Re: A Good Day For Slaughter

[Shula Brighton]

{Bump~}

[Guest]

Emerging from the elevator shaft, Ayden threw himself into the fray with both M1911 pistols drawn and aimed dead straight at the helicopter. The Xingese alkahestrists had done more than brought his sight back; he was now a true hunter. His vision was strained during his attempts to, but he had the eyes of a hawk. And this, combined with his sheer levels of analytic ability meant... precision. Even on a moving target at that height.

Unleashing a barrage of nine-millimetre rounds upon the fleshy figure he presumed to be the guards, it took a few bullets before she began to plummet, falling to her death; the helicopter was simply ascending until the gunfire began, but... now, the pilot was alerted. He pushed the joystick forwards, and with a cackle, Ayden smiled to himself. It was to be the end of an era, and the beginning of a slew of new achievements. He would cut this helicopter down so easily through a few complex formulae and wild stabs of estimation at the trigonometry of the entire situation... and Ballzini would die. That was simple enough, aye?

With a grin set upon his face, Ayden whispered beneath his breath, his tone carrying more gravity than it had for the entire day. "Oh no you don't..." The mutter resounded further than he expected it to, the echo hanging eerily in the cavernous depths of his ears as he unleashed further shots up towards the helicopter as it began to move away, waiting until the barrels of each pistol clicked several times. Now... it was up to whatever supreme being lay above to choose just what those little metal projectiles had done.

The first few copper-jacketed rounds had done nothing but ping from the structurally stronger points, but as Ayden, hair billowing in the wind, had circled around the base of the helipad, he'd gained a vantage which meant he could actually fire in through the opening, the point from which a terrified woman with a UMP .45 was firing madly into the air. Ballzini chuckled. Clearly his last resort.

She had all too quickly been hit by a stray round, and now lay sprawled out on the helicopter floor, clutching to the last flickers of life slowly becoming extinguished, adding another to the body count; just a statistic, no more. And the pilot had not been any luckier, either; the rounds fired had sheared through the air around his head for far too long, denting and cracking the helicopter's windshield, before one finally cut through the tough leather backing of his helicopter seat, and exited through the top of his forehead, mushrooming on impact and turning what remained of his skull into a gruesome exit wound, shattering the windscreen and forcing the man to take his vacancy from life.

The pilot's hand slumped away from the controls, and, smiling smugly, it began to make its descent, whirling alarms resonating throughout the cockpit as the tail began to spin madly, thanks to just where the arm had been upon the round's impact. No flames had caught hold yet, but as Ayden casually leaned himself against the brick housing of the elevator shaft, sliding fresh clips into each of the Children, he watched as one of the world's most-respected figures in all of the syndicates of organised crime plummeted and spiralled to the ground.

"You were a fool to underestimate me, Ballzini..."

[Guest]

Ballzini's fat frame juggled throughout the helicopter's confines, madly yo-yo'ing back forth, up and down. His fat was clearly seen in full detail rippling from the effects of velocity that took place. Swearing to whatever deity he worships to actually make him live. One last time. Live and he'll spend his life never again partaking in crimes. That he'll make up for all the wrongs in the world. All those people he killed, those families he destroyed, those orphans he made, he'll compensate each one of them. He'll become a hermit. Maybe spend all his cash into charity. He didn't care. Those thoughts flashed. And all he wanted was his precious life more than ever.

The helicopter obliged in his wishes, crashing into the backyards, sinking into the fine soil as the blow was not kind to the mobster. The air vehicle took the worst of tolls, with rotors missing, the tail broken and the skeleton bent out of proportions. Yet by a minuscule chance of great luck, the door was left open, a small opening big enough for the otherwise fat Ballzini to crawl out of. A shine of light pierced into the helicopter, shimmering to the mob boss's eyes, giving his resolve a new fire to be kindled.

With a new found vigor, his hands one after another pulled his heavy frame slowly, climbing past the corpses that lay within, using them as stepping stones as he disembarked the vehicle without the respect a man of his authority deserves. His face covered in dirt, and his suit besmirched just as equally. Cursing his fate in a few angry asides. Pulling himself together to see that he could still run... still go into the forest.

The foliage before him, they... they could conceal him. He could lose that asshole assassin into the forest. That demon... he wasn't that omnipotent, not that well endowed with so much clarity as to find him. He wagered his chances on a final run for life. He still could make it. He MUST make it, and get away. He will succeed. Such notions of a mantra he will indulge in, as his aching out of shape body tensed for the final and most excruciating exercise of his life. The exercise of living.

His legs kicked against the ground, sprinting with tired dragged out breathes, running like he has never done so before. Through the trees until he'd find his freedom. Like a snail fleeing an eagle out in the open. Beads of sweat rolled past his cheeks, his skin turned red, eyes squint, as his vision becomes a tunnel.

"I. Will. MAKE. IT." Ballzini mutters in determination. Yet his stamina dwindled down, his cardio at this point forced. His body screamed for a stop, a chance to rest, a chance to recover from that gaping wound he acquired, bulging from his abdomen in a gash. Blood stained his suit, drifting down to his thighs. But he will not rest, he couldn't, not at this point he can't. There was a monster out there... a monster so terrible, he could not dare behold him.

[Guest]

Ayden arched an eyebrow, watching from atop the concrete flooring of what had once been Ballzini's helipad, but what was now a mess; torn apart, riddled with bullets courtesy of the 'guards' Ballzini had used as a last resort, and partly the fault of the assassin, who seemed himself to be treading a rather sticky mixture of blood and crisped flesh - courtesy of the man who had been sporting a flamethrower just three floors below.

With a sigh, the assassin watched the fat, wounded old man, who'd been stuck and cut like a pig, run into the forest. Ayden licked his lips in sheer anticipation; the smell of blood was in the air. The hunt was on. Ballzini had run a maze like a good little mouse, but at the end, there would be no cheese for him. No cheese for the rat. Just blood. More blood, and more death.

He had put up what some would call a good fight, but what the silver-haired leather-clad man would simply call mediocre. The epitome of mediocrity. It was so simple, so straight-forwards. The tedium was near-unbearable; the routine so simple, so textbook. Canvas was canvas, and he was still paid, indeed, this much was true; but there was no spice, no excitement. A pair of men had been sent after him. Then a squad. Then a platoon. Then the elite. And now the man had even had his last resort 'soldiers' dispensed with, he ran still.

Ayden missed the old days, in truth. The days of challenge, the days where as an assassin, he was feared, underestimated, branded a sheer monstrosity accompanied by cordite and pain. A barrage of each, infact; muzzle flashes and knife stabs were his loyal companions in his art, his dealing; death. The prima donna, to Ayden, of all art forms.

However, he had a job. And as the blue irises of the assassin narrowed as he watched his target disappear into the woods, a speck lumbering from shadow to shadow, doubling back and wiping sweat from his brow, as he left a thin, almost indistinguishable - from this distance - trail of blood in his wake. Tracking the man, he growled, that furious, quiet, near-subsonic growl; the growl which told anyone close that the ploys were up. A fire burnt and crackled inside the deepest, blackest pits of Ayden Derocha's heart, this growl had summoned, awakened a beast that not even he knew the rage, hatred, and sheer power of. A separate, defined set of sociopathic urges, shackled and repressed due to sheer practicality and what Ayden knew would happen. His inner monster.

Accessing it, forming a conduit, to sap anger and energy from, the man cracked his neck from side to side as the rustling of leaves and the cracking of twigs under the fat mob boss' feet faded into the distance. He couldn't let Ballzini get away, now; if the man could even consider solace as an option over death, then Ayden had failed his job. But, no. He could smell the fear, even at this distance. He could track the man just from the stench of his sweat and the fading puddles of blood; they would linger for days yet, weeks possibly for a master tracker.

With a grin etched onto his face, creeping up from side to side and splitting a deathly pale visage in two with white-pink lips, the assassin whispered to himself, whispered as if Ballzini could hear it almost miles across from him; the man had scanned for the black-clad figure across the horizon but once, and seeing the silver hair and coat tails trail in the wind, he had simply turned around, and pressed on for one thing. Fear. Ayden's greatest tool and best technique. The one human feeling he could understand, comprehend, analyse, with ease. The one human feeling he could mold and reshape to become his greatest friend and his targets' greatest enemy. Their own body, forging chemicals, firing synapses, working against their own psyche, grating at them; and due to who? Naught but him. "I'm coming..."

And with that, Ayden leapt. Despite knowing that the fall from the roof was something he despised; free-falling was a feeling of uncertainty that one such as him should have enjoyed, but cursed with every bated breath. But, he knew of sacrifices, and he knew of speed; and both were necessary to track down this latest little trickster, conman, and gangster, a three-pronged package, all rolled into one, wobbly, obese, insecure, pig-like man.

Jacket billowing behind him as the sun set on an Amestrian August evening, the assassin descended, legs stuck out straight beneath him, as he dug into his jacket, the wind pulling up even his very hair; impact, at this rate, would shatter his feet and shins. At least a year's recovery time. No future in military service or assassination. But much like his target's signature technique for his renowned 'line of work' as a younger man, twenty years ago, perhaps, when he had been less in the manner of indulging himself in other vices and luxuries, Ayden...

Ayden had an ace up his sleeve.

[Guest]

His weight was a traitor. Ballzini hated it. Leaving tracks behind that sunk into the mud, pressed down to leave behind the imprints of his fancy Renoit shoes at the muddy soil so nicely left there as a clue. But he couldn't even know of this, no, all he saw was that shimmer of light at the end of the trees. So desperately the warmth he wanted, so desperately he wanted to escape. He had a chance. It warmed his soul, to see the faux hope that bore it's anus before him to be led through. The nether region that opened up for him to dwell upon, in his stinking blood and sweat, if not the smell of shit that cast an odor from his ass region, mingling with piss so dreadfully well.

The trees moved past him, or more accurately, he ran past the trees. All left behind, going in such a linear and boring fashion. His legs felt really numb, his muscles must've stopped its protest of his horrible misuse of his motor function far beyond his limits. He just needed a good cardio, he has a good headstart. Already so far ahead... maybe this assassin didn't see him. Maybe he thought he died in the helicopter. Maybe the helicopter exploded. He hoped for SOME MIRACLE. Given at this point, he had no aces up his sleeves. This was just pure machismo by how far he flees.

Okay, okay, okay. So Ballzini's legs started becoming heavier. His surroundings slowed, just as he did. He fired up his legs, shooting them ahead of the other, he no longer had the ability to use his lower leg muscles. And he could barely move with his thigh muscles. FUCK. His heart pounded madly, that just now he grimaced from the pain that flooded his brain. Having ignored it for so long thanks to the adrenaline that coarsed through this body of his which couldn't handle it.

His wound felt cold, a sting burnt it, he noticed it more. He ran out of juice. Collapsing at this point on his face at the dirty ground. He didn't deserve this. No way he deserved being the dirt on the ground... he worked HARD. He worked hard to become a prominent man! He was always bullied at school in La Cerisé. They always made fun of him. Always saying he won't become important ever. That he will never succeed in life. They were wrong. ALL OF THEM. He killed them all as soon as he inherited his father's mob position.

He rose and rose, until ousted from La Cerisé with his gang, convicted of a crime they fled. Having taken refuge in Amestris. This Empire he built for years, was the jewel of his days. He thought every single moment of his life can be spent in living in luxury. That he was able to live till the end of his days without anyone ever doubting him again. Every importantly corrupt Amestrian officials and generals were in his payroll. He could virtually mobilize an army at his command! But why... just why did he have to fall from his throne? Why?

He wept at this, inching at the trunk of a tree. Pulling his fat bulbous body with his arm, as he laid himself slouched at it, face-up. Tears streamed down his cheeks, pitying himself, his situation, that the fact he lost everything dear. An epiphany flashed, that he had everything he wanted, but he bit more than he could chew.

"I... I just wanted respect... I just wanted happiness... was it too much to ask for?" Ballzini murmured to himself, looking down at the dirt in defeat. He was barely even half way towards any nearby settlement. What was he kidding? This forest was thick, he'd have to run for miles to even get to a highway. The nearest one was opposite the direction he ran.

His breathing was hitched, gulping large amounts of air into his lungs, his body yearned for the oxygen he deprived it. His lungs were sour as his heart was in pain. There was no sign anytime soon his legs would recover from a sprint this long, especially not in an unfit body as this. This monster... he could easily catch up to him.

Resigned to his fate, he reached for his coat to pull out an unlit cigarette, placing it at his mouth as he rummaged his coat for a non-existent lighter. Sighing that he couldn't even enjoy one last smoke before his life would desert him from whatever horrible means awaited him. Or maybe there was more to hope? He deserved as much... yes... he did. Laughing softly, at this comedy that is life. A life that soon will have the curtains closed, and all the actors left from this one grand charade.

Just who sent this assassin? A final question he lingered upon in his miserly state.

[Guest]

And at last, Ballzini's defenses had been exhausted.

His last resort was pathetic. Not even a challenge. The helicopter had been brought down with the simplest of low-caliber handguns; his concubines had been crushed in an instant, one inadvertently. Ayden was almost upset; the chase was coming to an end. He'd grown accustomed to this all; 'the journey is more important than the end or the start'. A creed some lived by... and a creed the silver-haired maniac could really sympathise with at this moment in time. A tear shed for times past.

Ayden, however, didn't have too much time to dwell or even cry over these trivial things. As he had stated many a time before, he was a man of action. And free-falling... well, the assassin presumed he'd turn into a raspberry pancake after dropping from this many stories off of the top of Ballzini's headquarters. And after all that effort, oh, how much of a sheer waste that would be.

In free-fall, however, Ayden had far more control over his body than most, due to an innate, harnessed, and trained ability to suppress panic. Adrenaline surged through his body, sure; but at much lower levels, and his reactions were far less drastic. No flailing, screaming or... anything, really; he retained energy and near-silence, nothing to give his position away to the vacant holiday manor save for a slight break, an irregularity in the breeze.

Turning in mid-air, he swung himself onto his back; and revealed to no entity in particular, his hand clasping a silver-finished odd device he'd used once before in this particular venture - and now, it was locked and loaded once more - the Hunter. With a pull of the trigger and a whistle as the grappled sheared through the air at the speed of a bullet, Ayden wondered if he'd got the timing right. Too early, and he'd lose Ballzini. Too late, he'd become a splatter of bone, blood, flesh, muscle, and sinew on the sidewalk.

A grin hit his face. Too bad that the assassin had done this before, eh?

Clink. The hook caught, and a button press later, the prongs extended. It drew back due to momentum, but it had actually embedded itself firmly in a piece of rather stable-looking breezeblock. That was... well, that was fine. A good way to start the remainder of the home strait; the final stretch. The part where his various labours and tribulations finally came to fruition.

The kill.

Ayden threw his feet out, and made contact with brick as the rope swung in an arc; he disconnected the rope with a single click, and fell the last few feet onto the bottom of his boots. The landing was scuffed, somewhat, jarring him with enough force to topple a regular man, but this assassin, this predator... it was known amongst the underworld that he... he was different.

The sun was setting fully now. The moon was visible in a dimly-lit orange sky; stars shone through opening clouds, dotting the horizon. It would be a beautiful night. Many would sit outside as they sipped at their champagne and tasted their meals, staring up at flickering beacons and airplanes that idly passed by. Others would wallow in pity with only the cosmos to comfort them, stop them from lapsing into depression... and suicide. For him? For this silver-haired assassin, it was a beautiful night to murder. As always. The eternal optimist, eh?

Ayden landed with a grunt, and let the Hunter fly back; on its sling, it quickly took its natural place thanks to the effect of gravity as the figure showed the full extent of his athleticism. Panting, muscles straining and working in unison to make him a single, streamlined, moving entity, the assassin cut through the night like a knife, a dart, a cheetah, a panther, skulking and prowling as he caught up to his prey.

Silver hair and black coat flowing behind him in unison, Ayden felt a fleeting shiver wrack his senses. It was... cold. To say the least. Maybe an oversight on that last part; most would be enjoying dinner from the inside. Particularly chilly, nippy... an unusual bite for even weather as cold as they'd been having, although that was perhaps just the adrenaline taking hold. Maybe they'd even see a few snowflakes on this fine night. Once more, however, the idle thoughts and ideas could wait. He had an engorged, obese idiot of a hare to catch, to rival his bloodhound-like senses.

Twigs and leaves rustled and crunched underfoot. Discretion had been abandoned. Ayden's pantings were almost subsonic, but present; the silver-haired assassin, however, had not tired yet. He had entered the full breadth of the woods, and was following naught but a combination of the furrows of clear, present, recent footsteps, the unholy stench this man, in his near-devastated state produced, and, simply enough, his favourite of all three, a trail of blood. Ayden grinned. He couldn't have gotten further without delirium or panic taking hold.

And there he was. In a clearing, up against the tree. Stars, sitting bright in the sky as they twinkled overhead. Moon shining over the pair as hunter scanned his target. As the killer surveyed his victim. As the beast isolated the man.

It was liberating, at last. To finally be at the end of it all. Ayden had to give it to him; futile and stupid as they were, he had at least resisted, unlike that fuck at the end of the office complex. The leather-clad man finally showed his face, swishing his silver hair aside, and letting blue irises shimmer beneath the moonlight. He panted, hands by his side, cocking his head, and finally locking gaze with the prize at the end of it all. It was a binding link, a connection between the pair of them, employee and target, and it created an atmosphere unique so much that it couldn't be encountered in any other instance in the world. This... this was what Ayden savoured so. It was what made all the struggles, the trials, the murder, the pointless challenges... worth it. It was time, precious time, for him to carry out his rituals, the rites he had been brought up with. To grant a man's last request before finally releasing him from his mortal tenure, setting him free from the earthly manacles of this life.

Sweat upon both of their breaths, the pair panted in unison, finding even the most base, simple, primal levels to connect on, if nothing else. One was scared, defeated, shivering; the other, assertive, triumphant... resistant. A madman and his calling. Almost too fitting.

The stench of waste, blood, and sweat was for now... disregarded. A final sigh, and Ayden stretched his back, standing to his feet. Even despite having lost his dignity, Ballzini was a man of honour, a man who knew when the game was up. Ayden could admire that. He'd crossed the event horizon, and had since concluded that he wouldn't leave the forest alive. Some men tried underhanded tactics; a hidden revolver, a blade, a last resort concealed even within the confines of their body. None had yet succeeded; the assassin's trigger finger was superior to all. At any given time, any man, woman, or even child, in a decent radius around him was but a pound of pressure away from having their life taken from them in a rather explosive and messy manner. That was, alas, the way of the assassin; the ever-wariness he'd been brought up on, the almost supernatural, extra-sensory levels of perception and awareness the silver-haired Derocha now possessed.

"Ballzini," Ayden finally spoke the man's name. He was now no longer a cretin, an idiot, a stupid gangster, an undignified wretch, a pathetic excuse for a member of the human race... no. In his last moments, a man was granted - so long as he abided by Ayden's rules as well as his own - peace, and respect, even if they'd lost all criteria for it, such as this... prime specimen. "Ballzini, Ballzini, Ballzini..." Ayden repeated.

He continued. "Vigilantism isn't something I take a particular shine to." The man said bluntly. He'd seen a Creig thriller a few years back in passing about a pair of strongly-accented assassins dual-wielding silenced pistols, and it had given him not only ideas for presentation, but it had actually been a pretty good film. "Don't get me wrong, at the end of the day, a kill's a kill; I take contracts where I can get them, y'know? Blood for money, and all that bullshit," His pants finally faded. The man slowly, ever-so-slowly, raised his hands, and took a step forwards, alternating between each glove, straining the material over his fingers.

"Don't worry. You don't have to speak. I'll take care of this part," Ayden offered up a deadly grin. Still unsettling, but nevertheless... the unspoken respect... it was there. It was present. Always. "I always do," He said, before letting out a tired cackle. It was the end of the day. The silver-haired figure just wanted to finish up, complete the contract, and head back to base to get a little research done, throw on some more Monteverdi... the usual. Indulge himself for a day of hard work, as Ballzini was all-too-familiar with.

In an instant, the silver-haired assassin drew his revolver, and set himself up in that trademark, signature stance, holding the chromed frame, engraved 'Fleshbane'. His grin, for the first time in the entire afternoon, night, possibly day... faded. An expression struck his face not of glee, but of stern calm. This part... this part couldn't go wrong. It was an ancient ritual of his. This was his bread and butter for every single damn assassination, one that required more than ten minutes' worth of exertion.

"Per alas angelorum in caelo, per alas daemones in inferno." Latin. A prayer? A prayer. Angels... heaven. Demons... hell. It was Ayden's own personal psalm; that which he recited moments before doing what he did best. Killed. The assassin didn't sigh, didn't shake, didn't move. He was unrelenting. Left hand outstretched, body facing the moonlight, he held the revolver, .44, as a simple extension to his body. Everything else hung loose, limp. His body was turned away from Ballzini, ninety degrees counter-clockwise; his form was a single, straight line. His head and revolver were the only two parts of his body that focused on the wheezing, gasping gangster, desperately trying to gulp down air, wondering why the man couldn't just... get it over with. Fluttering eyelids gave it all away. "Libera me anima tua. Invenis redemptio, et pax."

Oh? Holiness? Since when was Ayden a religious man? Well, he was a man who kept many secrets; that, in itself, was one of his trademarks. It felt... good, to finally take inventory, make his peace with the world, even just for a few minutes a day, before he committed what was truly... murder. "Ego, digito iustitiae. Ego, digito iram. Ego mitto vos qui in alteram vitam." The prayer began to reach its apex; its climax.

Finger tightened on the trigger. Skin, flesh, bone... all strained around that single pointed shape within the metal frame. A bead of sweat trickled upon the man's forehead as he fought the urge to shut his eyes; and in his last moments, Ballzini mirrored this. Barely five, six feet from each other, the pair locked gazes; Ayden saw that he'd never intended for it to end this way. But, alas... "Nunc amicus annis vel momenta, praedico tibi vale."

It was too late.

CRACK.

The resounding crash rolled over the Amestrian hills, the city of Central visible in the backdrop, over a fence just ten feet away. The bullet made contact; it struck directly between the man's eyes, and tore through his skull and flesh in an instant. At this range, it shredded the back of the gangster's head into naught but an exit wound; blood splattered the tree and specked Ayden's face; the bullet, lodged within crimson-spattered chipped wood facings and indents, splintered around a fairly-decent sized crater that the mushroomed round had created. The man slumped back against the tree almost instantaneously, leaving a bloody smear as his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. Ballzini... was dead.

Now... now, the assassin closed his eyes. He let them fall shut, and absorbed it all; the echo, the silence, the faintness of the atmosphere, locusts and crickets chirping in the background. It was... peace. The calm after the storm, seemingly, as well as before it. He didn't move; slowly, his revolver arm arced downwards, gunsmoke trailing from a chromed, engraved barrel, the end still piping hot. Cordite was added to the various melting pot of smells, mainly Ballzini's stench; sweat, blood, shit, and gunpowder hung upon the air, melding together in unison.

After all this time, Ballzini was dead. Despite all the lives he had taken, this... this had the most gravity. Ayden let his eyelids flutter open; he held his coat open idly, and tucked the revolver into its sheathed, not bothering to smudge, smear, or dab the gangster's crimson dotted across his face. He pulled the relatively-clean coat over his figure, buttoning it up from top to bottom, and turned, letting his hands fall to his sides.

The adrenaline's breaking and cresting within his veins, the sanctum of his body, slowly ceased, falling to a halt. The ocean, the frothing, crazed, mad, roaring, choppy ocean... became a calm sea. Water flowing, ebbing... nothing more than that. Calm. Silence. Peace.

They would find the body, soon. Ayden had left no trace of himself save for footprints; and even then, they'd have a hard time following them at the rate he'd leave the scene. The leather-clad man turned, and performed a lesser ritual, straining his gloves over his hands, turning his head towards the body, and sighing. Life. So fickle a gift. He muttered, murmured, whatever, whichever... a quiet, subsonic whisper upon the straining, beckoning winds of Amestris, lost forever upon the calm breeze in the pale moonlight.

"Requiem in pace,"

A wish for the deceased. Did he mean it? Truly? Yes. One of the sole things he could say in this life that was a truth... he seriously, honestly, definitely wanted an honourable man - despite the scumbag he was - to rest... in peace.

The figure stood there, and sighed once more. The smile crept back onto his face, and he tilted his head, staring through the forests. He began to walk, trudging through mud, dirt, blood, silt, water... until... finally, he felt it. A cold, long-lost, familiar, wet touch upon his forehead. Drifting down, a handful like it brushed the man's forehead as he sighed a third, and final time for the night, shaking his head gently, as if he almost felt remorse... regret... no, of course not. He... no.

He stopped dead in his tracks, and looked up to the stars; the night was dark now, twinkling with stars in all their full glory. The moon was a half-crescent, perfectly illuminated amidst the purple blackness of the sky, craters and ridges easily determinable, even from these millions of miles away. Oh, how Ayden wished to be upon the surface of the moon; but... then, his vision focused, and tracked something else. It wouldn't settle upon the ground, and was perhaps only falling upon this high-altitude area, but despite it all, the trembling, quivering, dissipating, icy, crystalline shapes... were falling. Snow. Snowflakes.

Snowfall. He smirked... and worked back on trudging through the woods, shaking his head as he smiled, content. No sigh, this time. Just a long, drawn-out exhalation, as he returned to the courtyard, stepping over bodies, limbs, blood, sinew, hewn flesh, spent shell casings, and dropped weapons alike; the man looked upon the sky once more, grinding to a halt behind an adorned angelical fountain, just remembering the nature of his business, dropping his head down, and breaking into a jog as he returned to his car, his lungs renewed with a youthful, trained vigour once more, having gained a respite from the sprinting. His heart's beat dropped to a resting rate, and the man... well...

He left. The silver-haired assassin, Ayden Derocha, left.

After all... he had more people to kill, didn't he?

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