Vengeance, Prologue: Paradise Lost

[Guest]

'Long and hard is the way out of Hell that leads up into Light.'

A beautiful quote. Sampled from the epic poem, now centuries old, Paradise Lost, by John Milton. One, too, that a single silver-haired man felt he could sympathise with, strolling leisurely through the London streets, slaloming and dodging around the few people that dotted the pavements; it was closing in on night, the darkness following the world like a hawk clutching a deathly black blanket, far more adept in these cold, wintery days that it was in the warm solace of summer.

Ayden's breath turned to a white fog upon the cold of the atmosphere; crisp frost trailed across the ground, coupled with puddles of raindrops from a shower that had just about let up. The assassin's silver hair was still specked with moisture here and there, but nothing too dire - it always seemed to dry, naturally, fairly quickly, either way.

The man walked at a brisk pace whilst keeping a fairly calm appearance. His head, however, was working on overdrive, his cortex, cerebrum, cerebellum, and neocortex all working together in near-total synchronisation, a near-perfect mental state... if brains could beat like hearts, Ayden's would be in cardiac arrest. He'd be having a mind attack; simply for the amount of data that the man appeared to be processing for so simple a meeting.

Back to the quote, however; Ayden had his own little twisted interpretation, locked away behind all the facades. Whilst most people read it as Milton had most likely intended it - 'the path to redemption is long and tough' - the azure-eyed assassin had his own ideas about the line, just as revolutionary in this context. In Ayden's mind, the 'Light' Milton spoke of was no form of redemption. No; instead, it was an ascended, higher state of being - and the 'path' upwards simply a long, winding staircase full of people to cut down and challenges to triumph over. Hurdles to jump... and eventually, this would all pay off. He'd be a celebrity and a superhero... and, perhaps, on days that he felt like being more malicious than usual, genocidal and a villain. C'etait la vie.

He stopped in front of that familiar, burgundy-fronted bookstore once more; 'Heart's Books', the plaque read. Established 1873. For longer than Ayden could remember, this house had been his home, not that shitty, dilapidated apartment in downtown London, barely a few minutes' walk away; but the man in that apartment was no blood relative of his, no father he would reconcile and meet with. No, for intents and purposes, the old, shrivelled, sickly man within was his father - or at the very least, the closest thing he'd ever had to one.

Terror crackled like blue electricity at the end of nerves and synapses. Boots ground to a halt, collected silt and other detritus crunching into a paste-like mixture in the various crevices and crevasses of the man's black rubber soles. A few huffing breaths; inhalation, exhalation, inhalation, exhalation. Simple. Meditatory. Something he could use as a focal point to let his mind, body, and spirit all calm in unison, channel every thought into one single stream.

Slowly but surely, the twitchings stopped. The worried, almost-neutral look upon the man's face turned to a smile; no malicious smirk, no giddy, grotesque grin of glee, simply a smile. Weak in foundation and sustenance, but a smile no less. The assassin straightened himself up, and let his breath escape one last time, letting his hands fall limp at his side, the right not even completing the full extent of its fall; simply enough, the fingers were raised and pushed desperately against the dull, grimy metal pad, letting the last snippets of pale, cold January sunlight slip in, carve into the glum darkness of the shop's humble front-room.

Ayden stepped forwards onto a mat with a faded black 'welcome' painted atop its brown bristles. He ever-so-gently scraped his feet across it, letting clumps and piles of dust, grime, and silt loose, staying upon the mat. From another room, a single voice emanated; coarse, grizzly, old, almost sickly... "I heard you coming from a mile away, kid." Cretan. The only language he'd ever known the man to use.

The smile's foundations picked up, and colour flushed into a pale pallor. Nostalgic lenses slipped over Ayden's irises and pupils, and, suddenly, he was a child again; weak and powerless yet free and positively vibrating with energy. He scraped his boots across the mat one last time, and let a dry chuckle picked up as he swerved through stacked shelves and stuck rotary stands of book upon book upon book, a library by any other name; fiction, biblical, biographical, documentary, environmental, educational... just about everything and yet almost nothing could be found within. An odds-and-ends collection of the literary world. It was quirky yet unique. After he'd taken but six steps, the cerulean-eyed assassin could pick out at least fifty books, just from the front of stacks, that he'd known, held, and read in earlier, fresher years.

Leather-clad and silver-haired, the figure stepped onto a ramp and ascended through the carpeted threshold, pushing open a usually-locked door to come into a backroom, and Heart's abode proper. The dwindling, smouldering remains of a fire sat in the fireplace in the corner; a television playing a black-and-white silent film on a stand not far from an ancient, mahogany rocking chair. A single lightbulb hung from a single rubber-coated wire, plain yet efficient. For now, it was switched off; Ayden knew the location of the trigger, however, as if it were his own home. Hell, for five years, it had been.

Aside from that, the room was pleasantly free of other facilities and amenities. A rug sat upon browned, varnished floorboards, and several ornaments and trophies atop a white marble mantlepiece, above the fireplace. Swords and the like mounted atop plaques throughout the room; Ayden smirk, before his vision finally fell and settled on the rocking chair, the single item intended for seating in the entire room, and the wizened old figure within it.

White-haired and wrinkled, Ayden had seen this man not eight weeks ago, in the very same room in the very same house. He wore now a pair of reading glasses, a simple white shirt, and a pair of cheap black trousers. Two brown-black loafers upon abnormally large feet; a small, bristly, white moustache atop lips lined with scars. A face dotted and blemished by battle, scowling up at the silver-haired man in his living room.

The expressions were held for but a moment; the man's of hostility, and Ayden's of confusion. This was a routine of theirs. In but a moment, the elderly man broke into laughter, hacking and sharp, fading quickly with a cough. He made several extravagant hand gestures and waved for his old student to sit atop a small wicker basket in the corner. It would make do for now.

Ayden did so, lowering himself and staring off at the man once more, sighing and joining in the fits of laughter, a few more spurts before the room was left with just reverberations, echoes... this man was Geoffrey Heart. His real father, biological or not. "Shit, you almost had me there..." The pair both started into chuckles once more; Heart's barking and Ayden's soothing, flowing, calm. The man looked back over towards him and nodded.

"How've you been, kid?" Ayden grimaced. That nickname wasn't his favourite. Heart paused to sniff the air, as if he could smell something there, a particularly strong aroma; were it any other man, Ayden would take a fairly analytical guess at what he was testing for, and most usually be right. But he knew Geoffrey Heart to be far more unorthodox than this. "Don't tell me... business is good," Another chuckle, this time only on the older man's end. "I can smell the blood on your clothes!"

[Csilla Angelis]

{BUMP}

[Guest]

Death, destruction, carnage. Like the evanescence e of life that prowls like a hungry tiger, it exists and dwells upon the precipice of doom. Like the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, but with extra members, they are numerous for they are many. Vast and large like the serpent that optimizes Sun Tzu's principles of body that lashes, and the head that clashes. Such is the case of those that were contracted. Contracted to do doom upon the doom doer. A former monster that now retires like some sweet elderly man that has about a good time in the streets of London. They were all monsters of their own kind taken to see fit to destroy the grandest monster of them all. A creature that knows no bounds of horrors, a retired monster in all extents yet a monster nonetheless. His use has been run dry, his retirement a farce that must be challenged. His life exists because they allowed it, yet now it has been demanded to be condemned to the forever obscurity that finds glory fleeting.

They were all garbed, garbed in attires that is akin to a full soldier uniform. Armored and well armed alike, with enough firepower to challenge an army head on. Their entry in London a secrecy, something arranged by the many corporate liaisons that hang about there. Something that went under the radar. They were all too well trained, having the experience to sneak in whilst brandishing major firearms enough to put them into prison for a long time considering Creta's gun safety laws... and their lacking in licenses. Some were grizzled and scarred, others were clean and beautiful. In the end lies inside an ugliness that no amounts of aesthetic appearance can hide. They snarl too much, holding ugly faces that has seen many atrocities in their lifetimes. Prowling the streets of London from the sewers, making their way, only to huddle up just under the grating to where their target is supposed to be. One of the members, a well toned muscular man with a stubble and bald head, sort of looking like Jason Stetham, a famed Cretan actor, is rather not him but Koth. A Lieutenant in the secret of secrecies that finds none knowing whom he is really, an enigma who held a cool demeanour and a cooler head still. He looked at all of them as he cocked his assault rifle, checked the magazines to see how full it may be, using an armament of the M16 particularly. A reliable assault rifle, accurate, but lacks the punch of the Drachman AK-47. But he preferred it, he rather hit targets with more accuracy and less recoil.

"Men... and women, we find ourselves contracted to kill the biggest and baddest motherfucker of them all. He has been a legend at his own time, that perhaps in his prime, he would've had the chance to kill us all without even much shred of an effort, but fret not! We are fortunate, he has become old and weak. We know he is alone, but in the off chance he is with any harlots, the orders are simple. Mission derives them all expendable. They are witnesses that don't need to be there, and we need to make this look like a hit from the local Cretan mobsters. There is nothing more beyond that. You all remember the plan, to breach the gates, storm in with tear gases, with our cutting edge technology such as our thermal visions, and shoot ANYTHING living inside. We only have a minute to perform this before we have to flee. I have to make DAMN WELL SURE that all of you do this correctly. Now is there any questions?" Koth asks, looking at the team huddled up with their backs against the walls.

"NO SIR! NO QUESTIONS!" All of them said in a chorus, it spooked a few rats which fled, but nonetheless brought the point across. Koth smiled at those mercenaries. This was supposed to be his last job in killing someone outright. After this, he can move to becoming an executive like his wife always wanted him to be. He can even hang out with his teenage son after that and enjoy his life not as a killer, but as a father and a corporate executive... the same as all others are here. They are all sick of killing, but they probably have their own lives to get to. He only had a day to know them all, and sympathized with all of them as a result. Except the Bloodhound, whom clearly is just a rabid wild dog, disliked him the moment he saw him. He is too hooked to drugs.

The grating slid away as suddenly men in black garbs meant for war poured out suddenly in a robotic efficiency. Pouring out as two of them brought breaching shotguns to the door's hinges. Koth silently nods and gestures for the Bloodhound and the Ishvallan to prepare tear gases to fling into the door. As all of them lined up into positions, suddenly two explosive shots blew the hinges off the door way, it was kicked down suddenly, and gases filled the area. Tear gas that nauseates whomever inhales it and settles down the accuracy into that of a toddler's. Gasmasked and with thermal vision visors activated, the team held up shotguns and assault rifles, suddenly flooding in with the blindness that comes from the tear gas, clearing the rooms quickly as they would soon go closer to the old man and the assassin Ayden... finding him well in their thermal vision in this rude interruption of their reunion. They were too fast, too well-coordinated. As if having practiced in a similar terrain ALL for this specific pre-mediated murder and entry, sort of like how hitmen do it but with the cold calculating demeanor that comes from sociopathic soldiers. Aiming towards the two as they would soon prepare to break away from whatever bookcases that obscures the vision from the already obscured by the tear gas teams, to be prepared to unload as FAST as possible. The old man was too dangerous, even after having gone past his prime.

[Guest]

Ayden had been in Heart's company for a good few hours now. It was well into night, the pair discussing many a thing as they usually did in these visits; assassinations, and slaughter, as if it were day-to-day child's play. The potency of their alchemies, and musing upon just how powerful they would be in unison. Oh, and the so beautiful and so delectably brilliant symphony of chaos that it was their job to perform in front of an audience, willing or not; a modern masterpiece forged only of crimson blood, theirs to spatter across an empty canvas forged of torn flesh and hewn sinews.

More or less, the usual. Heart would pour himself a glass of wine, and Ayden a measure of the finest whiskey, the book-keeper holding the ancient, dust-caked bottles solely for his ex-protégé's visits. The pair joined themselves in laughter, sipping eagerly from their drinks, Heart chewing on his tobacco pipe, as the older of the two finished his latest recounting of 'his glory days', decades ago, despite the vivid memories the man still retained. "I miss them, kid. I really do."

Ayden inclined his head, nodding in a sombre manner. And, now, for the drop. The inevitable moment in any symphony; the darkest, the deepest, and most definitively emotional, strung together through chord and key. He made a muffled sound of approval, his smirk all-too-quickly fading as the pair hung their heads in silence, stewing and cogitating on the matter of their regrets, however few or many each had. "...Heart,"

The older man's ears pricked, and he looked upwards, the pale texture in his grey eyes now as vivid as they'd ever been. Still alert, adept; a testament to all that the pair stood for. From the look on his one-time student's face, Heart could tell; Ayden was to say something. Something meaningful, something true, and something that could possibly change everything they stood for, everything they meant, and everything the pair wanted to do. Did Ayden seek a blessing for a change of occupation? Would he admit a weakness, something that an outsider could use to cripple him? And would Heart accept it, and advise him on the ideal course of action - or shun him, the only boy he'd ever treated like a child?

Thud.

A cacophony of rifle-bolt clicks and footprints thudding washed over the pair in an instant, but it was the first step that alerted them both. In complete synchronisation, student and teacher turned to the entrance of Heart's humble bookshop, the door separating the backroom and the front fully ajar, the closed sign on the front turned to shun away any customers. Ayden was more important - he'd always been.

And in that exact instant, the pair knew that this had been an ambush. Heart didn't know whether it was Ayden's fault or not, whether it was intentional or not, or whether the kid had just been unlucky, and turned up to the wrong place at the wrong time. The pair of them both just knew one thing: if they didn't get out of the way, they were going to die.

It isn't about equipment preparation or reaction time when it comes to an ambush. When you're on the receiving end of something months in the planning, a sting operation, a stakeout, whatever you want to call it... it's all about mindset. If you can see it coming, you're far more likely to survive than if you can't. Training will get you so far in a situation, but Ayden knew from advanced SOP they were displaying that the six men outside the door were no simple-minded mooks he could eliminate with ease. They probably carried an alchemist amongst their ranks, and even then he'd be padded and equipped properly. If they'd been after him, or, indeed, Heart, the funding would have been well beyond just six individuals: they would have brought a battalion, not a squad.

It was clear: these men were working either alone, as mercenaries, or with their presence in Creta as a government secret. As if on cue, the door burst open, and Ayden and Heart leapt opposite ways; the younger of the two assassins drew his twin pistols, sending one spinning across the room to land in Heart's hands. Everything else bar the tanto and his alchemy was in the Audi, parked a fair few blocks away; if it wasn't already a torched wreck, that was. This was the assassin's interpretation of 'unarmed'.

The hiss of tear gas and the sickly poisonous stench invading Ayden's nostrils came on far too quickly; they were wearing gas masks, he'd caught a glimpse. Visibly extending a leg beneath a counter to kick the door shut, Heart waved the gun in the direction of the fireplace at the back of the room. "Go!" He hissed quickly.

Ayden was twelve years old again. Heart was his guardian, his surrogate father; and whenever his real parents came looking for him, the elderly, sickly man would gesture to the back of the room, and the silver-haired boy would scrabble away. Lifting a poker from the right side of the fire, one supposedly affixed to the ground, begun a series of mechanical whirs; a lightweight backing of the wall itself quickly moved up to reveal a crawlspace that the assassin so vividly remembered, smirking as Heart turned to him, and he cocked his head for one last look.

The old man was now standing. Ayden's treasured Asmodeus hung in his right hand, calloused, wrinkled fingers wrapping tightly around it. He had a fist raised, and clenched to rap upon the door; his reading glasses still sat firmly on his face, over the ridge of his nose. The curvature of that wooden tobacco pipe curled into the air, a small, wispy tendril of smoke rising from it. Gazing into those pale eyes, locking with that smirk, the assassin pulled his legs under with a grunt.

As it had apparently been modified to - a feature he didn't remember - the false panelling slammed shut in front of Ayden's eyes, hitting the floorboards with a thud. However, as the assassin did remember, the mechanism was one-way, as Heart had always intended it to be. The path behind him spiralled downwards into the old man's 'catacombs', as he'd called them; the murky depths of his home, where the basis of most of his murderous exploits had lain for a lifetime past. He couldn't return, now. Not without destroying the mechanism, and with it, all hope that his mentor would follow, and that the pair of them would survive.

A last flash of those pale grey irises before his eyes, and Ayden began to ram his balled-up fists against the wooden panels. He didn't dare shout or screech; his throat was dry and hoarse already, his face now dotted with red splotches of emotion. For once, he felt vulnerable. He felt human once more.

*****

Outside, Heart raised the pistol, and took a moment to close his eyes. His entire body trembled with adrenaline he hadn't known for years, his hand clenched around the M1911 as he steadied his body, the mercenaries ripping through the bookstore's contents, clearing the first room before they entered the second. Maybe they weren't just looking for him? The wizened assassin grunted once, before easing the hammer of the pistol back with a click, having made peace with whatever God assassins prayed to.

Raising a sore knee, Heart's body, stiller than it had been now for thirty years, ached, begged, and pleaded, asking him to stop - his mind almost locked his figure in clutch, almost forced it to drop down into catatonia and just wait. His entire system knew this to be a foolish endeavour - one he wouldn't return from.

But that's what he'd intended it to be in the first place.

A kick from the sole of the old man's dress shoe sent the door flying on its hinges, letting the tear gas seep in. Using his free hand, he pulled his shirt up over his mouth, spluttering, the gaseous compound stinging at his eyes, his nostrils, every part of sensitive exposed flesh he had. The door had swung open, and for a moment, all was still.

"It's been too long," The old man half-chuckled, and half-coughed, raising the pistol and grinning, firing into the hazy, gas-clogged mist. He launched rounds off indiscriminately, three from the pistol into the air. Three cartridge casings hit the floor with three impeccable muffled ting sounds, the slide knocking back and forth with every shot. Ayden had kept the weapon in perfect condition, as the man had always taught him to.

With that, Geoffrey Heart pulled the trigger another three times, firing into the mist; he didn't move, or back away. He didn't take cover behind the wall or door. He didn't even crouch. He just stood there, with one arm extended, firing at the various shapes he saw morphing and moving in the smog. With arms open wide, Heart had accepted his fate, and allowed Death to come and catch him, inviting his long-time companion into a cruel and cold embrace he'd waited for for so long.

[Guest]

It seemed their raid was too successful, as the leader Koth noted. Everyone of them perfectly chereographed like some stunt that was to be performed at a carnival, as if it were a crowd pleasing fest. Except there was supposed to be none to see this action, this was but an assault where their identities shouldn't be compromised in the ideal setting, and even then, the worst that can happen is that they would be wanted. But alas, that worries them not for after this... they will be quite rich enough to live life as they want in some far away place where the law can't touch them.

It was strange, there were two people in their vision measured up for a moment, but the other heat signature disappeared suddenly, none of them had a clear glimpse of it as to know how. Was Heart's Alchemy THAT advanced as to induce teleporatation? Perhaps this person has super speed and is a mutant of some sort? Wild speculations they couldn't indulge since their thoughts were solely on Heart, the most dangerous bastard of them all. It mattered not, at this point, even these well armed, well trained soldiers had doubts of their odds of success if the legendary Heart can kill them just as well as he did in his Prime. There were stories about him... morbid ones. That an engagement like this would have went in Heart's favor despite the otherwise advantages the team had on their side.

Nonetheless, he pointed his gun at them. The Chimera started sweating despite being an inhumane killing machine... against a feeble old man. His thoughts ran along the lines of, "HOW?! HOW DOES HE KNOW?!" He was but a feeble old man, someone that seemed so sickly and weak, yet still an iron discipline from the apparent knowledge of their coming has made them fret with fear, for despite years of practiced art in killing, they knew this man as the head honcho of death, the don of demise, the sultan of slaying.

Geoffrey Heart.

Bullets grazed the Chimera's arm, and two punched at his ballistic vest. The entry people's guns trained at him, aimed at his central body mass...

From below the catacomb to which Ayden lurked, was only one sound that thundered harshly, tearing out the muzzles to be shot out in a succession and chorus of gunshots. One thing for certain is that they are quite thorough with their work...

BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG

----

Geoffrey wheezed, his lungs were failing on him, riddled with many bullets as blood seeped through the hidden panel and dripped downwards. Koth, the man in charge, sighed in relief. Surprised at how easy it was to take down a life that was veiled in myths and legends of prowess, as if he were a supernatural superman. But this man... he was but a human. Despite his humanity, he was a horror upon his victims, a horror to behold.

Koth kneeled down to the old man, his team methodically pouring petroleum all over the place, over the wall, and over Heart. The tear gas were finally eradicated by the ventilation, with Koth raising up his gasmask. Giving a sincere smile to Heart.

"Sorry Mister Heart that it had to come to this, but orders are orders. You should know how the game goes, and in this business, the amount of people you wronged... it was funny how you thought you can get away just like that. But you had a good run I have to admit, a longer run than most of us would have had in this line of work." He says softly, lighting up a cigarette.

He inhaled a single whiff, today, the vapor was more noxious, sour to his throat. What he should enjoy, was besmirched by having to kill someone he looked up to as a legend and a role model. But he was proud to be the one to slay him finally. Exhaling a final fume, he stands up and turns away with his team, cigarette at hand, he flicked it behind, landing it right on top of Heart as the embers of fiery Hell caught the elderly man on a tempest of flames. It spread all over the place, burning. The team were thorough enough to pick up the bullets... and even Geoffrey's pistol for keep's sake.

They disappeared as fast as they appeared, the place left behind burning and collapsing from the weight of fire and death. The Chimera happy over his bounty acquired thus. Koth himself very satisfied as he would murmur to his team in a happy aside that he is Heart's successor now, for he keeps what he killed.

Everything was perfect... too perfect. Except for one fatal flaw. A single bullet shell of a very rare model of guns was left on the scene. Missed by the Chimera. Surviving the impact of such catastrophic flames as the building keeled from the pressure and collapsed on itself.

[Guest]

The bullets tore through the air in explosive symphony that would've otherwise been music to Ayden's very ears. One after another, they struck Heart before he could even launch the final round from his student's ceremonial pistol, and the man slumped to the floor, bleeding, and wheezing, as Koth approached him. "Sorry Mister Heart that it had to come to this, but orders are orders. You should know how the game goes, and in this business, the amount of people you wronged... it was funny how you thought you can get away just like that. But you had a good run I have to admit, a longer run than most of us would have had in this line of work."

[INITIATE THEME]

Ayden heard every word of Koth's speech vividly, and tried to scream for recompense, for them to slaughter him instead; but naught but hoarse, silent breath came from the abyss of his throat. He heard the troops slug petrol about, and then, finally, his leg buckled and his entire form quivered as the pain of a bullet present in the back of his thigh finally overcome the numbing shock and forced the silver-haired assassin down to slump to his side.

The round was jammed in firmly, hot crimson seeping from Ayden's leg as he gritted his teeth and grief washed over him. This... this must've been what it was like for people who knew the ones he killed. Now... now he knew why. Everything. Regret. Depression. Bereavement. Suddenly, it made sense... and Heart wasn't even dead.

The balded mercenary still stood there, ready to leave and set the place aflame with his cigarette, when, finally, Heart, in what was left in the very pit, the core of his being, uttered a final phrase, a last grouping of words to mark the headstone for a man who'd never have a funeral, for all those he'd brought along. Ayden gingerly pressed against the torn, open cavity of flesh at his leg and grimaced, but kept silent all the way through, tears brimming at his eyes. His balance was sagging, and failing, too, his weight shifting to the very edge of the first platform upon the stone-carved spiral staircase. It felt like a drill of heated iron boring into his leg, the pain never leaving, never subsiding, only getting stronger and stronger.

"I'll see you in Hell," The last glint of light from bullet-shaped circles carved in the walls danced across those pale grey irises as trembling fingers grasped for the still-smoking tobacco pipe, just out of Heart's reach. He exhaled that last sigh, and as the moment that Koth smirked, left, and let the cigarette fall from his hands... in that last, final split-second, whilst the burning embers of the cancerous stick hung in limbo, inches from the pool of petrol about the floor... Geoffrey Heart... died.

FWOOOOOM.

The flames ignited the petroleum vapours as the mercenaries left. The fires licked and pressed against the walls and arches of the room within instants. A terrible and brilliant thing, flame let wild upon a place like this, of old wood and papery tinder. It devours so fast, so wholly, and leaves naught but charred, blackened, broken remnants and ash behind.

With that, Ayden released himself as the icy void enveloped what little fragments of a heart the assassin still had left. A trembling, catatonic, non-reasoned smirk upon his face, Ayden let himself tumble, and let the pain take him, as he slid down into the catacombs beneath Heart's establishment, falling, rolling down the stairs, the jagged edges of the stone steps tearing at his clothes, ripping the blackened leather, and slicing up and down his back, opening numerous shallow gashes as he fell. Ayden was weightless, and for a time, could feel naught; the taking of Heart's life had taken emotion and feeling from him, leaving him numb, in a limbo, with the only faint presence that of the round in his leg.

Leaving a bloody trail, he drifted finally into the open cavern at the bottom, with only crates of papers and small, hidden relics that Heart had intended never to be found. Grit and soot puffed up in a crowd about him as Ayden lay there, static, for hours, as the flame devoured the world above, and day passed into night in London.

The tears that had long-since brimmed at his eyes had dried up, frozen too like the very blood about his heart. It would've happened some day; but why today? Any other day... just... not now. It was unbearable, and Ayden blocked it out with the pain and the descending veils of white light upon his vision, spiking and peaking as he faded in and out of consciousness, lapsing into and out of the known world they had.

The fires didn't, however, lap away at the panelling. Heart had designed and fitted it carefully so behind was only a wall of thin stone that appeared to set properly into it, but the man was long-gone, and so were any relics left. Squads of firemen and police moved in, chalking up outlines about the floor, bagging the single-left cartridge case the chimera had left from the rarest of weapons as Ayden fought with what remained of his mind, scrabbling desperately for control, all the while the bullet lodged in his leg.

Azure eyes of the purest vibrance and brilliance had long since fallen static and pale; there were no waves, no flushes of emotion, just blank, faded blue, and dilated pupils. Images of Jeu-Hee flashed over his vision; and how he'd wanted to tell Heart, admit the love he held for her, the love he held of the purest sort and highest caliber. Something even he himself wasn't sure was right.

How would he cope? What would he do? Heart had brought him up, shaped him in those calloused hands that had seen so much murder, so many kills; nothing left now but to leave it all behind and die. There was no reason, no point, nothing. He'd done it because of what the man had instructed him to do; and now... now he was gone. Like a fleeting embrace with a long-lost father or idol. Admissions of everything he'd wanted to say and should have said ran through his eyes, and, as petty as it sounded to Ayden, who'd heard the phrase said so much time, it was just... unfair. He hadn't had a chance to reconcile even the slightest discrepancies between the two of them, he hadn't had the chance to say his farewells before the man passed off.

"Heart," Ayden whispered his name. What would he do now? Jeu-Hee... no. He couldn't think of her. If he didn't have the emotion and the drive to take back his own form... then he wouldn't be able to love her. He wouldn't be able to be with her. He wouldn't be able to wed her. Life, and all of its pointless inequalities and goals flickered in and out of the spotlight as Ayden passed over all the achievements he'd made for himself. A river of blood and a trail of corpses. They were all he had to show for a life he'd been so generously given.

Fingers quivered and trembled, scraping at the dust beneath Ayden and curling inwards. His arms were bare, now; pale skin glimmering in the dank, yellow light from a single bulb that hung from the ceiling. There was nothing left, now. He was an empty, pointless husk. A machine that functioned on... nothing. He was as good as dea-

No.

Somewhere, from deep within him, welled up a power, a will, that Ayden had simultaneously both never known and taken for granted. His own inner power forced the words out of him, a simple spluttering in Cretan, pushing it from the bowels of his throat, from the very heart and core of his being. No.

The greatest infernos all began with simple sparks. And one of those flickered in Ayden's eyes every time he told himself no. On the third time, the fire caught, and that trembling, uneasy smile stretched ever further, slowly, but surely... into that trademark Derocha grin that he'd fooled and thanked so many people with. What would he do? Anything he fucking wanted.

Starting with revenge.

Yes, Heart was a far more glorious assassin than he. A man who had retired for thirty years after his career path had ended, and managed to remain under the radar for that long. He was a brilliant spectacle, and in death, a beacon of twisted, black light for Ayden; the horizon epitomised, hope and the assurance that the sun would still rise on this bleak, husk of a life. And if Heart was a more successful killer... then, why... the assassin still had the rest of his life to prove the dead man wrong.

The ice forming a ring around his heart engulfed it entirely, and washed through his veins, forcing his fingers to stretch out as far as they could. The pain surged back into him at the same time that his vision returned proper, the pangs of heat and sharp agony in his thigh. Ayden gritted his teeth and simply spat it out, his lips still curved into some odd, contortion of a grin.

Heart had been the sultan of slaying, the don of demise, the head honcho of death. But now... his absence heralded the advent of a new apprentice to fill that position. His death meant that finally, Ayden could take the throne... and he could take it starting with the most beautiful of sprees, the most excellent of rhapsodies, and the most perfect trail of blood to leave behind. Retribution was at hand, and it was a FAR better money than motive. Revenge... and knowing that he'd get it... made Ayden feel good. Very good.

The flames in Ayden's cerulean eyes and his narrowed pupils, barely a dot in a sea of blue, had turned since to raging hellfires, infernos and forest blazes, the most tumultuous of them all. From that grin danced flickering, intermittent light, and with a simple pull of his hand, Ayden propped himself against the wall and snapped back into gear.

Ravens cawed outside as the assassin loosened his belt and pulled his trousers down, running fingers gingerly over pale skin of his legs to check for damage. The bullet had mushroomed, and hadn't gone too far in. It wasn't irreparable, and could certainly be taken care of by Ayden on his own, but he'd have to retrieve the round first. Another pang of delirium struck, dizziness in a head far too light for the shoulders, and the assassin looked down at the seeping puddle of crimson beneath him, realising how much blood he'd lost.

The tanto. They were the key. Grasping the hilt of one with trembling fingers and unsheathing it with a shing, Ayden grimaced and washed the blade in light, checking it quickly for suitability, and nodding to himself as his eyes burned with that vengeful passion. By god, he'd get justice for this, if it was as twisted, black, and bloody as it had to be.

Pressing the point into the wound didn't solicit any gasp of pain from Ayden, but pushing it further in to fetch the bullet and dig it out did. He growled and snarled indistinguishably in illiterate shouts, before metal finally touched metal, and the assassin's trembling fingers managed to level the mushroomed projectile out. With a scattering noise, it hit the floor, and another spray of backed-up blood pushed it back out, accompanied with pain, dizziness, and all.

But with the bullet scattering against the floor came a certain... realisation. The revelations came now in chains, and his grin stretched once more, beads of sweat taking the place of an innumerable ocean of tears, slipping and dripping down his face. With his own blood, Ayden drew a pentagram swiftly upon his own thigh, one that Wu had taught him not a couple of weeks ago. He snarled a final time, out to the air, and slammed his hand upon it, the room crackling and becoming alight with blue electrical discharge, forked streaks of power and energy.

The flesh and sinews knotted themselves together beneath his fingers - mitosis and repair procedures were advanced to carry themselves out at such an incredible rate over such a tiny area. His body working in overdrive, in tandem with his mind, was painful; but it was nothing compared to the burning in his chest, that wanton desire for murder.

The crackling faded, and the alkahestry was finished. Save for a few bloody smears, and a little blood loss, Ayden was still in one piece. There was an ugly, curved scar from where the process had been simply pushed along faster, and the skin was still sore and raw, but a hand against the wall, and one slipping along the floor, Ayden pushed himself to trembling feet - he could walk once more.

Fists clenched at the assassin's side, and muscles bulged, contracting and relaxing in sequence at an enhanced, inhuman speed. He held a presence with him that he hadn't carried before; a look of loss in his eyes, an aura of danger that didn't just come from the insanity and the weapons. This... this had unshackled the beast within. This was a product of grief. This was limitless rage. This... was something to be feared.

An inhuman, bestial, and almost savage snarl erupted forth from the assassin's throat, and he launched himself upon the stone steps once more, ascending with vigour. The blood-soaked tanto hung in his hands, and following the trail, Ayden retrieved his shredded jacket, drawing the second, clean blade from its sheath hanging haphazardly from the assassin's lower back.

Night still clung to the sky like an obsessive trait that seemed to be cowering from the assassin himself. Dawn's early light hadn't pierced a veil of darkness yet, and as he reached the panelling, Ayden jabbed the tanto in, and carved a solid sheet through the mockery of stone placed between the two. A jagged square; there was no time for finesse, he had concluded, slipping through silently, and pulling the jacket back on, or, well, what was left of it. It hung from his frame, the boundless fury now giving Ayden a huge, unfitting frame, wherever he walked. Endless flames burned in azure seas.

He gripped the blades firmly, and his eyes snapped towards two patrolmen at the front of the shop. They hadn't noticed his presence. Beneath boot-clad feet, the assassin crushed charred wood and fragile blackened shards indiscriminately, a chalked marking about singed, blackened outlines of where Heart had laid, fats burnt into the flooring themselves. The stench of burning flesh and skin filled his nostrils... noxious, overpowering, and horrid, yet Ayden absorbed it eagerly, only stoking the fire with it. Everything he saw, everything others would call something to endure... he simply piled onto the inferno. It only added to the lust for vengeance, the desire to set the record straight.

A letter 'A' on a plastic plaque sat propped up against a single, bagged cartridge casing. A growl formed at the bottom of Ayden's throat once more, but a grin carved upon his bloody, spattered face. This... this was a lead. From what had been left intact of the doused flames was already riddled with bullets and rounds, but the casing had brought with it something amiss amidst the room; a single pair of white papers atop each other, resting on a charred shelf, licked at and ruined by the flames.

'The willow, it weeps today...'

Slowly, the assassin approached them, but his hands hung still at his sides, clutching the blades as the moonlight danced from them. Ravens cawed once more in the background, they too seeking retribution. The very world itself wished the man to have his revenge, it seemed. Cerulean eyes scanned the page on overdrive - a ballistics report, pertaining to the single cartridge casing.

"...the round is confirmed to be one from a magazine contained in a seized, stolen military weapons shipment going through Cretan docks, the prime suspect within which was the criminal chimera gang run by a figure supposedly branded with the tag 'Berk', and nothing else. Whilst attempts up to this present day have been unsuccessful to uncover the identity of and apprehend this figure, this is a new lead in both this and another case, making him a prime suspect for the murder. Other ballistics reports show military-grade munitions from several different models of weaponry, meaning that a team consisting of over four people, at least, must have realistically been used in the murder..."

The grin only widened at this. A lead... and they'd left him with the most perfect of scenarios. From this Berk, he would uncover the identities of the rest of the team's members, and go from there. The smile illuminated the assassin's pale pallor. Adjacent to him, part of the roofing had collapsed, leaving only a single beam sticking out into the sky, but now it offered a different use; the flapping of wings rapidly heralded the arrival of another predator like he, landing with arched feet upon the jagged, singed wood of the beam. A blackbird. It looked at Ayden with apprehension, before opening its orange-hued beak, and released a cry, as the assassin turned around and stared at it too, cocking his head and smiling in silence.

'A breeze from the distance is calling your name...'

He looked up at the sky. The moon was growing brighter again; the lights in the sky would soon return, and it would quickly be daylight. By then, the first victim to his revenge would have fallen; he had a name, and he figured the chimera hadn't left the city just yet, if he had a crime ring... perhaps he had the missing pistol, too. Ayden let a wayward glance fall upon his boot, and the single member of the Children holstered there, aching for his brother's return. Soon.

Wood once more crunching underfoot, Ayden flourished the blades and advanced to the end of the bookshop, all of it having fallen prey to the flames. He held them in front of him, equidistant, and the grin upon his face took an evil glint, moonlight dancing upon the teeth and glinting with mania as he pushed the door open.

'Unfurl your black wings and wait...'

A single, fluid movement; no more fucking around. Ayden pushed himself down, and with a roar, jabbed each of the blades out at stomach-height. They slipped in with ease, and before the men could grasp for their weapons, they were gored by the tanto, only held up by Ayden's force and the effort of his own arms. A split-second in suspension, and he unsheathed them, twirling the twin Aerugese shortblades and sheathing them at his back once more, shredded coat shielding him as the assassin vanished into the night.

'Across the horizon... it's coming to sweep you away...'

[END THREAD]

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