That Which Can Never Be Taken Back

[Silence Sei]

Silas had gone through the shrub in a style befitting of one used to stealth operations. He had moved the branches of green ever so carefully to make sure there was no unnecessary snapping. Even as he left the incognito bush, the mute's brisk pace seemed to not make a single sound upon the grass bending beneath his feet. He could hear Artemis behind him, trying to be just as quiet as his predecessor, but to little success. The cloaked warrior noticed several sentries around the perimeter of the mansion, each of them walking back and forth like pre-programmed machines. There were a total of three men patrolling the Mystic's goal of the balcony, two walking on each side of the cement sidewalk leading up to the house, and one on the balcony itself. These men committed no crimes besides doing their jobs, and they would not be punished for such a task.

When the two at the sidewalk had met one another, only to turn around, the telepath followed the one walking east. He crept silently a few feet behind the man, making sure that several dozen feet were between him and his fellow patrol before enacting his plan. The mute waved his hand, causing a white orb to appear on the ground in front of the sentry. The guard paused briefly, looking down to see what the strange object was. The robed Silas quickly wrapped one arm around his targets midsection, using his free arm to shove the bodyguard's head forward and send him tumbling into the ground face first. His body collided atop of the orb his attacker had created, quickly snuffing out any indication that someone had been there at all.

Sei turned around, watching as the other ground unit turned and began to walk back towards the sidewalk. The magician waved his hand once more, causing the guard to stop mid-stride much like his friend, and quickly jerk his head around the area as if some unknown person had been calling his name. Sei moved quickly, his dark cloak giving him the appearance of a reaper sent to collect souls. The guard quickly focused on this paranormal looking entity, attempting to reach for the gun at his hip. The man's hand was stopped half way toward its route, the Mystic's own pale digits wrapped around the guard's wrist. A quick blow to the side of the head of the patrol caused his body to crumple onto the soft grass. The Sound of Madness had done a great job in fooling the sentry.

He then turned, approaching the balcony. The guard above leaned on the ivory rails, looking out into the sky in a daydream-like state. He had less to patrol, and an easier view, so it made sense that this guard would be a bit lackluster in his duties. Sei jumped into the air, his wings sprouting for just a moment to launch him into the air. It gave the illusion that the mute had superhuman leaping capabilities, much like the plain earrings gave an illusion of shared telepathy. He landed softly over the rail opposite of his target. He took each step with planned patience, reaching both arms out and shoving the aloof man over. The fall would not kill the guardsman, as it was only a fall from the second story of the mansion, but it would be enough to knock him out quietly. Just like that, all of the obstacles before Silas had fallen.

He now turned his attentions to the door before him; redwood that gave the appearance of a recent varnish job. The paint was so shiny, the mute was certain that he could smell the fresh coating. Twelve squares of perfect glass covered the middle of the entry, which stopped would-be peeping toms with a red veldt curtain hanging in the room. He gripped the gold knob, his hand growing goosebumps from the chill transferred by the metal. He turned his hand, pushing the door open. To his shock, it obliged with the gentle request, allowing him to entrance to the house.

"Artemis, Victor," Silas spoke to address his fellow warriors, "I'm in."

Silas looked around the small room, the balcony apparently leading straight into a study of some sort. He could feel the red carpet even beneath his karate shoes as he looked around. Ivory like walls on every side of him and a door similar to the one the mute just went through stood at the opposite end of the room. A small black bookcase lined with several tomes stood beside the other door, which seemed to give an intellectual type of feel to the whole place. To the east of the telepath was a piano, where an average sized woman was reviewing sheet music. The one thing that did not seem to be in the room seemed to be DeVir.

"I found someone. I think it may be a relative." Silas spoke around the same time the girl started standing up, the bottom of her green dress falling to the ground. She turned to the mute, scratching the side of her head in a bout of confusion.

"Who are you? Where is Thomas?"

[SirArtemis]

Artemis stepped into the damp storage room and began making his way quickly and silently along the cement floor, knowing the other two had already entered as well. Countless crates and barrels of various contents lined the walls, stamped with their contents to make sorting easier. The poorly lit room made movement difficult, aside from the crack of the door letting in some light. He stepped toward it and stopped, hearing muffled sounds.

Switching back to his infra vision, he looked past the door to see where the voices were coming from. Two men sat in a room off to his right, seemingly at a table, while a third had begun to move to see what the sound had been. Switching back to normal sight, Artemis pushed open the door and quickly pulled out Judicis again, the black body of the bow ready to incapacitate more victims.

The one who had begun to move apparently did not take the threat of the bang seriously, meandering around the open area of the basement and to the bar, and stopping to refill his drink before he would go and check upstairs. After all, there were others upstairs and he assumed they would take care of it.

Pulling back the string of the bow, the black mist manifesting as an arrow yet again, Artemis let fly and stunned the drunken man. The body fell with a loud thud and his glass of scotch shattered as it hit the flawless marble floor, muffling the second gunshot from above.

"Oi, Jimmy. What're ye doin?" a voice called from the side room, raspy from what could be assumed were years of drinking and smoking.

Artemis moved closer to the doorway to the side room and pulled back the string on his bow again, moving silently.

"Jimmy! Ye deaf, ye fat bastard?"

BANG! BANG!

Still no answer and two quick shots fired upstairs. As the guards' cautious natures began to take hold, Artemis could hear the unsheathing of their blades.

Another gunshot.

Keeping enough distance between himself and the door, Artemis took aim and waited. One of the two peeked out, seeing the fallen body of Jimmy as well as Artemis' bow aimed at the doorway, and stepped back.

"Who the hell are you?" the younger of the pair called, his voice less used up than his superior as well as less courageous.

Artemis did not answer, switching to his infra spectrum yet again and strafing for a better angle at the doorway. With the heat showing through the wall, he would be able to tell as soon as they made their move.

The bodies shuffled and switched behind the wall, the younger pushing his superior aside so that he could glance around the doorframe. He saw his opening and took a few quick and silent strides forward. As the small orb of red and orange heat moved to peek around the bend, the black mist had already been unleashed. It struck him in the face, knocking him to the ground.

'Two of three down,' Artemis thought, forgetting that the others could hear.

He slung the bow back over his shoulder and pulled out his daggers, Justice and Virtue, seeing the last man storming around the corner and screaming with panicked rage. Artemis quickly switched back to the normal spectrum and took on a defensive stance, ready to counter any attack thrown at him.

With a roar, the big and burly man swung his two handed blade overhead, looking to strike down and cleave the vagabond in half. Artemis easily redirected the blade with one of his daggers, letting the heavy weight and momentum drag the man forward. The weapon struck the ground with a loud ding, the carpeting doing little to muffle the sound of metal on marble.

Stepping forward, Artemis swiped at the big man's feet, looking to drop him, but the weight was too much. The man let go of his sword with his right and struck an elbow into Artemis' abdomen, causing him to stagger back, breathless. Artemis sheathed Justice, taking his dagger with both hands.

"Your sword is a piece of shit," Artemis said with a grin.

"What's that?"

"I said your weapon is garbage."

Artemis knew metal, and the way the blade rang when it struck the marble let the vagabond know the crafting method.

"Pah! It's done the job before, and it'll kill ye just the same!" The man spat toward Artemis, just missing the vagabond's boots.

"Then try to hit me. Put your all in the next swing. I won't even dodge." Artemis grinned devilishly, gripping his dagger with both hands, tensing his muscles in preparation for the heavy man's strike. The man snarled and swung his sword like Artemis' torso was the trunk of a tree to be cleaved. Artemis put blade to blade, letting the sharp edges meet perpendicularly with all the momentum he could add to the big man's swing, and the man's iron claymore cracked. The end of the blade flew off and the point stuck into an expensive looking portrait hung upon the red-oak walls.

The burly man stared at his blade in disbelief. Artemis, expecting the result, took the pommel of his dagger and struck the man in the temple, sending him to the ground with his broken blade, as well as broken ego.

Artemis heard six rapid shots go off and sent his message before running upstairs to make sure the others were okay.

'Basement clear.'

[The Cinderella Man]

When exactly did it become so damn easy to kill people?

Victor doesn’t know, cannot remember. It didn’t happen instantly, that much he is certain. There was no great turning point after which pulling the trigger became easy, no single event that changed his mindset and turned him into a bona fide killer. It was an erosion of time that got to him, a compilation of good things gone bad and bad things gone worse. That and repetition. If you do one thing over and over again enough times, it becomes a habit, a reflex almost, and soon enough all you feel is the recoil and all you see are the remains of someone less lucky than you. You can’t afford to remember their faces, at least Victor cannot. He has enough bad dreams as it is without the blank faces of his victims, staring at him with their dead eyes for eternity. Instead he walls it all up, cloaks himself in stolidity and calls it strength. But today the demons of the past came to haunt him, and the shell he has constructed is starting to break.

The rain is relentless as he walks down the grassy field of tombstones. It is everywhere now, down his back, in his boots, drenching him to the skin. He doesn’t care, doesn’t even make a move to button up his coat. The carriage has long since slipped around the corner and out of sight, but he knows where it’s going and his feet take him onto the avenue sidewalk, following its route. He doesn’t want to face the woman again. But he has some unfinished business with her and he had postponed it long enough. The streets are hauntingly empty, the downpour’s grey tint chasing everybody away to their abodes, and it almost feels as if Victor Callahan is the only person left in Radasanth.

And a big of part of him wishes he was.

Silas’s words popped into Victor’s mind, the disembodied voice telling him he found someone on the top floor. The ex-con hated this communication doohickey that the weirdo provided. Every time words poured into his head it felt as if someone was disturbingly close, whispering something in his ear and it took a lot of composure not to turn around and look over his shoulder. A thought came to him that this was perhaps how those nutjobs in loony bins felt, and suddenly he could almost understand their insanity. If he had to listen to voices echoing in his head every day, he’d probably book a padded room for himself soon enough. Artemis announced the basement was clear, as if to drive the mental discomfort home.

Victor didn’t rush up the curved stairway. Whoever Silas found, it was obviously not Walter, and there were some more pressing matters to attend to. Once his weapons were back in their holsters at his flanks, the gunman sat on the stairs to assess the damage to his arm. He could feel the blood trickling down its length and the burning pain exploded every time he tried to move it. Pulling the wounded arm out of the coat’s sleeve, he tore away at the shirt to reveal a pair of holes gushing with crimson. Clean through, he thought with some satisfaction. If it were an inch to the right, it would’ve shattered the bone and he’d have to seek a healer immediately. As it stood now, it was just an inconvenience. An inconvenience that hurt like a twisted dagger, but still it was bearable. He sure as hell had suffered worse.

By the time Artemis appeared in the foyer, he was wrapping the wound up in the torn sleeve, struggling to get some pressure on it. The young man barely even noticed him. His eyes were staring at the four fresh corpses and the pools of blood spreading around them, soaking the carpet.

“You... You killed them?” he asked, sounding genuinely shocked.

“No, it was a mass suicide,” Victor mumbled, one end of the sleeve between his teeth as he tied it around his arm. He gave it a good tug, then did a second knot to make it tight. He got up, gave the arm a test run and winced at the pain darting up to his shoulder. He’d make a shitty medic, that’s for sure. “You look surprised, kid. What do you think we’re doing here? Slapping people on the wrist for being naughty?”

“Was it really necessary?” Artemis said, now his eyes and his disapproving frown aimed at Victor.

“Sure it was. Hell, it was self-defense. I knocked on the door, they came at me with their weapons, I shot them. Simple as that.” Artemis wasn’t convinced and Victor didn’t care all that much. He took out the sawed-off with his wounded hand, struggled to crack it open, then proceeded to reload it with bloodied fingers. “I wouldn’t fret too much over these dirtbags. If they’re working for our target, they had it coming.”

“We all have it coming,” Artemis said distantly, and Victor grinned, closing the shotgun with a jerk of his healthy hand.

“You got that right. Now, let’s get upstairs. Our friend has a live one.”

They walked up the stairs in silence, their footsteps muffled by the soft carpeting as eyes glared at them from the hanging portraits. Each face in the painting shared similar lines and structure, with a beard here and a bald head there to differentiate the heads of the DeVir family. It was a clever little detail, Victor thought, certainly something Walter would come up with to give a more genuine feeling to his new identity. None of these men really looked like Walter. They all had proud and sharp lines, strong chins and piercing eyes. Walter Jimes had the eyes of a snake and a face of a boar. Not that it mattered much to people who might’ve visited the manor. Nobody really looked at these things anyways, and even if they did, they would never say out loud that the current DeVir didn’t look like his predecessors out of sheer respect for the host. You don’t walk into someone’s home and say that their father might’ve been the mailman.

After trying two doors and finding a lavish bathroom and a bedroom dominated by a huge double bed with a baldachin, Artemis and Victor finally rendezvoused with Silas. The study was dim, with only a pair of oil lamps offering their yellow light. It had that unmistakable smell of dust and parchment, a scent of ancient knowledge one would get in a library, amidst the endless towers of books and tomes. But there was something else as well, something fresh that stood out in the musty constant of the study. There was a woman, standing behind a huge piano, not amused by the midnight interruption in the least. Victor knew who she was immediately. There was mention of only one woman in the briefing.

“Angela DeVir, I presume?” Victor said, stepping inside the door, the right sleeve of his coat hanging loosely.

“Yes. Now I repeat, who are you? And what do you want?” She stood firmly, undaunted, as if three strange men didn’t just barge into her home in the middle of the night. Her hair was midnight black and long enough to reach her waist, and as a breeze pushed through the silky curtains of the study, it played with its loose locks. Her dress revealed little of her figure, but her face made Victor put her age at late thirties. “If it’s money, the safe is downstairs.”

“We’re not after your money,” the gunslinger said, approaching her with deliberate slowness. She didn’t flinch or back away despite the shotgun in his hand and some hundred and twenty pounds he had on her. “Your husband. I need to have a little chat with him.”

“I see. The Watch sent you? To do their dirty work?” Angela said. She proceeded to seat herself back on the piano stool. “Well, he’s not here. I haven’t seen him for days.”

“And you have no idea where he is?” Victor asked.

“None whatsoever.”

“Of course.” The bulky gunman nodded, then scratched his unshaven chin with the barrel of his sawed-off. “Well, see, for some reason I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe. I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

“We shall see,” Victor said, then turned to his companions. “Tie her up.”

[Silence Sei]

"Just a moment, Mr. Callahan," Sei spoke up, walking over to the two men who had just recently joined him in the study, "Allow me to see what I can find out. May I have those earrings I gave the two of you returned to me?" Victor and Artemis both nodded, placing their jewelry in the hands of the mute. The Mystic then turned his attention towards Angela DeVir. The telepath raised his head ever so slightly, pocketing the gems he had just been given back. He looked over her posture, standing up straight like a woman of proud nobility and status. 'Silas' raised his hand towards Angela, waving it close to her face, her green orbs following his pale appendage as it moved from one side of his body to the other.

"You will tell us where your husband is," Sei spoke plainly, using one of the abilities he had learned in his youth to try and get the truth out of the woman. Meanwhile, he was also probing his targets mind with his psychic abilities, careful not to rip each and every precious memory from her skull. The whole point of trying to find the information he needed was to not hurt Angela DeVir in the process, and having one's mind torn apart to find information was one of the most painful things anybody could experience. This was ground that the telepath always made sure to tread softly on, and today was no exception.

"I most certainly will not,” Angela remained firm in her resolve for secrecy, displaying the strong mind she possessed. Such stern determination from the spy's wife made using any kind of mind manipulation on her next to impossible. Likewise, as Sei explored her mind, he passed through several memories that Angela was free to let flow through her mind. However, the recess of the woman's thoughts contained a black box of sorts. Sei had encountered such a thing many a time in soldiers; they were trained to take certain memories and hide them so far into their thoughts that it practically got embedded into their genetic code. Tampering with such memories would usually wind up killing the intended target, and still not release the information. Whatever secrets Angela was hiding in that black box, she was not going to part with them easily.

'Silas' took a few steps back, shaking his head. Angela was going to be one of difficult temperament to deal with. Whatever Victor had planned after tying the woman up, it could have possibly been the only way to extract the intel from her.

[SirArtemis]

Silas did his best to interrogate the woman and keep her from coming to physical harm. Vic had not left a single of his enemies alive. Not only that, but the deaths seemed to have no impact on the gunslinger – he may have even enjoyed himself. He did not want this woman under fire, in any way, before this man. Artemis always distinguished between an enemy and an opponent, and there were few people he would call his enemy; to Vic it seemed the two were synonymous.

Artemis took the time to take in his surroundings, browsing around for any signs that might lead them to DeVir. The study, though small, overflowed with grandeur. A Calrton house desk made of a deep blue liviol wood stood in the center of the room, the handles of the countless small compartments made of mythril, gilded to add contrast to the elegant design. More liviol lined the walls in the form of bookshelves, though this form took on a regal purple hue. The curtains draped by the large window behind the desk were made of fine sifan cloth, billowing with silk-like delicacy. Even the window itself had an elegant design colored with valaiyalman. Artemis' eyes wandered to an intricately hand-painted design covering the ceiling, a unique work of art that the wealthy DeVir would see every time he leaned back in his comfortable seat and lost himself in though.

Artemis stepped around to the desk, pulling out drawers one at a time and glancing inside for anything of importance. Countless documents filled the drawers, from bookkeeping to letters of correspondence. However, one of the compartments looked out of place. His eye for metal picked out a drawer made of pure dehlar, excellent for use in safes – hard to move, hard to break. He pulled it out of its compartment with some trouble, the box thudding upon the expensive wooden surface. He knew there was no way to break the box, but he noticed a small lock on the front of it and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small lockpicking device that he affectionately referred to as his lock plunger. He knew the lockpick used magic, but the chance that the locking mechanism itself was constructed of an alternative material made the attempt worthwhile.

Artemis did not even notice when Silas stepped away from the woman, apparently failing at garnering the information they needed, allowing Vic to prepare for his turn. He focused on the task at hand and using his little trinket. He leaned over the desk and pulled the plunger on the small glass cylinder which filled the chamber with magical gel, the black fluid visible through the carri glass and mythril webbing that kept it safe. Carefully, he willed the other end of the device to extend into the form of a syringe, taking the tip and guiding it into the lock. He pushed the plunger back in, filling the locking mechanism with the fluid as it prepared to solidify. He waited the two seconds he needed before trying to turn the lock, and where he expected a click nothing happened.

Disappointed, he straightened out, wanting to ask the others if either carried a normal lockpick to see if he could retrieve the contents; he hoped that they would help the situation, but when he saw Vic, he changed his mind.

[The Cinderella Man]

His feet take him through the urban desolation of the Corone capitol, his mind elsewhere, anywhere but here. He isn’t thinking about the events that brought him here. He had brooded over that for the last couple of days, juggling everything in his mind like the world’s worst carnie until it all dropped at his feet once he realized this was one knot he couldn’t untie. No, there is no more deliberation, no more empty justifications. It is time to man up and bring this to an end. How difficult can it be? It’s just one more bullet in a sea of them, one more worthless life coming to a premature end.

His hand goes to the holster on his left flank, but it fails to find Aicha’s grip and the emptiness that is there in its stead strikes him like a hammer. He left the pistol at the inn, he remembers, left it because it felt wrong to touch it again. The gun bore the name of his lost lover as a sign of his sworn vendetta, yet up until this point it exacted none of the righteous retribution. All he made Aicha do was fill the world with more hurt and suffering, and that is a desecration that he will never forgive himself. So he let her rest.

The DeVir mansion stares back at him with its empty windows with all the allure of a haunted house. There are no sentries patrolling the fence, none mounted on the balconies, none playing a game of cards in the lit foyer. Only a single light shines beyond the broken window of the study, a yellow shimmer in the pale grayness of the rainy afternoon. Victor knows it’s her. Who else would return to this place of pain and death?

Victor Callahan was staring out of the study window, expecting to see the torches of the Watch’s patrolmen stream down the avenue and through the gates, when Silas concluded his failed interrogation. The man clearly had some hypnotic abilities, or at least thought he had. Victor saw such tricksters before; they could make a man cluck like a chicken, walk on their hands and reveal that they wet their bed until the advanced age of twelve. But no such thing happened here. Angela DeVir held her ground against his psychic probing, keeping her composure and refusing to divulge any information.

Looks like it’s back to the basics, the gunman thought as he turned away from the benighted world on the other side of the window, relieved to see no sign of the constables. He relinquished the idea of tying the woman up; there seemed to be no point to it. She didn’t seem overly hostile and there were three of them to deal with any change of mind she might have. He took one of the chairs by the backrest and set it in front of the woman.

“Sit,” he said firmly. After a short pause, she lowered herself in the cushioned chair.

“Do you want me to roll over too? Beg?”

Victor disregarded the smarmy remark, his eyes bearing down on her from above with a look that seemed to stand somewhere between disgust and anger. “How well do you know your husband, Angela?” he asked.

“Well enough,” the short, dismissive answer.

“Well enough to know of his past?” the gunman continued. “Say, some ten years into it?”

The woman in front of him smiled knowingly, her eyes penetrating a thin layer of black strands that fell over her face as she defied his stare. Eventually she lowered her head, deciding to deal with a tangle in her lush locks of hair. “You must be referring to what he did before this charade with the Empire. Yes, I know about it. What of it?” She snorted a short laugh. “A man’s got to do what he thinks is right.”

The answer didn’t irritate the gunslinger as much as the tone with which it was said. The flat, apathetic delivery was an antithesis to everything that’s been simmering inside him for years now, an offhanded spit in the face of his anger, his pain. His affection.

“I see. Well, let me tell you a little story, wench. I crossed paths with your man some ten years ago. He hired me to do some protection for him. And I also did what I thought was right and tried to help a girl.” He took a step closer, leaning over her, a black shadow almost ready to swallow her petite shape. “And he shot her. He shot Aicha in the head. But that wasn’t enough for the bastard. No, he framed me for it. Ten years. Ten years I slaved in the Furnace because of him.”

His two companions looked at him with amplified interest, not introduced with these details beforehand. In all truth, Victor had never planned to reveal them. Walter was supposed to be here and he was supposed to fill him full of lead and they were supposed to be done by now. But it seemed that nothing was going the way it was supposed to on this night. The woman below certainly wasn’t touched by his little exposition, her face betraying only an assertive smirk.

“Oh, so this is revenge? Let me tell you something, knave. I don’t know who this Aicha is or why Jotham sent you to prison. But from the looks of it, it’s where you belong. And if this Aicha was anything like you...”

It was an instinctive reaction, his hand moving before even a single thought flashed through his conscious mind, a subconscious link that elicited the reflex. He backhanded Angela across the face with his left, the dull thud disturbingly loud in the silence of the study. The strike sent both the woman and the chair to the ground with a yelp. Silas and Artemis scurried to aid the woman almost immediately.

“She was nothing like me, skank!” Victor shouted. The anger bubbled up inside of him from somewhere in his chest, pouring over into his limbs and threatening to overwhelm his common sense. It was only due to Artemis’s intervention that he didn’t have another go at the woman.

“What’s wrong with you?” the young man said, pushing past and dropping to one knee to aid the downed woman. He and Silas did their best to gingerly bring the woman back to her feet, the latter shooting a stringent glance Victor’s way as they did so. Victor was unfazed by it.

“Where is he, Angela? In one of his old whorehouses? Where is Walter Jimes?” he insisted. The black-haired woman looked up at him through mussed hair, the two men at her sides holding her beneath her arms. He half expected to see a hazy, groggy look in her eyes after the hit she took, but her eyes were clear. She spat blood at his feet, wincing at the pain her broken cheek bone caused as she did so.

“You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe she doesn’t...” Artemis tried to intervene, but Victor didn’t listen, couldn’t hear from the blood drumming in his ears. He drew his pistol and pointed it at the defiant woman.

“WHERE IS HE?!” the gunslinger shouted, cocking the hammer. He didn’t mean to shoot her; the metallic sound of a gun ready to fire usually rattled people enough to reveal all the necessary information. But then she smiled a cocky smile at him filled with red teeth and his finger shivered on the trigger for a moment before he gave it a good pull, filling the room with smoky thunder. Angela’s leg collapsed from beneath her as the bullet went through her knee, shattering it with an explosion of blood and bone. She screamed out as she went almost limp between the two men, her wail echoing out the window and into the night like a wail of some dying banshee. The two men lowered her to the ground, the younger of the two jumping back to his feet almost immediately. But all Artemis found was the barrel’s black eye staring back at him.

“Madman,” the youth said, his hand an inch from one of his daggers. “You’re a madman.”

“You no longer serve the cause of this mission and are therefore discharged from your service,” Victor proclaimed. “Get out of my sight.”

[Silence Sei]

When the crackle of thunder from Victor's firearm discharged straight through the kneecap of Angel DeVir, Silas wasted no time in acting. The mute grabbed the woman, one arm under her legs and the other under her upper back. Keeping Angela here was obviously detrimental physically for the lady, and mentally for Victor Callahan. He quickly turned as Artemis and the boxer began arguing with one another. Unfortunately, the telepath was not quick enough, and Victor caught a glance at this attempt at an escape, and refocused his attention, and his gun’s barrel, towards the mute.

“The box!” Angela shouted, pointing towards the object that Artemis had seen drop a minute or so earlier, “Everything you needs in the box!” Her exclamation came as a surprise to all three warriors, but Silas realized that the revelation through her tear-soaked sobs was the only thing keeping the two of them from becoming target practice for the gunslinger. If only she had known that something as feeble as a few bullets would not have been enough to stop her would-be rescuer…

Silas ran out the window, not concerned for whether or not Victor fired after them. He leaped onto the railings of the balcony, launching himself off and seemingly gliding down to the ground that had previously been so easily to infiltrate. He thought he had heard Angela shout for somebody to stand down, probably one of the guards that ‘Silas’ had knocked out earlier. Even the wife of a Ranger spy could tell where the best chance of her survival was.

Sei ran with his precious cargo, his shoes carrying him at a speed faster than that of a normal man. The buildings of Radasanth whizzing past him like arrows fired from a bow. Taking Angela to any doctor in the city would have raised far too many questions, perhaps even placing the mute under arrest. No, he had to take her to the safest place in the whole country, with some of the best medical staff that anybody could ask for. The blurs of manmade manufacturing soon became the docile greens of nature itself. The woman’s breaths had slowed down, something the telepath had assumed was an indication that the noble woman had passed out.

He made it to his home in about ten minutes. His arrival alerted many a person, and the second that somebody realized he was carrying a wounded woman, Angela DeVir was taken from him. He followed the staff that now carried the lady towards the infirmary, standing by patiently as his amber-haired niece used her magic and medical know-how to remove the bullet and treat the wound. Angela soon woke up, her eyes narrowing on her rescuer.

“Who… are you?” She managed to meekly whisper to her savior. In response, ‘Silas’ removed his hood, revealing the crystalline blue eyes, the orange hued hair, and the pale features that many came to know and love. The woman’s eyes widened to show her surprise at this new information. This man, the one who had broken into her house and was responsible for her being shot, was none other than the ‘Hero of Radasanth’ himself, ‘Silence’ Sei Orlouge.

“Mrs. DeVir,” Sei spoke into the girl’s mind quickly, the urgency in his voice apparent, “you need to tell me where your husband is, and now. Otherwise, I fear he may not live through the night.”

[SirArtemis]

Artemis stood horrified by Victor's display, emotion taking complete control of the gunslinger and having him fire a shot at the helpless woman's knee. The young man could relate, having a past that consumed him for a period of his life, but coming to terms with it had been one of the most beneficial changes he had made. However, just because Artemis could relate did not mean he would accept Vic's extreme measures.

Artemis felt relieved to see that Silas felt similarly toward Vic's recent actions. As the enraged man shot at the fleeing pair, Artemis saw an opportunity to give them time to escape. He pulled out Judicis yet again, drawing back on the bowstring and firing yet another mystical projectile at the gunslinger's back while he stood distracted. The black mist struck him just below the base of the neck, sending him to the ground, but not taking away his consciousness. Vic's eyes stared threateningly back at Artemis with a look of vengeance and relentless rage. Artemis, seeing that the effects would not last long, stepped to the doorway of the room.

"You won't find solace in revenge, Vic. There's always more to it than there seems. Always." Artemis hoped the gunslinger heard the words and pitied the state of the man, but he knew that nothing would change his mind in his mood. The vagabond rushed out of the room and down the hall, running down the stairs and skipping steps to get to the front where Vic had banged the door. The dead bodies lay motionless but the sound of footsteps rushing up from downstairs meant that Judicis' magic had worn off on the gentleman in the basement. It was time to go.

He rushed out into the yard, shouts coming at him from the few guards who had come to, and jumped through the hedge that they had passed through. Artemis cut into the alley and ran, feeling as if he needed to leave despite just arriving. Luckily, his enchanted armguard kept his movements silent, his steps barely making any sound as he sprinted down the cobblestone paths. As he rushed toward the docks on the eastern side of Radasanth, shades of gray appeared in the sky as the hidden sun began to warn the world of its coming.

[The Cinderella Man]

He couldn’t do this.

Victor Callahan stands now in the mansion’s garden just like he did a week ago, an obsidian figure in a sea of dull green. The house is huge before him, ominous, its emptiness patiently waiting to devour what little is left of his soul. His instincts – those in charge of his survival, at least – urge him to turn away, flee this place, this ultimate task. It’s the logical thing to do, not to mention an easier thing to do. And Victor was always good at taking that road, evading the problem until it either got buried under the rubble of his wasted life or it swung around to smack him in the face. Besides, there is still work to be done and time wounds all heals... Or is it the other way around? Doesn’t matter.

He looks down at his mitts, his bloodied hands that brought anguish to many and comfort to but a few. He is tired. All his life he had been on a chase. He chased the title, chased after the girl he couldn’t have, chased after a better life, a more purposeful one. And after his time in prison he had been chasing Walter Jimes, picking up the glimmering pieces of the bastard’s old life like an old crow. And he’s dead tired. Ahead of him the mansion offers the final resolution; behind him the road with more of the same. More blood and sweat and tears, more cries and lies and gunfire and blank stares and broken bones on a path that has nothing to do with Aicha anymore. No, this hasn’t been about the black haired vixen for a while now. It’s about Victor Callahan and his bloodlust. And he’s tired of it.

With a monumental push of something good still ticking inside his chest, the dark man moves forward, his feet dragging through the muddy grass. He ascends the steps to the porch, unopposed, and enters the unguarded foyer silently, adding soggy dirt to the blood that already stains the carpet. Up above, past the curved staircase, an unseen figure stiffens and draws a short breath.

“Treacherous swine!” the downed gunslinger shouted. “You better run! You better run far, because if I ever run into you again, I’LL KILL YOU!!!”

Only Victor Callahan didn’t really shout. He tried to, just like he tried to get back up on his feet, but all he managed was an undecipherable mumble as he lay on the floor of the study like a fish pulled out of the pond an hour ago, left to gasp for oxygen in vain. It was an odd sensation, to have only his brain working while the rest of his body refused to take orders, and at this point it only made the gunslinger more infuriated. He looked at his hand and the black gun it held, his face pressed against the polished wood of the floor, but every time he tried to will it to move, it felt as if he wasn’t trying to pick his arm up, but rather to push the entire world away from it. The utter inability to act made Victor think that Artemis somehow severed his spine and left him at the mercy of whoever came upon his immobilized body. And that only enraged the fallen man even more.

He strained every part of himself that he could, his fury fueling his efforts, and just when he thought that he would never move again, his hand made a shivering motion. So he went at it again. And again. And again. His body was perspiring heavily by the time he managed to even detach one of the arms from what felt like magnified gravity. By the time he felt his legs again, his head was pulsating with a deep ache and sweat was dripping into his eyes. By the time he managed to turn his body around and sit up with his back against the heavy desk, the voices from down below made their way up the stairs. By the time the two men stepped through the doorway, Victor already had the sawed-off pointed at them, right hand holding it feebly over the forearm of his left. He wasn’t certain he would actually be able to pull the trigger; there was no feeling in his fingers whatsoever. But then the shotgun’s twin barrels exploded without him explicitly wanting them to, and the butt end struck him in the gut from the recoil, and the two were in the doorway no more.

Get up, old man. Still some work to do.

He stumbled back to his feet, feeling as clumsy as if someone just struck him in the temple with a mallet, but he still managed to lumber his body to the other side of the desk. The tawny box was waiting amidst the stacks of papers and half-read tomes. He jimmied the lock a little bit, his fingers fumbling with it feebly for a couple of seconds before he holstered his sawed-off and pulled out Aicha. He turned his face away, fired a shot, wound up disappointed. Aside from a scratch mark at the surface, the lead bullet seemed to do little damage.

“Son of a...” There were more voices to be heard now, some mere groggy mutters, some clear words echoing in the hallways. He didn’t have a lot of time. His fingers were remembering their tricks by then and he set them to work on ejecting the magazine from the pistol. He hastily fished another from the interior of his coat, this one loaded with titanium-tipped bullets, and slipped one bullet out of the magazine. He pulled the slide of the gun back, chambered the cartridge, then let it click back. The titanium bullet went through the box, the desk and the floor, possibly ending its trip somewhere in the basement. The gunshot, though effective, only amplified the clamor coming from below. They’ll be making their move any moment now, Victor knew.

He rummaged through the contents of the box under the low burning flame of the oil lamp, tossing away gaudy jewelry and paper bills that were all the rage in Radasanth nowadays. Beneath them were neatly signed parchments with complicated contracts on them that Victor probably wouldn’t understand even if he had all the time in the world to study them rather than seconds. One of them caught his eye, however, mostly due to a huge emblem on the header that signified the Radasanth Docks Syndicate. It seemed to be a lease for a warehouse on the waterfront, where Jotham DeVir seemed to be keeping his schooner. It made sense, the gunman thought. He was on the run and the quickest way out of Radasanth was by sea. It was still quite a stretch, but after giving the box another onceover, it was the only clue that actually led somewhere sensible.

“Guess we’re off to the waterfront,” he muttered. By then the remaining sentries regrouped and made it up the stairs to challenge the intruder. It was time to dance again.

***

The docks were a miserable sight at any time of day, but they looked particularly haggard during the night. The stench of rotting fish and stale water was the strongest then, and with scarce lamps spreading their weak light through the streets, the buildings looked genuinely decrepit with their rotting thatch roofs and plaster facades that were peeling off like scales off a snake changing its skin. Only here there was nothing beneath save decay and misshapen bricks barely holding together. The only thing that looked alive were the taverns, the smoky hives of activity that spilled light and cheery music through their windows and doors, but even they were losing their vibrancy by the time Victor Callahan made his way from the Government District. His arm was hurting him something fierce by then, all the killing and blood spilling not kind to the gunshot wound he carried. But this was the final stretch, the twelfth round. Couldn’t stop now.

The warehouse looked lifeless, but he knew better. He could feel eyes staring out of those dead black windows. And though he had no way of truly knowing, he felt that Walter was still there. It made perfect sense. Walter Jimes shot Aicha as she tried to flee on a boat from a life she no longer wanted to live. And now Victor would shoot Walter as he fled with a life he no longer had any rights to. It was all coming full circle.

Tossing away his leather overcoat in one swooping motion, Victor drew his weapons and got to work.

[Silence Sei]

The mute only had the word of Angela DeVir, a woman who had just suffered some severe trauma, to give him reliable information. For all that Sei knew, the noble woman was probably sending him into a death trap of some sort. Sei had always advocated his allegiance to the Empire, after all. Rangers were known to be a treacherous sort, at least in the telepath's experience. Then again, if the Ranger felt that the life of her husband would be in danger, then trusting her enemy with information regarding Jotham's location could seem like the best course of action to take.

Sei had once again found himself passing the blurs of greens as they formed to grays. This time however, the Mystic was also met with a murky brown to his side, the water reflecting the a mirror image of Radasanth among its discolored filth. The piers of the docks had seen better days, most of the wood chipped away and cracked from weather and years of erosion. The stench of rotting fish made the orange haired warrior gag at first, causing Sei to slow his pace. Angela had not specified exactly which warehouse her husband was leaving from. Sei's eyes shifted around, his feet carrying him around the area to try and find a warehouse with a spike in its activities tonight. It seemed as though the Hero of Radasanth had managed to arrive shortly before Victor Callahan.

The sounds of gunshots from a nearby building told the mute just how wrong he was. Without having to look, Sei's body instinctively started dashing towards the source of the sound. The very windows of the warehouse seemed to be colored as dark as this particular Radasanth night. The echoes of gun fire continued to fill the large establishment, the mute's eyes shifting towards the double doors that seemed to be the only entrance. The handles had been blown away, barely hanging together by a couple of screws. The entrance had a slight crack of darkness that became illuminated every few seconds by bright orange and yellows. Taking a deep breath, a physical manifestation of the fear he held in his chest, Sei pushed through the doors.

Dead. Every single man that was alive possibly a few seconds earlier had been felled, holes through their bodies as if they were a fine Fallien cheese. Splatters of blood colored the wall similar to the way an artist would splash paint on a canvas. There was still smoke rising from the barrels of the guns that the mute could actually see. His eyes finally settled on the form of Victor Callahan, standing beside what appeared to be a fishing boat, his gun aimed at the last living man in the building, presumably Jotham DeVir. Sei reached out his arm, his mind began to send the message to tell Victor to stop and think about what he was doing.

Before the first letter could even be processed into the gunslinger's mind, the thunder from the gun filled the area one last time.