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 ^{(it's beta!)}

They called it paradise, an oasis in a desert of pollution and disease, a shineing white city, one of only a handfull of such places around the world, connected by vast underground tunnels that only the government and wealthy business men could use.

It was mid summer and the sun shone down, reflecting off the white bulidings and green bio-mech plants, delicate metal butterflies floated buy, bringing a flury of blurred oranges and blues with them.

They called it paradise, but the people who lived in the shadow of the great wall felt different, the sun's rays never got to them, and the hole area was damp, those who failed in life lived her, the workers and tradesmen, spat on by the government who turned a blind eye to them, the government who was there to protect, at night they could hear the grouns and bangs from the other side of the wall, they knew suffering, and kept quite, they needed someone, a hero

How long ago was it when it all started? ten years? ten years ago, was i really only 16? Sometimes i think it was a dream, if it wasn't for the scars, the statues, the changes, then i would of banished it as a memory from someone else, belonging to a different life, but in a way i guess it was, things were different then, harder, dangerous, people needed a hero, can u believe that? They called me a hero at 16, I'm not, wasn't a hero, just a boy then, and a man now how can this of happened, no it was a dream, a bad dream, but the scars.

Ten years ago, the city, they called it paradise, and it was, on the surface. The city looks the same now as it did then, a few more crumbling houses, new shops, and of course the bullet holes, reminders of the cities past, a link to it's history, an everyday reminder for those too young to remember or too scared to admit, that the city wasn't paradise, that now were structure, equality, oppitunity lies, years ago was corruption rotting at the city like a a fruit left in outside too long.

When i think about it the dream turns into reality, I'm walking the white streets of the upper section of the city, were the business men lived, the polititions, the capatilist pigs that brought the city so close to collapse. And walking the dark, mouldy, infected streets in the lower levels, the workers lived here, the great wall a constant remider that they were better in here than out, but thats when people began to think, were they?

I was just a kid, an orphan, i joined a gang at first for the glory, but soon i became politcally aware, i guess i was an idealist. They call me a saint now, I'm not, never was, just a kid with a sword and and ideaology, I'm not a saint. I don't deserve to be remebered, better men than me didn't live they were the true hero's selfless men ready to die for a better tommorro, thank them not me.

They called the wall the styx, as it separated them form the hell outside, made near invisible by the shadow it cast Ernst Ronin ran, he ran and wouldn't stop running until he had got as far away from the orphanage as possible, it wasn't that they treated him cruelly, if anything he would have a better life there than he would on the streets, but it was ran by the government, and that was his problem.

He carried few possessions, in his rucksack were a few spier clothes, the entire contents of his pitiful bank account and a book, he'd read this book so many times, it was what made him realise that change was needed, it was called Motorcycle diaries, written in old speak by some ancient revolutionary.

Around his belt was slung his most precious object, the blade, his only link to his long dead family, it was old, and although never sharpened or polished it could cut, boy could it cut, along the blade were alien writings that gave off an eerie glow. Ernst had looked up the style of his blade in a book once, although it didn't look much like anything in the book it fitted close to what was called a katana, used by samurais, who ever they were but Ernst liked to think of himself as a warrior, childish he knew.

Ernst burst out of the shadow and down a street, the street was long and dank, filled with people going about their business, he slipped into the crowd and vanished.

I'd escaped the orphanage, but what now, ok i had friends and could handle myself in the fight, but after it all i still had a roof over my head and a hot meal, now i was on my own. I remember pushing my way through the market, fighting of pic-pokets and ignoring bartering stall owners. I walked in a vague direction, i seemed to remember on of my friends living somewhere that way. Alb Granardo, i didn't realise it then but he would play a huge role in my future.

It started of as helping him out with a few 'errands', but soon i became a fully fledged gang member. That was it, i was at home in the dank city streets, i had a reason, a group of friends, a sense of belonging, a feeling of honour, honour amongst thieves and all that. But it is how it all started so i won't mock it.

The figure burst out of the shadows, blade half decapitating the first of the masked guards in one swift movement. Ernst landed a brought his blade in a diagonal slice killing the next guard as he turned in shock.

A new guard tuned and brought his baton down to were Ernst's head had been micro seconds before, only to hit empty space. As the guard stumbled, Ernst swung down with his elbow, knocking the guard down to the cement, and stabbed down into the guards neck with his sword. Taking time to gather in his surroundings, Ernst caught sight of the target, turning to see 3 of his body guards dead in pools of their blood. The target started running for the street exit. Grabbing the dagger from his boot, Ernst threw the blade at him, flying through the air and ending up buried in the back of the targets head.

Two more guards were running at Ernst, in hopeless anger. Ernst drew a custom pistol from his belt, sending the two spinning of with two shots to the torso each.

Ernst bent down and cleaned his blade on a dead guard.

He turned and ran back the way he had come. The target had been a Senior member of the police force, why he needed to be killed Ernst didn't know, or much care, he just knew it had to be done, the money kept him alive, and besides, he had started to believe in what he was doing.

He was part of a revolutionary gang, specialising in guerrilla warfare. Killing had become easier and easier the more he believed in what he was doing. He had to make a quick escape.

Building became a blur as he picked up speed. Turning down side streets with practised ease, until he got to a safe house.

As he entered the house, Ernst knew something was up, no one was around, and as he searched rooms, he found upturned furniture, spilled papers, and signs of a fight.

On one of the walls was a phrase written in hurry. 'Nobody wins, nobody hears us fall'.

This message chilled Ernst