I'm telling you this to let you know just how hard it is for me to swallow that pride and say "I'm writing a fanfiction and I'm very serious about it." Urban Legacies (working title) is a three-part Legend of Zelda modernfic--i.e., a fic that takes place in a modern time. I've actually been working on it on-and-off for two years (because it's mainly a side-project) but I've done a lot of work with developing my world and outlining my plot. I do have a ten-chapter draft of the first part, but I'm doing a near-complete rewrite because it was basically the "diet" version of the story I wanted to tell. This draft will both improve my interpretations of certain elements of the series and expand on the stories that were important but never had a chance to be properly portrayed.
Anyway, just as a preview before I really get into it again and start putting it up in readable places, here's the first segment from the prologue.
The din in the empty lot was growing, but not even the few who braved the night tried to investigate. Anyone who dared to be out at that hour recognized the noise and, more importantly, knew to stay away. You never, under any circumstance, risked getting caught in the middle of a brawl between two blin gangs.
This particular fight, faintly illuminated by the bright Malo Mart sign, was a territory dispute being settled by a bokoblin gang leader and a moblin gang leader. The two were evenly matched, and a jeering circle of both their underlings surrounded them as the struggle went back and forth. The moblin had dominance, his hands around the throat of the pinned bokoblin, but the latter was still fighting, his punches wearing away at his opponent. Unable to shield his face or withstand the blows, the moblin released the bokoblin, and the two split apart.
The two were both visibly limping as they circled, locked into their deathmatch by the other members of the two gangs. The bokoblin grinned as he rubbed his neck. “I ain’t goin’ down that easy, pal.”
The moblin shot him a death glare, the hair lining most of his body matted with both of their blood. “You’re on moblin territory, kid. You’re not leaving here alive.”
The sole outside observer, watching from the roof of Malo Mart decided that it was time to break the stalemate. He stepped out of the shadows, his face hidden by a mask—its piglike features providing a mocking caricature of the blins—and drew his gun, measuredly and methodically leveling it at the two figures in the center of the circle.
A shot rang through the night, silencing the throng’s roar. A bullet ricocheted off the cement, chipping out a mark directly between the two.
“Awww, goddesses,” the failed assassin groaned as the crowd below turned as one to his hiding place. He dove backwards, flattening himself against the roof as shots rang out from below, indiscriminately rechristening the store “AL ART.” The man swore, discarding the gun, and listened as the clips emptied and the blins began turning on each other. Each side blamed the other for the failed interference, and while neither side had particularly high qualms about maintaining their own honor, they were quick to insult the other faction’s lack thereof.
The man, already long forgotten, took the opportunity to climb down. Somehow, by some fortunate chance, things had turned out better than expected. Both sides were enraged now. It would be a complete bloodbath.
The masked man’s feet hit the ground, and he casually strolled around the building. Yes, it was a chaotic, frantic mess. And he, he thought with satisfaction as he drew the sword slung across his back, would help clean it up.
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