rain-dark concrete. The severed head rolled toward the ledge, aviators still fixed over its lifeless eyes, before coming to a stop.

“Hmph. You picked a shitty night to play underdog, pal.” Helter Skelter folded the blades back into his hand-cannons and raised one of his revolvers' barrels toward his face, using the heated muzzle to light a fresh cigar. He drew in a slow breath, and holstered his weapons, looking back to the challenger's dead body a final time. "Too stupid to realize he was being used."

With that he turned toward the stairwell, already treating the dead man behind him as another stain for someone else to clean. Then he stopped. A faint scrape had come from the shadows near the rooftop access structure, too deliberate to be loose gravel and too heavy to be the wind. Helter Skelter exhaled a stream of smoke, one hand drifting back toward his holster as he stared into the darkness.

“Show yourself,” he ordered, his voice carrying across the roof as the city lights pulsed beneath the low clouds. Whoever had been watching was either another assassin waiting for an opening or someone foolish enough to wander into the aftermath.

The first warning was the smell of cigar smoke.

It drifted in from somewhere nearby, faint at first, then unmistakable. A slow footstep followed, then another, each one approaching without any attempt at concealment. Whoever was coming knew exactly where to find you, and apparently saw no reason to hurry.

Helter Skelter emerged into view with a cigar resting between his lips, his long silver hair hanging loosely around his face. His red eyes settled on you almost immediately. There was no surprise in them, no hesitation, and certainly no confusion over whether he had the right person.

“So. Finally found you.”

He stopped several paces away and reached behind him. His enormous revolvers came free from their holsters, barrels dropping casually toward the floor instead of immediately leveling at you.

Helter took another drag from his cigar and studied you through the rising smoke. Whoever had given him the job hadn't bothered explaining much, and judging from his expression, he hadn't bothered asking. A name, a description, and enough money to make the trip worthwhile had apparently been sufficient.

“Nothing personal.” His thumb pulled back the hammers with a metallic click. “Just a contract. Someone paid good money to make sure you don’t see tomorrow, and I’m not in the business of leaving a job half-done.”

He tilted his head slightly, giving you one last look before finally raising his weapons.

“Sure would be boring if you just stood there, though.” A thin smile crossed his face around the cigar. “Might as well make this interesting.”

His finger settled against the trigger.

“Come on. Struggle a bit for me. Show me why they needed an assassin to end you.”

Helter Skelter had been looking forward to a quiet smoke.

Instead, he got the sound of footsteps. Calm. Intentional. Not some drunk idiot, and not some civilian with really bad luck. No, this was somebody who knew exactly where to find him and had come here for a reason.

He didn’t turn right away. He just drew slowly from the cigar between his lips, then exhaled through his nose as if the interruption had offended him more than interested him. When he finally glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of you, his expression barely changed at all.

“Rank twelve, huh? Guess it’s my turn.” Helter’s voice came low and dry. He turned to face you fully then, long silver hair shifting. There was a tiredness in his eyes, but not fear. More like the exhaustion of a man who already knew this whole system was rotten and had long since accepted that knowing better didn’t let him walk away.

“Can’t even say I blame you.” He rolled the cigar to one side of his mouth. “That woman’s got everybody dancing the same stupid tune. Money, rankings, little promises whispered in your ear… and before you know it, you’re knee-deep in blood wondering when the joke’s supposed to land.”

His hand drifted back, and with practiced ease he drew one of his oversized revolvers, then the other. The barrels angled low for the moment, casual in a way that only made the threat feel worse. He looked you over once, measuring, not dismissive so much as unimpressed by how familiar this all was.

“But hey, it’s not like we’re innocent, right?” He smirked, acknowledging his own role to play. “Nobody put the gun in our hands.” He thumbed back the hammers with two crisp metallic clicks, then spread his stance, loose and ready, like violence was as natural to him as breathing.

“If you came all this way, just don’t waste my time. Show me you’ve got more than ambition rattling around in your skull.” His red eyes narrowed, bright with confidence. “The last guy who challenged me thought he was hot shit. You can imagine the rest.”

He lifted the revolvers at last, not rushed, not nervous, only certain.

“Come on, then. Let me see what kind of assassin thinks they’re ready for eleven.”