to live is the rarest thing in the world. most people exist, that is all.

[mukuro]

FRANCE, YEAR 2318

Paris in its decay is stifling. An air of gloom that hangs over it; with the old architectural grandeur near outshadowed by industrial buildings, the city is at war with itself. Haze wreathing the night, one would be lucky to spot the moon, much less the stars past the air pollution and dense cloud cover. Still, the skyline carries a fantastical feel to it while one of the city's most famous landmarks remains standing, rising over everything with its corrugated iron latticework wreathed in smog.

May we present to you, ladies and gentlemen, the Eiffel Tower in all its glorious ruin.

Rain from earlier in the evening renders it slick not to mention dangerous, the PH in the H2O leaning towards the acidic side of the scale. A careless splash in one puddle is enough to leave a sting to remember. Still, the view from the top is unparalleled. The second level itself offers one Rokudo Mukuro an adequate view of the streets.

A billboard plastered to the side of one building flashes in neon, a hypodermic needle drawn in pixels preluding:

UNE CHANCE. UNE VIE. SOYEZ LE CHANGEMENT.

The year is 2318, and time stops for no one. Change is always inevitable, and so the world changes. Evolves. Not necessarily for the better, but Mukuro's always said it, hasn't he? That this world is going to rot, that humans bring about their own destruction. He's watched it happen over the course of this lifetime, society crumbling bit by bit until it's come down to this. This time, they don't even realise it.

Past the hour of the mandatory curfew (for the people's safety, and more importantly, your own), few people wander the streets. Herded indoors like good sheep, only vagabonds and law breakers are out at this hour, or . . .

There. A disturbance in one of the many charming back alleyways Paris boasted. From this distance, it looks like a chase on foot. It's impossible to make out any distinct features, but Mukuro doesn't need an exact identification, just the invisible tug that is calling. Disregarding the elevator (untrustworthy things, anyway), he tangles with iron, gloves sizzling faintly as he swings and drops down from the 2e ÉTAGE to street level. The tower is left behind in a flurry of footsteps, picking up in speed before he vanishes into the depths of the city.

Meanwhile, two and three quarters of a kilometer away from Mukuro's person, Irie Shouichi narrowly dodges a bullet by dumpster diving, heart beating at a thousand per second. It wasn't supposed to go like this, none of this was supposed to happen, and now he's up to his knees in shit.

"The subject has declined to cooperate. Now engaging protocol 48, section E."

"NO no no no no no this is a mistake--"

Whatever protocol 48, section E means, Shouichi knows it can't be good. So he scrambles to his feet, and takes off for the sprint of his life. Shouting and more shots, the flash of muzzles and gunpowder behind him. One pierces his leg, bullet rendering past flesh and bone and tearing ligaments and muscles in its wake, and it hurts. A pained gasp escapes him; he'll never get used to that.

Shouichi runs.

Fast as he is, it's not quite fast enough to outrun the speed of the specially enhanced humans on his trail. Unfair, completely and utterly unfair, considering what he had to go through for his-- but that's not here or now. Keeping ahead of them by scant meters is the most he can do, and he is struggling to do even that. The crippling pain in his calf slows him down, leaves a slick red-black trail of blood behind him like breadcrumbs.

A sign flashes by his eyes (pentagon, faded red, STOP) and his sneakers grasp for traction as he makes a frantic right, feet pounding and he is scrabbling up a fire escape, when something hits him in the senses like a string snapping.

Above.

From overhead, something-- no, someone leaps off the railing, and for one superstitious moment, Irie Shouichi thinks that Death is looming with a scythe in hand, ready to finally cut him down. Only it's the COS (commandement des opérations spéciales; division god knows what) agents that fall. Blood splatters against the building, the final body crumpling with a wet, sickly cough.

Rokudo Mukuro turns to Irie Shouichi, looking just as he did nearly three centuries ago, and says, "Long time no see."