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The Beast and the Harlot
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The Beast and the Harlot
by Guest Sat Jan 14, 2012 11:09 pm
It had begun to rain.
Droplets turned to puddles, intertwining and diluting the passive crimson spattered onto the floor, turning it quickly into a river. The drizzle picked quickly up into a shower, raindrops shearing through the tiniest, most faint of white-grey tendrils of smoke trailing from a black suppressor. A black suppressor attached to a black pistol. A black pistol clenched in a black hand. A black hand extended from a black arm. A single, silver-haired, leather-clad figure standing over his latest quarry; a man, face-down in a steadily growing, cooling pond, hued now pink with the intensity of the blood quickly diminishing. Garbed in a once-beautiful Cerisian-knit suit, of the finest tailoring. The man himself had been plump, though not obese; close-cropped, fading red hair atop a face bearing an extra half-a-chin. He had just satiated his latest culinary desires by stopping off for a steak lunch at a nearby East City restaurant; presumably some high-up business tycoon. Didn't matter to the assassin.
The one living of the pair had labelled this a 'routine contract' in the deepest depths of his mind, the darkest pits of the hellfires his thought processes called home. The man hadn't even seen him; taking a turn into an alleyway to crouch down and tie his shoes, away from the hurried crowds heading towards their various sanctuaries as they saw clouds converging on the city, the scene was almost idyllic for a spot of bloodshed. Having not used one of the most useful tools of his arsenal for a few contracts, Ayden decided to unsheath the Interceptor, arguably the most discreet of his weapons. A semi-automatic suppressed Five-seveN pistol with a decent rate of fire. It had struck the plump official in the back of the head before he'd even heard his assailant coming, and he was dead before he knew what'd hit him.
Ayden had to appear like any other; for a daunting, pale, silver-haired figure moving down the main roads of East City alone appeared, at best, unorthodox. In his line of work, despite even his military status, he had to be careful to draw unnecessary attention. There were times when grandeur was acceptable, encouraged, maybe even necessary, and Ayden knew this not to be one of them. Since the end of the party, he'd taken a few days off to mull over General Tsukino's offer, heading to Ciliegia first, returning then to South, before sweeping up through Ishval and East. He'd take a plane from here to North, but realised he'd have almost eighteen hours to kill once he arrived in East; and thus, having not braced the newly-rebuilt city for a few months, the cerulean-eyed assassin decided to instead organise a few contracts he could take up whilst in transit. The red-haired man had been one of them, but he had still a half an hour, give or take a few minutes, before his next target arrived at a location.
Ayden scoffed and ran through the set-up spots again. He could make it in ten on foot, if it weren't for this despicable rain. He adjusted, adding a few minutes, and added into the mix the knowledge that he could take the shot whilst the meeting - additional details from the client about some hand-off, presumably two men high-up in some sort of drug business, barons by any other name - made the contract seem unknowably easy. Two seamless executions in a single day would make four this week. Four a week was a pretty damn steady source of income for the assassin.
Picking up two cases he'd set down into either hand, one vastly thicker than the other, and heavier, it appeared, from the silver-haired hitman's initial carrying stance, the face topped with azure orbs scrumpled somewhat as Ayden took a deep breath. He let his face reformat, become plain again, blinking no longer from his sheer determination; tracking this target hadn't been hard, but the streets had been teeming with people not ten minutes ago. Now, with the addition of rain into the mix, they were deserted. The day had gone from as bright as a January afternoon could be to something out of a depressing dictator-era bootleg movie set in 60s Drachma.
Taking on the appearance of a man seeking refuge from the rain just for any eyes watching from the buildings flanking him on either side, Ayden ran through his path once more. Despite not being photographic, the silver-haired assassin did possess a rather significant memory capacity, and could recall images of East City's labyrinthine streets like flicking through an old family photography album. Minus the nagging grandmother over his shoulder. Huffing and puffing to condition his lungs, with a grunt, the man started into a bolt, slaloming around various puddles and pond-like masses of water - it had only been raining for moments! - as he coursed through the streets, taking a left turn at the end of the road his original business - or, what remained of it - had been on.
Pondering strategy, Ayden had made a few presumptions about using Perseus for this particular task, but it wasn't going to be totally necessary. He had been instructed to send a message, and letting the wind whistle through a hole in your late business partner's head was a message enough for him. Breaking down the doors and giving everyone who lay inside a bullet sandwich wouldn't leave anyone alive to relay the message, it seemed. He grunted, and his stomach rumbled as he took another left, trying to dart between various doors to make the illusion even more convincing.
He came upon the site fairly quickly; the target building had two Cadillac BLS cars, Cretan in origin, parked outside. Blacked-out windows. Ayden presumed a third would be joining them later; although that meant the other targets were already in place. This was the location.
It appeared to be some sort of large apartment complex, opposite the street to two now-abandoned stores, looking almost derelict in the current weather climate. Both were, Ayden presumed, empty; one was a simple single-story convenience store, whilst the other had two floors, and appeared to be some sort of tailor's; dresses at the windows of rose and white told him that it probably specified in that arm of garments. The needlework looked good from this range, but he couldn't discern much otherwise. It looked fairly up-market, a decent place; this was a fairly nice part of town, but everything had become so skewed since the events of the summer.
He tracked a fair number of suit-garbed forms to the second-storey window across from the dress store; the hallway door at ground floor was open, and two men wearing blacked-out sunglasses stood guard, opposite each other, stalwart in silence, defending the main passage. Probably rented out for the sole purpose of this deal. Something big was going down. Ayden's muscles twitched in excitement, and his face stretched into a giddy grin.
It was obvious that the abandoned shop would be his best bet. In an instant, he hurried across to the glass opening door, using one hand, still clutching the smaller of the two cases, to pull up his jacket in order to create a - fairly resistant - guard against the knife-like sharp, cold raindrops shearing through the air from above. He made a quick facade at fumbling for keys, and tested the doorknob; sure enough, by dumb luck or fate guiding him, the door just swung open. Ayden had been ready to produce some sort of metallic transmutation sticker to reform it and blow it open, but, bizarrely, the structure just croaked open, the silver-haired man shuffling in, offering a quick, false smile to the men staring from across the road inside the corridor, and pulled it shut behind him.
Immediately, the smile evaporated, and the noises of rainfall faded from outside. The man pushed the door the last few centimetres ever-so-slowly, just until he heard his force break the limit and the opening mechanism click shut; no-one stirred in the entire shop; foyer, stairs, first floor, and all. Illuminated by nothing but the dim light of the outside in the afternoon, Ayden's eyes darted from side to side, silver hair swaying, as he checked the maze of dress racks for a single figure. He found no signs of life; it was completely empty. He was alone in the East City rain, just him, his weaponry, and, soon, his target.
Ayden sighed, and another grin, this one authentic, crept onto his face. At last, he could relax, and do what he did best. Taking the cases into both hands, and allowing the water to drip from a clump of wet strands of silver hair, and land in a tiny droplet on the floor, his eyes flicked to the stairs, and he began to move, walking ever-so-slowly, tools in hand, unaware of whatever could be awaiting him on the floors above. Whatever it was, if anything lay there, in wait or otherwise, it was absolutely and completely silent.
Alert from his training and conditioning but at ease somewhat, the man readied himself, and began to step forwards. Who would be here, anyway? The sign had read 'Closed', and the opening times verified this. It was a Sunday. The streets were, for lack of a better word, deserted. Nobody had any reason to be here save for the proprietor, and the likelihood was, they were at home, nearby. It looked like an authentic family-owned business, probably by some woman of faint noble lineage with immense pride in her needlework and four daughters, or something. The family was probably sat down at lunch together all wearing clothes bearing identical tailorship marks; this was just another ordinary dress shop, no matter how remarkable the materials and the sewing did look. Ayden told himself that one time and one time alone as he stepped towards the stairs, and began to ascend upwards towards the unknown as he had done many a time before. To unleash his caged, chained, restricted, channeled wrath upon yet another target, one of dozens, hundreds, most likely.
This was just another ordinary dress shop, right?
Droplets turned to puddles, intertwining and diluting the passive crimson spattered onto the floor, turning it quickly into a river. The drizzle picked quickly up into a shower, raindrops shearing through the tiniest, most faint of white-grey tendrils of smoke trailing from a black suppressor. A black suppressor attached to a black pistol. A black pistol clenched in a black hand. A black hand extended from a black arm. A single, silver-haired, leather-clad figure standing over his latest quarry; a man, face-down in a steadily growing, cooling pond, hued now pink with the intensity of the blood quickly diminishing. Garbed in a once-beautiful Cerisian-knit suit, of the finest tailoring. The man himself had been plump, though not obese; close-cropped, fading red hair atop a face bearing an extra half-a-chin. He had just satiated his latest culinary desires by stopping off for a steak lunch at a nearby East City restaurant; presumably some high-up business tycoon. Didn't matter to the assassin.
The one living of the pair had labelled this a 'routine contract' in the deepest depths of his mind, the darkest pits of the hellfires his thought processes called home. The man hadn't even seen him; taking a turn into an alleyway to crouch down and tie his shoes, away from the hurried crowds heading towards their various sanctuaries as they saw clouds converging on the city, the scene was almost idyllic for a spot of bloodshed. Having not used one of the most useful tools of his arsenal for a few contracts, Ayden decided to unsheath the Interceptor, arguably the most discreet of his weapons. A semi-automatic suppressed Five-seveN pistol with a decent rate of fire. It had struck the plump official in the back of the head before he'd even heard his assailant coming, and he was dead before he knew what'd hit him.
Ayden had to appear like any other; for a daunting, pale, silver-haired figure moving down the main roads of East City alone appeared, at best, unorthodox. In his line of work, despite even his military status, he had to be careful to draw unnecessary attention. There were times when grandeur was acceptable, encouraged, maybe even necessary, and Ayden knew this not to be one of them. Since the end of the party, he'd taken a few days off to mull over General Tsukino's offer, heading to Ciliegia first, returning then to South, before sweeping up through Ishval and East. He'd take a plane from here to North, but realised he'd have almost eighteen hours to kill once he arrived in East; and thus, having not braced the newly-rebuilt city for a few months, the cerulean-eyed assassin decided to instead organise a few contracts he could take up whilst in transit. The red-haired man had been one of them, but he had still a half an hour, give or take a few minutes, before his next target arrived at a location.
Ayden scoffed and ran through the set-up spots again. He could make it in ten on foot, if it weren't for this despicable rain. He adjusted, adding a few minutes, and added into the mix the knowledge that he could take the shot whilst the meeting - additional details from the client about some hand-off, presumably two men high-up in some sort of drug business, barons by any other name - made the contract seem unknowably easy. Two seamless executions in a single day would make four this week. Four a week was a pretty damn steady source of income for the assassin.
Picking up two cases he'd set down into either hand, one vastly thicker than the other, and heavier, it appeared, from the silver-haired hitman's initial carrying stance, the face topped with azure orbs scrumpled somewhat as Ayden took a deep breath. He let his face reformat, become plain again, blinking no longer from his sheer determination; tracking this target hadn't been hard, but the streets had been teeming with people not ten minutes ago. Now, with the addition of rain into the mix, they were deserted. The day had gone from as bright as a January afternoon could be to something out of a depressing dictator-era bootleg movie set in 60s Drachma.
Taking on the appearance of a man seeking refuge from the rain just for any eyes watching from the buildings flanking him on either side, Ayden ran through his path once more. Despite not being photographic, the silver-haired assassin did possess a rather significant memory capacity, and could recall images of East City's labyrinthine streets like flicking through an old family photography album. Minus the nagging grandmother over his shoulder. Huffing and puffing to condition his lungs, with a grunt, the man started into a bolt, slaloming around various puddles and pond-like masses of water - it had only been raining for moments! - as he coursed through the streets, taking a left turn at the end of the road his original business - or, what remained of it - had been on.
Pondering strategy, Ayden had made a few presumptions about using Perseus for this particular task, but it wasn't going to be totally necessary. He had been instructed to send a message, and letting the wind whistle through a hole in your late business partner's head was a message enough for him. Breaking down the doors and giving everyone who lay inside a bullet sandwich wouldn't leave anyone alive to relay the message, it seemed. He grunted, and his stomach rumbled as he took another left, trying to dart between various doors to make the illusion even more convincing.
He came upon the site fairly quickly; the target building had two Cadillac BLS cars, Cretan in origin, parked outside. Blacked-out windows. Ayden presumed a third would be joining them later; although that meant the other targets were already in place. This was the location.
It appeared to be some sort of large apartment complex, opposite the street to two now-abandoned stores, looking almost derelict in the current weather climate. Both were, Ayden presumed, empty; one was a simple single-story convenience store, whilst the other had two floors, and appeared to be some sort of tailor's; dresses at the windows of rose and white told him that it probably specified in that arm of garments. The needlework looked good from this range, but he couldn't discern much otherwise. It looked fairly up-market, a decent place; this was a fairly nice part of town, but everything had become so skewed since the events of the summer.
He tracked a fair number of suit-garbed forms to the second-storey window across from the dress store; the hallway door at ground floor was open, and two men wearing blacked-out sunglasses stood guard, opposite each other, stalwart in silence, defending the main passage. Probably rented out for the sole purpose of this deal. Something big was going down. Ayden's muscles twitched in excitement, and his face stretched into a giddy grin.
It was obvious that the abandoned shop would be his best bet. In an instant, he hurried across to the glass opening door, using one hand, still clutching the smaller of the two cases, to pull up his jacket in order to create a - fairly resistant - guard against the knife-like sharp, cold raindrops shearing through the air from above. He made a quick facade at fumbling for keys, and tested the doorknob; sure enough, by dumb luck or fate guiding him, the door just swung open. Ayden had been ready to produce some sort of metallic transmutation sticker to reform it and blow it open, but, bizarrely, the structure just croaked open, the silver-haired man shuffling in, offering a quick, false smile to the men staring from across the road inside the corridor, and pulled it shut behind him.
Immediately, the smile evaporated, and the noises of rainfall faded from outside. The man pushed the door the last few centimetres ever-so-slowly, just until he heard his force break the limit and the opening mechanism click shut; no-one stirred in the entire shop; foyer, stairs, first floor, and all. Illuminated by nothing but the dim light of the outside in the afternoon, Ayden's eyes darted from side to side, silver hair swaying, as he checked the maze of dress racks for a single figure. He found no signs of life; it was completely empty. He was alone in the East City rain, just him, his weaponry, and, soon, his target.
Ayden sighed, and another grin, this one authentic, crept onto his face. At last, he could relax, and do what he did best. Taking the cases into both hands, and allowing the water to drip from a clump of wet strands of silver hair, and land in a tiny droplet on the floor, his eyes flicked to the stairs, and he began to move, walking ever-so-slowly, tools in hand, unaware of whatever could be awaiting him on the floors above. Whatever it was, if anything lay there, in wait or otherwise, it was absolutely and completely silent.
Alert from his training and conditioning but at ease somewhat, the man readied himself, and began to step forwards. Who would be here, anyway? The sign had read 'Closed', and the opening times verified this. It was a Sunday. The streets were, for lack of a better word, deserted. Nobody had any reason to be here save for the proprietor, and the likelihood was, they were at home, nearby. It looked like an authentic family-owned business, probably by some woman of faint noble lineage with immense pride in her needlework and four daughters, or something. The family was probably sat down at lunch together all wearing clothes bearing identical tailorship marks; this was just another ordinary dress shop, no matter how remarkable the materials and the sewing did look. Ayden told himself that one time and one time alone as he stepped towards the stairs, and began to ascend upwards towards the unknown as he had done many a time before. To unleash his caged, chained, restricted, channeled wrath upon yet another target, one of dozens, hundreds, most likely.
This was just another ordinary dress shop, right?
Guest- Guest
Re: The Beast and the Harlot
by Guest Sun Jan 15, 2012 5:05 pm
Amestris. The place that brought so much pain and suffering into the world. The place that brought a horror into her life, a curse that plagues her body. The poison pumps throughout her veins, as the sin of vainglory takes control over her ever waken thought, desire, dream, goal, mission, and love. The elegant woman knew she wouldn’t be gone from Amestris forever, it would always pull her back into it all. She may be the ruler of Drachma, but the essences of who she is was rooted in Amestris.
Her eyes stared out the front window of the black Lexus LF-A, as she floors it throughout the old country roads leading to East. It had been forever since Alena had been in East City, way before she became the prime spotlight of Drachma. The rustic city full of machinery, warehouse buildings, and hard laborious days had a hidden gem. A small dress shop that would make one of kind dresses was located in the heart of it all. The woman knew Alena very well, thanks to her exquisite taste for high fashion, and Alena’s craving for the best. The blue haired, petite girl loves anything that makes a scene. Something that stands out from the world, and sets her apart. Her engine was smooth and quiet as she races throughout the abandon streets leading to the small dress shop. There was a small drive that lead down to a secret garage, that would hold her car in hiding while she was in the shop. Drachma and Amestris were not on the best of terms, so it would be better if no one knew she was in East City. The owner of the dress shop never thought twice about having her best customer coming over, for Alena was always invited.
On the outside, the shop looked abandon as the rain trickles down the window pane. Even on the first floor, only old fabric and mannequins were stored. The real prize to it all was located on the third floor. Vanity makes her way up the creaking stairwell. Click by click she took each step with 7 inch heels that were made for her foot specifically. Her hand slides along the railing as she continues to climb higher into the building.
“Oh, madame Alena! Come in my dear.” A gentle woman that was larger than most, and had worn hands from years of sewing quickly approaches the world leader and takes her rain coat. The nice woman hangs it on a coat hanger before returning.
“Thank you, Abelle, it’s very nasty outside right now.” This was nothing compared to the harsh winters of Drachma. However, for the sake of it all, Alena was attempting at making small talk.
“Yes, yes my dear, come, come. I have dresses already pulled for you to try on.” Abelle leads Alena back towards the wall of mirrors and dressing room spot lights.
Alena makes her way into the half circle mirror case, and slowly unzips her jeans. Before long, Alena was in her first dress. The beautiful creation formed to her body melodically, and it would be breath taking when she took the stage at Miss World Competition as a head judge in this years pageant. The girl spins around in circles several times and laughs casually to herself. Dress number one was a success. Suddenly, Vanity stops and stares into the mirrors. Her reflection stared back, and she was soaking in how beautiful she looked. Alena raises her hand to her collar bone and strokes it faintly once. Lost in the back of her memory was a young girl that never felt beautiful, but hoped that one day she would be seen like a princess in her fairy tale books. Her wish was granted the night Father took her into his arms, and she soon bore the last of his sins. Vanity. Everything he wanted in life was placed on her lips, not by choice but by selfish desire.
Abelle was unzipping the back of her dress when she snaps back to reality. The unzipped zipper was exposing Alena’s back when they both heard a creak coming back the stairs.
“Miss Alena, is there another with you?” Abella smiles and whispers under her breath.
“No, I came alone.” Alena was a bit hesitant, however she knew whomever it was would be a problem for her. After all, it’s not like any man can resist her desire.
They both look over at the door before Abella shuffles over and slowly opens the door to the stairwell.
Her eyes stared out the front window of the black Lexus LF-A, as she floors it throughout the old country roads leading to East. It had been forever since Alena had been in East City, way before she became the prime spotlight of Drachma. The rustic city full of machinery, warehouse buildings, and hard laborious days had a hidden gem. A small dress shop that would make one of kind dresses was located in the heart of it all. The woman knew Alena very well, thanks to her exquisite taste for high fashion, and Alena’s craving for the best. The blue haired, petite girl loves anything that makes a scene. Something that stands out from the world, and sets her apart. Her engine was smooth and quiet as she races throughout the abandon streets leading to the small dress shop. There was a small drive that lead down to a secret garage, that would hold her car in hiding while she was in the shop. Drachma and Amestris were not on the best of terms, so it would be better if no one knew she was in East City. The owner of the dress shop never thought twice about having her best customer coming over, for Alena was always invited.
On the outside, the shop looked abandon as the rain trickles down the window pane. Even on the first floor, only old fabric and mannequins were stored. The real prize to it all was located on the third floor. Vanity makes her way up the creaking stairwell. Click by click she took each step with 7 inch heels that were made for her foot specifically. Her hand slides along the railing as she continues to climb higher into the building.
“Oh, madame Alena! Come in my dear.” A gentle woman that was larger than most, and had worn hands from years of sewing quickly approaches the world leader and takes her rain coat. The nice woman hangs it on a coat hanger before returning.
“Thank you, Abelle, it’s very nasty outside right now.” This was nothing compared to the harsh winters of Drachma. However, for the sake of it all, Alena was attempting at making small talk.
“Yes, yes my dear, come, come. I have dresses already pulled for you to try on.” Abelle leads Alena back towards the wall of mirrors and dressing room spot lights.
Alena makes her way into the half circle mirror case, and slowly unzips her jeans. Before long, Alena was in her first dress. The beautiful creation formed to her body melodically, and it would be breath taking when she took the stage at Miss World Competition as a head judge in this years pageant. The girl spins around in circles several times and laughs casually to herself. Dress number one was a success. Suddenly, Vanity stops and stares into the mirrors. Her reflection stared back, and she was soaking in how beautiful she looked. Alena raises her hand to her collar bone and strokes it faintly once. Lost in the back of her memory was a young girl that never felt beautiful, but hoped that one day she would be seen like a princess in her fairy tale books. Her wish was granted the night Father took her into his arms, and she soon bore the last of his sins. Vanity. Everything he wanted in life was placed on her lips, not by choice but by selfish desire.
Abelle was unzipping the back of her dress when she snaps back to reality. The unzipped zipper was exposing Alena’s back when they both heard a creak coming back the stairs.
“Miss Alena, is there another with you?” Abella smiles and whispers under her breath.
“No, I came alone.” Alena was a bit hesitant, however she knew whomever it was would be a problem for her. After all, it’s not like any man can resist her desire.
They both look over at the door before Abella shuffles over and slowly opens the door to the stairwell.
Guest- Guest
Re: The Beast and the Harlot
by Guest Sun Jan 15, 2012 7:20 pm
Ayden had long since set up the first of his tools. Perseus was out of its case in a moment, with Andromeda concealed and stacked against one of the racks of the upper floor. He took the upstairs counter as a rest, screwing together bipod, composite framework, scope, barrel, and suppressor, before finally cycling the bolt confidently, eye pressed to the ridge of the scope with a neutral, calm expression sitting stalwart on his face, magazine complete with five thumbed-in .300 rounds swiftly slammed into the feeder. A triumphant click indicated the rifle was ready; gently setting the frame down, bipod flicked out, he let the weight rest on the counter, and sighed.
In an instant, the silver-haired assassin, the slightest of smiles apparent on his pale face, pursed lips moved into a curvature, grasped a chair, and dragged it towards the end of the counter; it was positioned to be long and thin, although the fine varnished wooden worktop, another sign that this was most likely a prestigious business, allowed him just enough space to rest the rifle and inch it from side to side without fear of it clattering to the floor.
Placing himself directly behind the window was stupid. Surveillance, most likely those two guards at the entrance, would be able to see them from their angles, and considering they'd most likely begin patrolling once the next member of their little congregation arrived, Ayden had chosen a rather unorthodox strategy. The scope had been tweaked with a variable zoom function, and the man had chosen a defined range within a few moments, using a number of dials on the edge of the black framework; the lenses concentrated and dilated dependent on user-based input. It was tweaked to be lightweight and customisable. he barebones, with attachments completely up to whoever had their eye pressed against the scope. It was the elite of sniper rifles; collapsible and Cretan-manufactured, only the best of the best were allowed to handle the prototypes, freshly birthed from the old M24.
The rifle's scope, however, had a disadvantage; a tendency to glint from what little sunlight there was in January months such as this. A dead give-away this early on in the mission, combined with the chance of discovery meant that if these guys meant business, he could end up leaving here with the possibility of harm. This was to be a flawless, seamless execution; nothing to go wrong, totally textbook. He'd set his weapon up, and had the crosshairs now positioned over the head of a plump man collapsed in a chair, opposite a corresponding empty identical wooden structure. He stroked a white beard that matched his garbs in colour; an iridescent suit that was almost a pain to look at, tacky and most likely expensive. Ayden kept his head; for anyone on the other end of the monstrosity in his hands was only a pound of trigger pressure away from losing theirs.
All he had to do... all he had to do now was just wait.
And, of course, just when he began to relax, scanning the scene for further threats and additional details, making his little analysis, as the figure in the chair seemingly began to become more and more irritated as time went by, his face reddening as he checked his watch an increasing number of times with every minute... complications were added into the matter.
The door opened. A pale ear pricked; pursed lips grinned once more. The silvery transparent fibres on the back of his neck, one by one, stood up straight, each a regimental soldier in Ayden's army of bodily hair. Two figures stepped in; for a moment, the sound of shuffling and the quietest of female sighs as the assassin presumed whoever stood barely a few floors below changed into... well, most likely, a dress. The proprietor, perhaps? Maybe with a private client.
Ayden, however, had left his mark downstairs; wet footprints, disrupting the fine, thin film of dust on the counter, and maybe just the general aura of death and pain he radiated had hung upon the path he'd travelled like a lingering bad smell. They noticed him; and that was what mattered. He recoiled from the sights of the gun immediately, and twisted, contorted his body, moving down into a crouching position so he could get the best vantage point. He drew Interceptor from his waist, and forced himself into the shortest shape possible, crouching behind the opposite end of the counter worktop, the gate having opened outwards to conceal a single outstretched arm clutching the black-finished pistol.
“No, I came alone.” Amestrian accent. Local, probably. Seductive undercurrent in her tone and style. Hm... odd. Most probably young; that was all he gained from the snippet of sound, and the few syllables he could indeed analyse.
Ayden made a quick raincheck. He'd only used a single shot in dispatching the target, but hadn't reloaded; that was fine. He still had another nineteen bullets to use, but if he was too trigger-happy in taking out just whoever showed themselves ascending the stairs - he'd heard their shifting towards the stairwell, too - there was an increasing chance that he would be discovered. Suppressed shots were quiet, but not totally silenced; plus, there was always a remnant of the original muzzle flash. He would have to be careful. It looked like coercion and threats would have to do here if he was going to be completely seamless in his execution of the target.
Nevertheless, the women would provide entertainment, it seemed. The grin snaked further. He wasn't sure whether they were armed or not, but they... they sounded like civilians, somewhat. Breath slowed and calmed, Ayden let his eyes flutter shut for a moment, nodding to himself, ready to throw his form up the moment she crossed into the stairs. He committed the command into his memory over and over again, isolating a single thought: do not fire. The assassin didn't like failure. It didn't do his reputation any good. He'd have to be careful with these two; they would balance between playthings and hostages, both to entertain him during this dull mediocrity of suspense that he could barely call a respite or a wait worth savouring... and an extra challenge added into the mix, possible expendable assets if things went south. It was just limbo; the period of blankness between those moments of vivid crimson he'd remember, each and every one, all the targets, tall, short, fat, thin, black, white...
One thing was for sure. Ayden took his job seriously enough to consider making this as clean a kill as no possible; he missed the full sweep routine, the seek-and-destroy agenda. This simple elimination allowed no fuck-ups; he had to work smooth, quick, and clean. It didn't really suit him... confining to one canvas with too many specifics stunted his creativity. And stunting his creativity bored the man.
And a single solitary truth in this world of lies that was Ayden Derocha was a man not to be bored.
In an instant, the silver-haired assassin, the slightest of smiles apparent on his pale face, pursed lips moved into a curvature, grasped a chair, and dragged it towards the end of the counter; it was positioned to be long and thin, although the fine varnished wooden worktop, another sign that this was most likely a prestigious business, allowed him just enough space to rest the rifle and inch it from side to side without fear of it clattering to the floor.
Placing himself directly behind the window was stupid. Surveillance, most likely those two guards at the entrance, would be able to see them from their angles, and considering they'd most likely begin patrolling once the next member of their little congregation arrived, Ayden had chosen a rather unorthodox strategy. The scope had been tweaked with a variable zoom function, and the man had chosen a defined range within a few moments, using a number of dials on the edge of the black framework; the lenses concentrated and dilated dependent on user-based input. It was tweaked to be lightweight and customisable. he barebones, with attachments completely up to whoever had their eye pressed against the scope. It was the elite of sniper rifles; collapsible and Cretan-manufactured, only the best of the best were allowed to handle the prototypes, freshly birthed from the old M24.
The rifle's scope, however, had a disadvantage; a tendency to glint from what little sunlight there was in January months such as this. A dead give-away this early on in the mission, combined with the chance of discovery meant that if these guys meant business, he could end up leaving here with the possibility of harm. This was to be a flawless, seamless execution; nothing to go wrong, totally textbook. He'd set his weapon up, and had the crosshairs now positioned over the head of a plump man collapsed in a chair, opposite a corresponding empty identical wooden structure. He stroked a white beard that matched his garbs in colour; an iridescent suit that was almost a pain to look at, tacky and most likely expensive. Ayden kept his head; for anyone on the other end of the monstrosity in his hands was only a pound of trigger pressure away from losing theirs.
All he had to do... all he had to do now was just wait.
And, of course, just when he began to relax, scanning the scene for further threats and additional details, making his little analysis, as the figure in the chair seemingly began to become more and more irritated as time went by, his face reddening as he checked his watch an increasing number of times with every minute... complications were added into the matter.
The door opened. A pale ear pricked; pursed lips grinned once more. The silvery transparent fibres on the back of his neck, one by one, stood up straight, each a regimental soldier in Ayden's army of bodily hair. Two figures stepped in; for a moment, the sound of shuffling and the quietest of female sighs as the assassin presumed whoever stood barely a few floors below changed into... well, most likely, a dress. The proprietor, perhaps? Maybe with a private client.
Ayden, however, had left his mark downstairs; wet footprints, disrupting the fine, thin film of dust on the counter, and maybe just the general aura of death and pain he radiated had hung upon the path he'd travelled like a lingering bad smell. They noticed him; and that was what mattered. He recoiled from the sights of the gun immediately, and twisted, contorted his body, moving down into a crouching position so he could get the best vantage point. He drew Interceptor from his waist, and forced himself into the shortest shape possible, crouching behind the opposite end of the counter worktop, the gate having opened outwards to conceal a single outstretched arm clutching the black-finished pistol.
“No, I came alone.” Amestrian accent. Local, probably. Seductive undercurrent in her tone and style. Hm... odd. Most probably young; that was all he gained from the snippet of sound, and the few syllables he could indeed analyse.
Ayden made a quick raincheck. He'd only used a single shot in dispatching the target, but hadn't reloaded; that was fine. He still had another nineteen bullets to use, but if he was too trigger-happy in taking out just whoever showed themselves ascending the stairs - he'd heard their shifting towards the stairwell, too - there was an increasing chance that he would be discovered. Suppressed shots were quiet, but not totally silenced; plus, there was always a remnant of the original muzzle flash. He would have to be careful. It looked like coercion and threats would have to do here if he was going to be completely seamless in his execution of the target.
Nevertheless, the women would provide entertainment, it seemed. The grin snaked further. He wasn't sure whether they were armed or not, but they... they sounded like civilians, somewhat. Breath slowed and calmed, Ayden let his eyes flutter shut for a moment, nodding to himself, ready to throw his form up the moment she crossed into the stairs. He committed the command into his memory over and over again, isolating a single thought: do not fire. The assassin didn't like failure. It didn't do his reputation any good. He'd have to be careful with these two; they would balance between playthings and hostages, both to entertain him during this dull mediocrity of suspense that he could barely call a respite or a wait worth savouring... and an extra challenge added into the mix, possible expendable assets if things went south. It was just limbo; the period of blankness between those moments of vivid crimson he'd remember, each and every one, all the targets, tall, short, fat, thin, black, white...
One thing was for sure. Ayden took his job seriously enough to consider making this as clean a kill as no possible; he missed the full sweep routine, the seek-and-destroy agenda. This simple elimination allowed no fuck-ups; he had to work smooth, quick, and clean. It didn't really suit him... confining to one canvas with too many specifics stunted his creativity. And stunting his creativity bored the man.
And a single solitary truth in this world of lies that was Ayden Derocha was a man not to be bored.
Guest- Guest
Re: The Beast and the Harlot
by Guest Sat Feb 11, 2012 5:16 pm
Abelle stood in the doorway, facing the dark, damp, descending stairs. The lights weren't on at this moment, strickily because the leader of Drachma was here and the shop was suppose to be closed. A thin hand extends out into the hallway, desperately searching for the light switch. Immediately, the hand found the switch and Abelle had lit up the entire floor.
"Hello?" Her old weary voice calls out into the silence. "Is anyone there?" She was just about to take a step down onto the stairs when Vanity quickly pulls her back and smile calmly.
"Abelle, it's probably just my driver. Let me go first so you don't frighten him." Vanity smirks as Abelle zips up the back of her current dress. Vanity came alone, she didn't have a driver, but this poor older woman didn't know that. The homunculus steps lightly onto the stairs and begins descending to the next floor. Her shadow lingers behind her as the light become more visible. She took a deep breath and puts the first foot down off the steps into the open room with several worktop at the far end of the open room. The beautiful woman takes another step, but this time suddenly stops in her tracks. Her barefoot touched a little puddle of water and she tilts her head in confusion. Several more tracks were leading towards a worktop in the far left corner. Whomever was in this building was waiting there, and whatever they were doing it seemed they were trying to be desecrate and hidden. "Whose there? Stand up this moment, please. You can't hide forever." The woman instantly begins speaking, releasing an invisible toxic into the air the would serve as a defensive mechanism if need be.
"Hello?" Her old weary voice calls out into the silence. "Is anyone there?" She was just about to take a step down onto the stairs when Vanity quickly pulls her back and smile calmly.
"Abelle, it's probably just my driver. Let me go first so you don't frighten him." Vanity smirks as Abelle zips up the back of her current dress. Vanity came alone, she didn't have a driver, but this poor older woman didn't know that. The homunculus steps lightly onto the stairs and begins descending to the next floor. Her shadow lingers behind her as the light become more visible. She took a deep breath and puts the first foot down off the steps into the open room with several worktop at the far end of the open room. The beautiful woman takes another step, but this time suddenly stops in her tracks. Her barefoot touched a little puddle of water and she tilts her head in confusion. Several more tracks were leading towards a worktop in the far left corner. Whomever was in this building was waiting there, and whatever they were doing it seemed they were trying to be desecrate and hidden. "Whose there? Stand up this moment, please. You can't hide forever." The woman instantly begins speaking, releasing an invisible toxic into the air the would serve as a defensive mechanism if need be.
Guest- Guest
Re: The Beast and the Harlot
by Guest Sun Feb 12, 2012 11:57 am
The shout from the wizened proprietor below rang out loud and clear through the halls of the shop's upper level. A grin carved its way onto the pale face of the silver-haired assassin, and light twinkled across his two cerulean orbs. Cold hands clutched cold metal; the tip of Interceptor's suppressor was held but half an inch from the jutting edge beneath which he sought refuge in the comforting dim January shadow.
He slowed his breathing, and pricked his ears, listening ever more carefully to the words, the syllables, the twists and turns, the accent below... a brief sentence from the first, younger voice: "Abelle, it's probably just my driver. Let me go first so you don't frighten him."
The safety was already off on the pistol; Ayden had conditioned himself to engage his weapon and draw it in a single, combined fluid movement. However, the hammer was still pressed forwards. A gloved thumb stretched in an unnatural manner beyond its regular reach, and hovered barely a millimetre above the dark metal of the prong. A slow, calculating movement, and gently, oh-so-gently, he eased the hammer backwards with a single digit until the click resounded through the room, audible, most likely, to whoever now ascended the stairs. A warning just as much as it were a sign of readiness. The inner mechanisms and workings of the weapon all clicked into gear in an instant as the single deciding factor was eased into an engaged state; the nineteen, specialised, caseless rounds sitting static in the clip, with the twentieth ready, locked, cocked, and loaded in the chamber. Lying in wait, ready to propel itself - along with its nineteen brethren - towards whichever or whatever target the assassin decided to assail.
"Who's there?" A question left so open. To interpretation, to answer, to the very cosmos which suspended this earthly game, keeping it hung in stasis and perpetual bloodshed simply for the entertainment of some divine, higher being. "Stand up this moment, please. You can't hide forever."
Ah, so she'd located him. Excellent. Ayden even half-considered dropping Interceptor to the floor and breaking out in sarcastic clapping, but he was far too knowledgeable in the ways of the underworld to do so. This could all be an elaborate ruse to put the assassin on the other end of a .50 machine gun, which would most likely not end well for the silver-haired assailant. "Who is there, indeed?" Excellent... time to play with the girl for but a moment, experiment, manipulate...
"Why, my dear, that's all but a matter of perspective. Am I a murderer? A heartless killer? A progenitor of many mindless slaughters, a cause and reason for bodies strewn across innumerable fields?" Hopefully his talking would entertain her enough that it'd shift her off guard - then he'd truly display himself. "Or am I a freedom fighter? A vigilante? Perhaps simply an employee of this country's despicable underworld, simply trying to make my way by doing the will of any who can grease my palms enough," Now.
With that, he extended the entirety of his body in an instant. He rose to full form, six foot one to dwarf the shorter girl's five foot seven. Both hands wrapped, clamped about the black hilt of his weapon, his pistol trained firmly on the spot between her eyes. Ayden's marksmanship and accuracy wouldn't fail him at this range; but he didn't know the girl's little secret.
As much as he did know of the leader of Drachma's being a homunculus, he was as closed-off and segregated from the country's media as possible. He didn't know who this woman was. He didn't think that she was a politician, or even a terrorist, a member of the cell known as RIOTE. That which many in his military had pledged to take down months, maybe years ago. For now, she was just another target - albeit a very well-dressed one - facing a loaded gun - and when you're in that position, what's the difference?
He slowed his breathing, and pricked his ears, listening ever more carefully to the words, the syllables, the twists and turns, the accent below... a brief sentence from the first, younger voice: "Abelle, it's probably just my driver. Let me go first so you don't frighten him."
The safety was already off on the pistol; Ayden had conditioned himself to engage his weapon and draw it in a single, combined fluid movement. However, the hammer was still pressed forwards. A gloved thumb stretched in an unnatural manner beyond its regular reach, and hovered barely a millimetre above the dark metal of the prong. A slow, calculating movement, and gently, oh-so-gently, he eased the hammer backwards with a single digit until the click resounded through the room, audible, most likely, to whoever now ascended the stairs. A warning just as much as it were a sign of readiness. The inner mechanisms and workings of the weapon all clicked into gear in an instant as the single deciding factor was eased into an engaged state; the nineteen, specialised, caseless rounds sitting static in the clip, with the twentieth ready, locked, cocked, and loaded in the chamber. Lying in wait, ready to propel itself - along with its nineteen brethren - towards whichever or whatever target the assassin decided to assail.
"Who's there?" A question left so open. To interpretation, to answer, to the very cosmos which suspended this earthly game, keeping it hung in stasis and perpetual bloodshed simply for the entertainment of some divine, higher being. "Stand up this moment, please. You can't hide forever."
Ah, so she'd located him. Excellent. Ayden even half-considered dropping Interceptor to the floor and breaking out in sarcastic clapping, but he was far too knowledgeable in the ways of the underworld to do so. This could all be an elaborate ruse to put the assassin on the other end of a .50 machine gun, which would most likely not end well for the silver-haired assailant. "Who is there, indeed?" Excellent... time to play with the girl for but a moment, experiment, manipulate...
"Why, my dear, that's all but a matter of perspective. Am I a murderer? A heartless killer? A progenitor of many mindless slaughters, a cause and reason for bodies strewn across innumerable fields?" Hopefully his talking would entertain her enough that it'd shift her off guard - then he'd truly display himself. "Or am I a freedom fighter? A vigilante? Perhaps simply an employee of this country's despicable underworld, simply trying to make my way by doing the will of any who can grease my palms enough," Now.
With that, he extended the entirety of his body in an instant. He rose to full form, six foot one to dwarf the shorter girl's five foot seven. Both hands wrapped, clamped about the black hilt of his weapon, his pistol trained firmly on the spot between her eyes. Ayden's marksmanship and accuracy wouldn't fail him at this range; but he didn't know the girl's little secret.
As much as he did know of the leader of Drachma's being a homunculus, he was as closed-off and segregated from the country's media as possible. He didn't know who this woman was. He didn't think that she was a politician, or even a terrorist, a member of the cell known as RIOTE. That which many in his military had pledged to take down months, maybe years ago. For now, she was just another target - albeit a very well-dressed one - facing a loaded gun - and when you're in that position, what's the difference?
Guest- Guest
Re: The Beast and the Harlot
by Guest Sun Feb 12, 2012 5:26 pm
As her words slip out of her mouth, it felt like an eternity was passing by. Things were moving in slow motion, and she waits a response from the stranger that lingers in the dark.
"Who is there, indeed?" A haunting voice breaks the crisp silence and the woman closes her eyes to a time where she was just a young girl in her teens.
--------
She was only sixteen, and in her prime years long before she was given the curse of 'Vanity'. Boys were crazy about her and she was the star. Life was handed to her on a silver platter, and she would spend all nights partying. After all, Father never put hard restrictions on Alena and the only rule was not to go into his 'laboratory'. The foolish girl use to sneak out late at night, looking for a taste of real life. Older men would honk their horns and whistle as she walks down the vacant streets in her heels, swaying in the wind.
Eventually she would spend the nights dancing at the local bar, men cheering her name in the pink spotlights, making the money she desperately desired. Her looks got her far in life. She was the prettiest in a crowd, ribbons in her hair and eyes that gleamed with desire. A beauty queen that walked the streets, desperately searching for a reality to her lonely life.
--------
"Why, my dear, that's all but a matter of perspective. Am I a murderer? A heartless killer? A progenitor of many mindless slaughters, a cause and reason for bodies strewn across innumerable fields?" His voice penetrated her memory and she snaps back to the current reality. The woman folds both arms across her chest and tilts her head listening ever so closely. "Or am I a freedom fighter? A vigilante? Perhaps simply an employee of this country's despicable underworld, simply trying to make my way by doing the will of any who can grease my palms enough," The mysterious voice stops, and soon a man appears from behind the workspace. He was much larger than her, but she didn't' back down. Instead she stares at the pistol that was aimed directly at her.
"Does it matter exactly who you are? I could care less honestly, but I'm not foolish and I know that you will not shoot me, but..." Her seductive words slip off the edges of her lip as she bites down with her teeth. The beautiful woman was using her charm as she slowly approaches the man. Each step she took was filled regrets and pain that she experienced in life. Vanity was close enough now that the barrel of the pistol was directly on her forehead, the cooling metal tingling her bare skin. "Come on, take your shot. End my miserable life." Her voice was strong, definite, and anything but weary. "It should be easy for you. You don't know me, you don't know what I'm about, and that's how it should be. No emotional ties, just the lingering thirst for blood that runs in your glands." With that, the woman shut her eyes and waits for the trigger to be pulled.
"Who is there, indeed?" A haunting voice breaks the crisp silence and the woman closes her eyes to a time where she was just a young girl in her teens.
--------
She was only sixteen, and in her prime years long before she was given the curse of 'Vanity'. Boys were crazy about her and she was the star. Life was handed to her on a silver platter, and she would spend all nights partying. After all, Father never put hard restrictions on Alena and the only rule was not to go into his 'laboratory'. The foolish girl use to sneak out late at night, looking for a taste of real life. Older men would honk their horns and whistle as she walks down the vacant streets in her heels, swaying in the wind.
Eventually she would spend the nights dancing at the local bar, men cheering her name in the pink spotlights, making the money she desperately desired. Her looks got her far in life. She was the prettiest in a crowd, ribbons in her hair and eyes that gleamed with desire. A beauty queen that walked the streets, desperately searching for a reality to her lonely life.
--------
"Why, my dear, that's all but a matter of perspective. Am I a murderer? A heartless killer? A progenitor of many mindless slaughters, a cause and reason for bodies strewn across innumerable fields?" His voice penetrated her memory and she snaps back to the current reality. The woman folds both arms across her chest and tilts her head listening ever so closely. "Or am I a freedom fighter? A vigilante? Perhaps simply an employee of this country's despicable underworld, simply trying to make my way by doing the will of any who can grease my palms enough," The mysterious voice stops, and soon a man appears from behind the workspace. He was much larger than her, but she didn't' back down. Instead she stares at the pistol that was aimed directly at her.
"Does it matter exactly who you are? I could care less honestly, but I'm not foolish and I know that you will not shoot me, but..." Her seductive words slip off the edges of her lip as she bites down with her teeth. The beautiful woman was using her charm as she slowly approaches the man. Each step she took was filled regrets and pain that she experienced in life. Vanity was close enough now that the barrel of the pistol was directly on her forehead, the cooling metal tingling her bare skin. "Come on, take your shot. End my miserable life." Her voice was strong, definite, and anything but weary. "It should be easy for you. You don't know me, you don't know what I'm about, and that's how it should be. No emotional ties, just the lingering thirst for blood that runs in your glands." With that, the woman shut her eyes and waits for the trigger to be pulled.
Last edited by Vanity on Fri Feb 17, 2012 11:46 pm; edited 1 time in total
Guest- Guest
Re: The Beast and the Harlot
by Guest Mon Feb 13, 2012 9:07 am
"Does it matter exactly who you are? I could care less honestly, but I'm not foolish and I know that you won't not shoot me, but..." Oh, wouldn't he, now? Ayden arched an eyebrow, and waved the gun as so to guide Alena closer to him. He took a quick raincheck, shuffling back a step so he could get his targets into the plane of vision alongside making sure this deceptively innocent little girl didn't get the jump on him. Caution was his best weapon, after all.
They were still there. The white-haired, white-suited man now twice as irritable, checking his watch every moment, pacing up and down rapidly, face as red as a cherry; he still had to wait for the other to arrive. He looked to Alena; he had time to kill. Time to play with this oh-so-delicious little piece of meat. "Exactly!" Despite the gun, he clapped his hands together, keeping the sound muffled but audible just to the pair. It wasn't a shout; more just a raised tone, an exclamation kept under wraps. "What does it matter who I am? I'm just a passing 'visitor', if you will,"
He scanned her up and down, and chuckled once more, shaking his head. "I'm not going to kill you," He eased the hammer back into place on the Five-seveN. More bodies only meant more mess. More mess was more evidence. Interceptor fired caseless rounds, but if the girl was dead, it was just another variable that could all lead to this entire operation, this entire network of slaughter and assassinations, this massive precarious criminal 'vigilante' balance coming tumbling down - right on the Colonel's head.
Plus, it was such a waste of a life. Unlike the target, who would undoubtedly be a man of similar stature, position, and probably age, she was young, fresh. Beautiful, too; Ayden still had to keep his hormones and carnal lusts in check, if only for Jeu-Hee's sake. He was an assassin, not a rapist or a monster. "...provided you let me have use of your store. I'll be out of your hair in a moment," Well, there was always a catch. Mercy never came for free in this survivalist world they lived in.
Despite his holstering the gun, the girl stepped forwards as he did, and pressed her forehead dead against the barrel, the cold black metal of the muzzle. Gunpowder still warm in a shadow of a sharp, pointed splash pattern across the very tip, pale January light dancing across perforated holes to allow air and the slightest of sound to escape. "Come on, take your shot. End my miserable life." Ayden arched an eyebrow. Depressive!? She had no right to be. And yet... oh how he hated it so...
He didn't tremble or quake as others would have done. He simply hesitated; he paused. He cycled through thought processes in that deranged cavern of depravity he called a mind. He racked up pros and cons. Everything he stood for, the giddy happiness of completion, the ability to make yourself into whatever you want to be, to carve your own path... her last very words reflected and contrasted that utterly and completely. By any right, he knew that he should have blown her away right there and then. A single suppressed caseless round right through the forehead. Turn the back of her head into a grotesque exit wound. Let blood spatter against dresses blue, white, and pink, a deadly crimson dancing and seeping with those other coloured fibres.
Oh, how fantastic it would be! A free kill! Excitement tingled down every inch of his body but for an instant, adrenaline surging now through his veins. This complication had made things far more... interesting than he'd previously thought this routine job to be. He was getting canvas, free canvas, free of charge! Unpredicted, unthought, unheard of... this girl begged for her end.
And yet, she was beautiful. Standing there in that dress, utterly divine, forehead pressed against the most discrete and yet the most effective of all his weapons. She would be exquisite, beauty incarnate, in both life and death, aqua hair tumbling down in rolling, perfect locks. She was everything a woman wished to be and more. And she wanted to throw it all away. She wanted the easy road out.
And what would be the best thing to do? Obliging her would show him to be a better man... a good man. No, the true sign of one such as himself, one who showed perfect and complete indifference, would simply be to will her further along the path. Who was to know? They could encounter each other in later life, and the tables could be turned. He could revolutionise her very ways of thinking, her very ethics and methodics. "Nobody dies today save for the man I came here to kill,"
Death was what she wanted, but pain and fear, he could still manipulate. "Sit down, or I'll blow holes in your kneecaps until you have to learn to walk with your hands," A blunt, gruff tone. Unlike Ayden, a man usually far more eloquent and elegant when it came to being a wordsmith. Things were getting heated, and he had a job to do. There were three sleek, chic chairs in the corner of the room; he raised the pistol over to them, waving it, gesturing for her to move.
"It should be easy for you. You don't know me, you don't know what I'm about, and that's how it should be. No emotional ties, just the lingering thirst for blood that runs in your glands." He let a giggle loose, the expression on his face turning quickly from stoic and irritated to happy and manipulative again. Of course! She had something hidden, something that she could use as a failsafe. Perhaps she was in this business, as well? Or perhaps she knew that speech would perhaps turn the tables for her. It wouldn't; it still left her alive, but under his dominion as long as he remained there.
"Please, don't pretend like you know me, like you can predict even my simplest of desires - true, I could, if I wanted to, cut you down here and now... but I've got work to do, and that would prove a complication and a waste of time, honestly," That was... something of a lie. Ayden always had time for a spot of murder; perhaps this odd, blue-haired girl would look even more beautiful in death than life, but... but... he could only imagine... for now, at least.
A wayward glance settled on the stairs as he remembered the quiet, older voice. Hushed, even. Scared. "Call the other up here. Tell her to sit down, too," Not even requests, now; commands. He wasn't getting irritated, just... pressed. Pressed for time. He had a task to complete, and if he didn't make sure that this 'message' was sent exactly as planned, his employers, his clients, would be very upset.
With that, he grasped one of the chairs from behind the upstairs counter, and dragged it closer to the perch where he'd assembled the rifle, laying static upon its back end, bipod extended and barrel pointing mightily into the air, black suppressor fitted almost in tandem theme with his pistol. "I apologise for the inconvenience, I really do, but this is all necessary for the sake of professionalism," So far, her petty attempts to anger him had been answered only with irritation and calm. Would they succeed in the near future, though...?
They were still there. The white-haired, white-suited man now twice as irritable, checking his watch every moment, pacing up and down rapidly, face as red as a cherry; he still had to wait for the other to arrive. He looked to Alena; he had time to kill. Time to play with this oh-so-delicious little piece of meat. "Exactly!" Despite the gun, he clapped his hands together, keeping the sound muffled but audible just to the pair. It wasn't a shout; more just a raised tone, an exclamation kept under wraps. "What does it matter who I am? I'm just a passing 'visitor', if you will,"
He scanned her up and down, and chuckled once more, shaking his head. "I'm not going to kill you," He eased the hammer back into place on the Five-seveN. More bodies only meant more mess. More mess was more evidence. Interceptor fired caseless rounds, but if the girl was dead, it was just another variable that could all lead to this entire operation, this entire network of slaughter and assassinations, this massive precarious criminal 'vigilante' balance coming tumbling down - right on the Colonel's head.
Plus, it was such a waste of a life. Unlike the target, who would undoubtedly be a man of similar stature, position, and probably age, she was young, fresh. Beautiful, too; Ayden still had to keep his hormones and carnal lusts in check, if only for Jeu-Hee's sake. He was an assassin, not a rapist or a monster. "...provided you let me have use of your store. I'll be out of your hair in a moment," Well, there was always a catch. Mercy never came for free in this survivalist world they lived in.
Despite his holstering the gun, the girl stepped forwards as he did, and pressed her forehead dead against the barrel, the cold black metal of the muzzle. Gunpowder still warm in a shadow of a sharp, pointed splash pattern across the very tip, pale January light dancing across perforated holes to allow air and the slightest of sound to escape. "Come on, take your shot. End my miserable life." Ayden arched an eyebrow. Depressive!? She had no right to be. And yet... oh how he hated it so...
He didn't tremble or quake as others would have done. He simply hesitated; he paused. He cycled through thought processes in that deranged cavern of depravity he called a mind. He racked up pros and cons. Everything he stood for, the giddy happiness of completion, the ability to make yourself into whatever you want to be, to carve your own path... her last very words reflected and contrasted that utterly and completely. By any right, he knew that he should have blown her away right there and then. A single suppressed caseless round right through the forehead. Turn the back of her head into a grotesque exit wound. Let blood spatter against dresses blue, white, and pink, a deadly crimson dancing and seeping with those other coloured fibres.
Oh, how fantastic it would be! A free kill! Excitement tingled down every inch of his body but for an instant, adrenaline surging now through his veins. This complication had made things far more... interesting than he'd previously thought this routine job to be. He was getting canvas, free canvas, free of charge! Unpredicted, unthought, unheard of... this girl begged for her end.
And yet, she was beautiful. Standing there in that dress, utterly divine, forehead pressed against the most discrete and yet the most effective of all his weapons. She would be exquisite, beauty incarnate, in both life and death, aqua hair tumbling down in rolling, perfect locks. She was everything a woman wished to be and more. And she wanted to throw it all away. She wanted the easy road out.
And what would be the best thing to do? Obliging her would show him to be a better man... a good man. No, the true sign of one such as himself, one who showed perfect and complete indifference, would simply be to will her further along the path. Who was to know? They could encounter each other in later life, and the tables could be turned. He could revolutionise her very ways of thinking, her very ethics and methodics. "Nobody dies today save for the man I came here to kill,"
Death was what she wanted, but pain and fear, he could still manipulate. "Sit down, or I'll blow holes in your kneecaps until you have to learn to walk with your hands," A blunt, gruff tone. Unlike Ayden, a man usually far more eloquent and elegant when it came to being a wordsmith. Things were getting heated, and he had a job to do. There were three sleek, chic chairs in the corner of the room; he raised the pistol over to them, waving it, gesturing for her to move.
"It should be easy for you. You don't know me, you don't know what I'm about, and that's how it should be. No emotional ties, just the lingering thirst for blood that runs in your glands." He let a giggle loose, the expression on his face turning quickly from stoic and irritated to happy and manipulative again. Of course! She had something hidden, something that she could use as a failsafe. Perhaps she was in this business, as well? Or perhaps she knew that speech would perhaps turn the tables for her. It wouldn't; it still left her alive, but under his dominion as long as he remained there.
"Please, don't pretend like you know me, like you can predict even my simplest of desires - true, I could, if I wanted to, cut you down here and now... but I've got work to do, and that would prove a complication and a waste of time, honestly," That was... something of a lie. Ayden always had time for a spot of murder; perhaps this odd, blue-haired girl would look even more beautiful in death than life, but... but... he could only imagine... for now, at least.
A wayward glance settled on the stairs as he remembered the quiet, older voice. Hushed, even. Scared. "Call the other up here. Tell her to sit down, too," Not even requests, now; commands. He wasn't getting irritated, just... pressed. Pressed for time. He had a task to complete, and if he didn't make sure that this 'message' was sent exactly as planned, his employers, his clients, would be very upset.
With that, he grasped one of the chairs from behind the upstairs counter, and dragged it closer to the perch where he'd assembled the rifle, laying static upon its back end, bipod extended and barrel pointing mightily into the air, black suppressor fitted almost in tandem theme with his pistol. "I apologise for the inconvenience, I really do, but this is all necessary for the sake of professionalism," So far, her petty attempts to anger him had been answered only with irritation and calm. Would they succeed in the near future, though...?
Guest- Guest
Re: The Beast and the Harlot
by Guest Sat Feb 18, 2012 12:12 am
Vanity stood her ground in that dress that made her unparalleled to the rest of the world, she was the most beautiful creature to grace the surface of this deprived, miserable, rotten world they lived in. Her forehead was pressed firmly against the end of the barrel, staring up into his sickening eyes as he demanded so much from her. Both hands rolled up into tight fist as she waited for the trigger to be pulled.
Seconds went by. Nothing. Minutes. Nothing.
"Nobody dies today save for the man I came here to kill," his voice finally broke the dead silence as she stood there waiting to strike and kill this hideous man. "Sit down, or I'll blow holes in your kneecaps until you have to learn to walk with your hands," his blunt, gruff tone demanded yet another thing from the innocent woman. He was in a rush to get something done, and obviously didn’t want to be bothered at the moment. Perfect. Two can play games, she thought and chuckles softly underneath her breath.
After she continues to taunt the man about blowing her brains out, he soon giggles. The chilling laughter was haunting, as she stood there watching his motion for her to go and sit down. Did she move? Of course she did, she didn’t want to give the illusion that she had the upper hand after all.
"Please, don't pretend like you know me, like you can predict even my simplest of desires - true, I could, if I wanted to, cut you down here and now... but I've got work to do, and that would prove a complication and a waste of time, honestly," He continues to rattle out. This man sure did like to talk a lot, and quite frankly it was highly annoying. Alena was making her way over towards the chairs, before glancing over her shoulder at the white haired, blood thirsty man.
"Call the other up here. Tell her to sit down, too," His list was getting longer and longer of things he expected of her.
“No. Abelle stays upstairs and that’s final. She won’t come unless I summon her, and trust me, if you cause one ounce of harm to her, you’ll regret that decision.” Vanity voice was calm and collect as she demanded something from him. After all, she couldn’t afford to lose her personal designer. The woman puts her bare back up against the leather chair, as she crosses one leg over another.
If Alena smoked, this would be the perfect time to pull out a cigarette and inhale the delicious toxic. Her eyes stare around the empty work room several times, and notices little cracks in the wall. It was bare, just like most of the shop, but this place was still the best. Her eyes gaze around one last time before falling upon the ugly beast that had important business to do.
“What are you doing anyways? I mean, obviously you’re hiding in this building to kill someone. Who?” She questions knowing his response. He wasn’t going to say anything. Why would he? It’s not like she really cared, but she wanted to know out of entertainment value.
Seconds went by. Nothing. Minutes. Nothing.
"Nobody dies today save for the man I came here to kill," his voice finally broke the dead silence as she stood there waiting to strike and kill this hideous man. "Sit down, or I'll blow holes in your kneecaps until you have to learn to walk with your hands," his blunt, gruff tone demanded yet another thing from the innocent woman. He was in a rush to get something done, and obviously didn’t want to be bothered at the moment. Perfect. Two can play games, she thought and chuckles softly underneath her breath.
After she continues to taunt the man about blowing her brains out, he soon giggles. The chilling laughter was haunting, as she stood there watching his motion for her to go and sit down. Did she move? Of course she did, she didn’t want to give the illusion that she had the upper hand after all.
"Please, don't pretend like you know me, like you can predict even my simplest of desires - true, I could, if I wanted to, cut you down here and now... but I've got work to do, and that would prove a complication and a waste of time, honestly," He continues to rattle out. This man sure did like to talk a lot, and quite frankly it was highly annoying. Alena was making her way over towards the chairs, before glancing over her shoulder at the white haired, blood thirsty man.
"Call the other up here. Tell her to sit down, too," His list was getting longer and longer of things he expected of her.
“No. Abelle stays upstairs and that’s final. She won’t come unless I summon her, and trust me, if you cause one ounce of harm to her, you’ll regret that decision.” Vanity voice was calm and collect as she demanded something from him. After all, she couldn’t afford to lose her personal designer. The woman puts her bare back up against the leather chair, as she crosses one leg over another.
If Alena smoked, this would be the perfect time to pull out a cigarette and inhale the delicious toxic. Her eyes stare around the empty work room several times, and notices little cracks in the wall. It was bare, just like most of the shop, but this place was still the best. Her eyes gaze around one last time before falling upon the ugly beast that had important business to do.
“What are you doing anyways? I mean, obviously you’re hiding in this building to kill someone. Who?” She questions knowing his response. He wasn’t going to say anything. Why would he? It’s not like she really cared, but she wanted to know out of entertainment value.
Guest- Guest
Re: The Beast and the Harlot
by Guest Sun Feb 19, 2012 12:05 pm
Ayden had since returned to his rifle. A single eye allowed to flutter open, merely inches from the concave edge of the scope. From within it, the crosshairs were still aligned perfectly with the room; nothing and no-one had moved save for the large man in the white suit pacing up and down. “No. Abelle stays upstairs and that’s final. She won’t come unless I summon her, and trust me, if you cause one ounce of harm to her, you’ll regret that decision.” The assassin arched his eyebrow and let a short, soft, dry, and yet despicably evil chuckle pass his lips.
"Oh, I won't touch a single hair on her head," He began to 'explain'. Ah, mind games. How fun, how fun... "But when I pull the trigger on this rifle, on the other side of the street, the wind is going to be whistling through a hole in someone's head. His bodyguards aren't going to be too happy about that, and whilst I'll be gone within a minute of that trigger pull, I find it somewhat more doubtful that you will." The pace of his words picked up. His eye broke its contact, shattered the line of sight between itself and the scope. Its brother fluttered open, and the assassin's neck flexed as it spun towards her. Control. That was good.
"Going by statistical averages, you'll have about three until they stake out the store and charge it; now, keep in mind these guys are more than likely to be trigger-happy ex-cons. They aren't professionals. They're aggressive, they have no control, and they have nothing to lose. If they point a gun at your friend and she screams, well," Hm... what word to use, what word? Oh, how the art of constructing sentences and having his charismatic little way with these pieces of meat... how it was so... filled with surprise at every possible turn... hm.
A moment more of thinking and he had it. "Without your charisma and calm - which, I must say, is remarkable for a woman on the wrong end of a gun barrel - she's going to get a round in the gut. These guys won't aim for the head. They'll shoot for the widest part of the body. She'll be lying there spluttering blood for a few minutes before she slips into unconsciousness and you struggle to get her to the ambulance, and, more than likely, she'll die in transit." Blunt, brief, predicting... his snappy, long-winded spiel had hopefully conveyed to her the aura of experience he wanted to project; no... radiate. The likelihood was that those bumbling idiots would never find even a single shell casing, and the suppressor meant hardly any muzzle flash to go by. He was positioned far enough away from the window that the reflective end of the rifle scope wouldn't do pretty much anything; the sun was far too high in the sky. Refracting off anything but the ornate glass panes of the dress shop's window was... statistically and analytically beyond unlikely. He was, for the most part, safe - as were they.
Now... now, the illusion of choice. Of control. The reaction, typically, was where they broke and gave in. Most of them, at least. He'd dealt with enough in his comparatively brief time in the game that hadn't explored various strata, criteria, circumstances, et cetera, et cetera... but... still... it was always fun. To shift a faux power balance in their direction. A grin slipped onto his face as his head gently, slowly, ever-so-slowly gyrated and returned to the scope. "But... if you don't want her to survive, be my guest. Leave her downstairs," Ah, psychology. Another fluid yet worthwhile addition to his arsenal. Some people in his line of business rejected anything but good, real, material weapons; but knowing an enemy's reactions was far more integral and important than just waving a gun in their face. Suspense, tension, caution; all these things were key, and they were the only three reasons that Ayden had so far not taken a single round in the entirety of his career.
“What are you doing anyways? I mean, obviously you’re hiding in this building to kill someone. Who?” Ayden smiled to himself, shaking his head from side to side. The naivete of some was amusing, even entertaining sometimes. Ah, if only he had more time to play with this girl. She was... entertaining. A complex, labyrinthine structure of thoughts and emotions mixed together... most likely, she had experienced an... unorthodox past. So much to be held within such a small, petite figure.
"A man whom I've never met or never known," He murmured. The bolt was cycled; the round in the chamber. A wayward glance from an eye that fluttered open settled upon a clock lying on the wall. Ayden never wore a watch. He despised them. He already had a phone that doubled as a timepiece; technology, as unreliable as it could be sometimes, functioned like a weapon. If you maintained and respected it, it worked at peak condition. Neglect it and treat it badly? It breaks. It becomes as unreliable as it's reported to be. You give in to the urban myths, you toss it around, and disrespect only further begets disrespect.
14:57. The clouds were collecting overhead; the sky had darkened visibly in the few minutes since his arrival. The sun had quickly ducked behind those grey, bulging clouds that seemed to bear only doom and despair, and an impending sense of each, at that. "That's just the way that my occupation works," He smiled to himself. Now it was just idle chatter. Idle chatter to pass the time. "But I don't expect you to understand."
Three more minutes. Three more minutes, and, hopefully, if the other large man was to be on time, then this flustered, red-faced crime boss would calm, and Ayden could go about his business - and then, leave. The situation now had more variables with the girl and her dressmaker. More variables meant more pieces to the puzzle. More pieces to the puzzle were more things that could go wrong. And, by sod's law, unless he knew exactly what he was doing, more things that could go wrong were more things that would go wrong. 'Control everything you can,' Heart had told him. 'And just maybe you'll survive in this game...'
Let the mind games and manipulation of the unknown and the assassin continue...
"Oh, I won't touch a single hair on her head," He began to 'explain'. Ah, mind games. How fun, how fun... "But when I pull the trigger on this rifle, on the other side of the street, the wind is going to be whistling through a hole in someone's head. His bodyguards aren't going to be too happy about that, and whilst I'll be gone within a minute of that trigger pull, I find it somewhat more doubtful that you will." The pace of his words picked up. His eye broke its contact, shattered the line of sight between itself and the scope. Its brother fluttered open, and the assassin's neck flexed as it spun towards her. Control. That was good.
"Going by statistical averages, you'll have about three until they stake out the store and charge it; now, keep in mind these guys are more than likely to be trigger-happy ex-cons. They aren't professionals. They're aggressive, they have no control, and they have nothing to lose. If they point a gun at your friend and she screams, well," Hm... what word to use, what word? Oh, how the art of constructing sentences and having his charismatic little way with these pieces of meat... how it was so... filled with surprise at every possible turn... hm.
A moment more of thinking and he had it. "Without your charisma and calm - which, I must say, is remarkable for a woman on the wrong end of a gun barrel - she's going to get a round in the gut. These guys won't aim for the head. They'll shoot for the widest part of the body. She'll be lying there spluttering blood for a few minutes before she slips into unconsciousness and you struggle to get her to the ambulance, and, more than likely, she'll die in transit." Blunt, brief, predicting... his snappy, long-winded spiel had hopefully conveyed to her the aura of experience he wanted to project; no... radiate. The likelihood was that those bumbling idiots would never find even a single shell casing, and the suppressor meant hardly any muzzle flash to go by. He was positioned far enough away from the window that the reflective end of the rifle scope wouldn't do pretty much anything; the sun was far too high in the sky. Refracting off anything but the ornate glass panes of the dress shop's window was... statistically and analytically beyond unlikely. He was, for the most part, safe - as were they.
Now... now, the illusion of choice. Of control. The reaction, typically, was where they broke and gave in. Most of them, at least. He'd dealt with enough in his comparatively brief time in the game that hadn't explored various strata, criteria, circumstances, et cetera, et cetera... but... still... it was always fun. To shift a faux power balance in their direction. A grin slipped onto his face as his head gently, slowly, ever-so-slowly gyrated and returned to the scope. "But... if you don't want her to survive, be my guest. Leave her downstairs," Ah, psychology. Another fluid yet worthwhile addition to his arsenal. Some people in his line of business rejected anything but good, real, material weapons; but knowing an enemy's reactions was far more integral and important than just waving a gun in their face. Suspense, tension, caution; all these things were key, and they were the only three reasons that Ayden had so far not taken a single round in the entirety of his career.
“What are you doing anyways? I mean, obviously you’re hiding in this building to kill someone. Who?” Ayden smiled to himself, shaking his head from side to side. The naivete of some was amusing, even entertaining sometimes. Ah, if only he had more time to play with this girl. She was... entertaining. A complex, labyrinthine structure of thoughts and emotions mixed together... most likely, she had experienced an... unorthodox past. So much to be held within such a small, petite figure.
"A man whom I've never met or never known," He murmured. The bolt was cycled; the round in the chamber. A wayward glance from an eye that fluttered open settled upon a clock lying on the wall. Ayden never wore a watch. He despised them. He already had a phone that doubled as a timepiece; technology, as unreliable as it could be sometimes, functioned like a weapon. If you maintained and respected it, it worked at peak condition. Neglect it and treat it badly? It breaks. It becomes as unreliable as it's reported to be. You give in to the urban myths, you toss it around, and disrespect only further begets disrespect.
14:57. The clouds were collecting overhead; the sky had darkened visibly in the few minutes since his arrival. The sun had quickly ducked behind those grey, bulging clouds that seemed to bear only doom and despair, and an impending sense of each, at that. "That's just the way that my occupation works," He smiled to himself. Now it was just idle chatter. Idle chatter to pass the time. "But I don't expect you to understand."
Three more minutes. Three more minutes, and, hopefully, if the other large man was to be on time, then this flustered, red-faced crime boss would calm, and Ayden could go about his business - and then, leave. The situation now had more variables with the girl and her dressmaker. More variables meant more pieces to the puzzle. More pieces to the puzzle were more things that could go wrong. And, by sod's law, unless he knew exactly what he was doing, more things that could go wrong were more things that would go wrong. 'Control everything you can,' Heart had told him. 'And just maybe you'll survive in this game...'
Let the mind games and manipulation of the unknown and the assassin continue...
Guest- Guest
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