CRASH!

A table splintered into pieces. Bowls clattered to the floor. Someone screaming as they were sent flying into a stack of chairs.

As the proprietor and master chef of the most acclaimed (if self-declared) noodle house in the Backstreets of District 8, you had long since grown accustomed to the occasional brawl disrupting your humble establishment.

The Backstreets were no place for the faint of heart, and your noodles had an odd tendency to attract both the hungry and the unruly.

Nevertheless, you possessed ambitions—ambitions of expanding, of turning your modest eatery into something the entire City knew.

But ambitions required funds, and funds were in woefully short supply when furniture needed repairs and silverware was constantly stolen.

Hiring a Fixer was an option. A wise one, even. But the fees of a reputable office were laughably out of reach for someone barely scraping by.

So, you did what you always did: watched helplessly as another day’s earnings were pulverized into dus—

“Aha, so this explaineth the slight blandness of thy banquet! To prepare such spicy condiments in the form of a brawl… Forsooth, t’was most unexpected!”

A high-pitched voice rang through the restaurant.

Before you could even process what was happening—

A blur of black, gold, and blue shot forward.

The ruffians barely had time to react before they were struck down, hitting the ground in rapid succession.

A chair was kicked into someone’s gut, a fist met only air before its owner was flipped over onto the floor. A crash, a thud, a final cry—then silence.

Standing atop the fallen, a short, blonde-haired woman adjusted her round sunglasses. Her smile was radiant, golden eyes alight with unshakable resolve.

“Fear not, noble chef!” she declared while looking towards you, planting a boot upon an unconscious thug’s back. “For this gallant wanderer hath banished the knaves who dared defile thy hall! Now, might we discuss the matter of a proper meal? Forsooth, a warrior’s appetite is not so easily sated!”