The Simple Orders

[Storm Veritas]

No sooner had he landed on the wrought iron balcony than did the large man waiting for him close. At least six and a half feet tall, the security guard was a mountain, and rather than pull a sidearm in such close quarters, he simply swung one of the massive ham-hocks which distended from his thick, vascular arms. The hand of the intruder shot to his hip, pulling at the recently sanctified blade. It bound at his hip, a less than smooth transition, and he had to try to hop away at the last second.

Yet even the incredible Storm Veritas wasn’t that fast. He began to row just as the meaty paw struck him, hammering him in the right ear and sending him spinning, deaf, dumb. The iron rail acted as a cage to keep him curbside, but perhaps falling to his crashing doom was a better fate than being stuck in this spot with the behemoth. Another hand, the right this time, came down immediately on his temple, bludgeoning him like a bony mace. He was dazed, spinning, out of control. His clothes were pulled tight, away from his chest as the security guard moved to pull him.

”You stupid sum’bitch! Blaine, come’n see! We’ve got owselves a play-mate now!”

The crisp and angered words sounded slurred and groggy to the disheveled Veritas, but necessity was the mother of invention and today was not his day to die. His face and head burned, the terrible pain still a scream and not yet a dull throb. He would have to work quickly.

The blade… where the f*ck is it!?

His dagger was now in the waistband of the large, fat security guard, who was pressing his torso over the balcony. Would he throw the intruder? Perhaps such was orders, or perhaps an interrogation would be at hand. Neither would come about today.

Sliding hands from his gloves, he gripped the iron rail in desperation, his fearsome grey eyes flickering a daunting, hollow white. A blast of electricity raced through him, across the iron, the field strong and wicked and decisive. With thick-soled shoes the security guard merely stepped back in shock, his gaze a combination of surprise and frustrated anger. And confusion, the best weapon of all.

Storm’s hands moved slowly from the iron rail, rising as though to show empty palms. He struggled to focus still, but then moved with a speed and grace that told of his exaggerated unconscious. With a quick combination, fleet fingers struck the throat of the man-monster, and the right hand retrieved the sacred blade, not hesitating before plunging the tempered titanium into the pliant flesh of the soft stomach. A vicious tear, a spray of blood, and the man was down. A second guard moved in, and Storm was feeling woozy. Old, thin, wiry white hair. And two more daggers. More deaths around him.

The click he heard came from the bed. It was unmistakable, terrible, a sound he had heard only a few times. Death followed the click, usually accompanied with a loud bang and the slump of a freshly strewn carcass. A gun, but he knew now where. The bang would come next.

Come here, old man. Give me your best with those pretty little knives.

The lingering security guard was both brave and terrified, unaware of how his large friend was struck but immune to the wash of compassion. The wash would never come. He darted before the explosion, and Storm had maneuvered just in time to see a large, round, high caliber projectile blast forth from his chest like an alien creation. Without recompense, he fell to his knees, a doe-eyed gaze at the intruder who had not killed him. His killer was his friend, inside.

Fast. Fast, f*cking fast.

Most guns in Althanas were not semi-automatic death sprayers, but needed to be cleared, cleaned, loaded and fired. Storm prayed this was the case. He sprung to the bedroom, from where a tuft of smoke billowed near the bed. His eyes were everywhere, but he could not find the shooter. Wild white eyes scanned and looked, frantically trying to find the ship his own death could be sailing in on. He had merely seconds, and his focus was weak. The punches had taken their toll, and he was fading fast. He would have to take care of the shooter, and the old bitch before he could escape. The situation was dire, and perhaps this was his own personal endgame.

People to kill while the stranger creeps. And miles to go before I sleep.

[The Cinderella Man]

At first sight, it seemed that the big-dumb-and-ugly would overcome the intruder. The burly guard struck like a mallet, then proceeded to strangle the significantly weaker figure while calling for his dozing pal. Judging by what Victor could see from his dormant sleeping beauty position, the assassin was bound to take a dive in the sea of grass below before Blaine managed to get his arthritic limbs in motion and help his buddy. But that would’ve been too easy, and a hitman that deftly disposed of Frederick and then proceeded to nearly boil his progeny smack-dab in the middle of their estate was bound to be one tough nut to crack. Steve the Watchman - that liked to read obituaries because there were more pictures to see there then on the other pages lined with thick text - found that out the hard way.

The metal fence sprung to life as if struck by lightning, then proceeded to conduct that uncanny electricity enough to enlighten the environment and catch the burly sentry by surprise. For a second he looked in disbelief, bewildered, like a child that saw the first fireworks in his life, and then the prey he had in his hands seconds before turned into a vicious predator, cutting him down with a smooth trained motion. Blaine was awake by now, shaking his head and mumbling something about all the racket at such a late hour. An outline of a heap of flesh that used to be his buddy, lying lifeless on the balcony, implored him that there were more important things tonight then his beauty sleep. He jolted up and dashed for the balcony.

And right into the path of a bullet. Victor stalked through the entire scene like a cat that found a pot of milk too hot to drink. His foe was skillful, cunning; a single shot might be all that he would get. And once Steve was down and his murderer recovered from the struggle, Victor felt it was his cue to fire. Unfortunately, it coincided with Blaine’s wake up call and even as he pulled the trigger, the short, scrawny man - that smelled like pickles and started most of his sentences with “Ya know” – stumbled forwards as if somebody just swept the ground from beneath him. It was a bad way to die. Victor wasn’t certain if there was actually a good way to die, but getting shot in the back by one of your own certainly didn’t sit well at this moment. It didn’t sit at all at this moment actually, didn’t have time to sit in the mind of the prizefighter. Because two were down and the cryptic figure on the balcony made a move to make it three-and-O, all by knockout.

Victor didn’t have a specific plan, didn’t have time to form something more complex then that primal urge that kept telling him to squeeze the trigger and let the revolver sing its deathly tune. He couldn’t see the assassin – the sly bastard stepped into the darkness the second he entered, like an animal that acted on reflex – but he got an approximation on his position. And all he could think of was to fire until the room smelled like gunpowder and bloody death. His gut was tightened as if there was a metalworker in there with a wrench. Victor Callahan, once known as the Architect of Destruction that could plot out a bout even as somebody punched him in the face, never found himself under as much pressure as right now. And he realized that he didn’t care about Elena that he sworn to protect, didn’t even think of the probability that the killer might go for Mariah as well. No, right now he was the one standing on the rope like a circus performer and one move - one bullet - could mean a difference between being a human pot roast and emerging victorious.

His left grabbed a hold of the sheet, tossing it aside fiercely, and even as the velvety cover glistened in its dark purple hue as it flew through the air, he pulled the trigger. And again. And again. The weapon recoiled strongly, his hand barely managing to line it up with the supposed position of the intruder before the flames spewed from the barrel again. It was sloppy shooting, rookie shooting, the front muzzle all over the place and his forefinger too eager to pull the trigger again. It took him a couple of seconds to realize that that after five gunshots, all the remaining were the echo in his ears and that the shiny revolver only kept producing oily clicks. Gunpowder smoke was the scent of the night.

The sound of footsteps outside the door was frantic, the sound of the backup that always arrived either too early or too late. Victor swung his legs down the side of the bed, precariously getting up to his feet, still holding gun pointed in that random direction, as if the empty chambers would magically refill and he would be able to fire again if something wicked leapt from the darkness.

[Storm Veritas]

It all happened so fast. Even to the hardened battle veteran, things seem to unhash too quickly. There was no time to plan or think or plot, merely instant sight and near simultaneous, hair-trigger reaction. The things that control battle at the base level are merely these primary motives, the most low and fundamental core elements of human instinct, of survival itself. Veritas had seen the business end of more than one weapon before, but here in the darkness, he was no more than the cornered cat once again.

Left. Right. Dive, jump, attack. Kill. Whattodowhattodowhattodo.

With the safety implied by a distance of merely twenty feet, the still sedentary resident made all the decisions for him. The pistol was tragically not a single shot item. Worse yet, it didn’t seem to even be merely a one-round manual loader. The gun spoke out from shadows again, screaming at him in distinct and terrible cries. The gaunt intruder dove hard to his right, hearing the initial assault devastate the wall merely inches from his face. The second blast came faster still, and then they all went quiet as the sound overwhelmed his hearing. Another explosion below him, and he rolled over his shoulder, a semi drunken haze in the bizarre lull of gunfire-inflicted silence.

Thwip…

The round caught him somewhere around mid shoulder as he dove, but the pain was dull and terrible. It rushed over him in a paralyzing wave, but he continued on, forging, stumbling, running scared. The door was sanctity, salvation, and he would deal with troubles in the hallway as they presented themselves.

Unbeknownst to Storm, the hallway had produced the eruption of the lovely Mariah, fresh, bed-tustled yet beautiful, and terrified. Her wide, doe eyes scanned furiously looking for someone to come and rescue her. The doorway from her Hero’s room rather produced the wildly stumbling Storm Veritas, who pressed up off his right arm, his only arm at the moment, with a knife and a twisted smile.

Fortune smiles upon the wicked.

He had spun her quickly, her shriek registering in a dull ring above the silence now, his right arm plenty to grasp, turn, and hold her back. The blade to her throat shut her up quickly, and he backed down the hallway, her curvaceous figure eclipsing his own. Movement of his left arm was nearly nothing, yet he managed to wrestle her arm behind her, holding it tight and keeping her close. The blood which poured from his wounded tricep began to leave a sickening stain on the white satin which tenderly clung her curves.

The man erupted quickly thereafter, merely two or three beats from the sound of the shriek. This gun-wielding lunatic looked desperate, terrified as he laid his eyes upon the slick-haired assailant. There was something there, some emotion for the lovely girl. The gun he held was raised at Storm defiantly, but the burglar merely swung the girl with an effortless grace in front of him, an erratic pendulum to prevent the penetration of another cataclysmic bullet. He was worn, beaten, confused and very badly wounded, yet the situation was now in hand. The moment was his, this day one for him. Success at hand.

”Elena!” he shouted, his voice an octave too high, sound and proportion still muted from the gunfire. Storm motioned at the weapon while speaking, knowing that the protector of the faith at the Thurmond estate would have no option but to lower that terrible thing.

His penultimate task was all but complete at this point.

[The Cinderella Man]

Despite his headstrong demeanor that had a tendency to surface when he got agitated, Victor was generally a well-calculated, cautious man, oftentimes too much for his own good. He played it safe. He held on to a pair instead of going for a straight. He locked the doors twice before going to bed. He looked both ways before crossing a one-way street. Sometimes such precaution measures helped, but most of the time it was merely ducking and running, making his life a silent statement that spoke: “You can’t lose what you don’t put on the table.”. For better or worse, when others acted, Victor mulled and tried to predict all the possible outcomes, sat on his ass with a dreamy look and a plethora of what ifs ceaselessly invading his thoughts.

It was because of one of these what ifs that the prizefighter practiced the seemingly simple ritual of reloading his revolver. He would sit with the widowmaker in his lap, pulling the ejector, swinging the cylinder out, shaking the casings in the palm of his left hand, then proceeding to put them back in and swinging the cylinder back in. The last part he did single-handedly, with a flick of a wrist, smirking every time the cylinder fell back in a battle-ready position with a precise dulcet click. He liked that last part. It deluded him into being better with the firearm then he really was. Then he would do it again. Eject, unload, reload, click, smile. Eject, unload...

But in the heat of the battle, when the boogieman was out of the closet and out to get him, the reload-click-smile part was everything but easy to reach. Because when adrenaline was thicker then blood in the veins and when the heart filled the ears with the sound of a panicky war-drummer, even gunslinger fingers turned to butter sometimes. And Victor was no gunslinger. He reached for the cartridges that stood neatly lined up on his belt, pulled one out, fumbled it, then proceeded to pull another and push it into the cylinder. His eyes didn’t aid this task though. They searched the darkness, trying to ascertain the noises his ears started to pick up. The bastard was there and he wasn’t dead. This made the boxer fumble another bullet, his mind cursing his shaky fingers and the oily casings. He oiled them the day before, thinking that would make them easier to slip out of the ammo belt. It certainly didn’t look like a bright idea right now.

He managed to load two bullets before his eyes finally saw more then a vague outline in the shadow. The assassin was on the move and fled through the door, pulling his nearly lifeless left arm behind him. Victor swung the cylinder back in, didn’t acknowledge the click with a confident smile, and charged after the man. The rogue was wounded, battered and ready for a final crescendo of the night. But even as the gun-wielding boxer entered the lofty hallway and the inky darkness was replaced with the xanthous shimmer of the petroleum lamps mounted on the walls, it became clear that the hitman was like an animal. If you hit it, it ran away. If you cornered it, it clawed at everything within arms reach. And tonight Mariah had the misfortune to be in the proximity.

“Let her go, bastard!” Victor shouted, but even as he lifted the six-shooter to validate his threat, the man yanked Mariah sideways, hiding his benighted figure behind her luscious body. Her throat muscles convulsed with every breath, genuinely afraid of the cold steel that stood a hairbreadth away from her pale skin. Her eyes were petrified, her rosy lips quivering, her figure scandalous enough to attract his eyes even in a dire stalemate such as this one. Juxtaposed to that angelic face, the pale gray eye of the murderer peered at him with uncanny steel, cold and horrible, utterly emotionless as he mimicked towards Victor to drop the gun or the pretty lady gets a share of the farm that some members of her family already bought. There was death in that eye, wan and treacherous, hitting the boxer like a spear made of ice. And it made it clear that the woman in his hands was nothing but a piece of meat to him, something he would slice through without a blink if it suited his purposes.

Victor wasn’t dumb though. There was no doubt in his mind that negotiations were highly improbable and that, once he would drop his revolver, the hitman would dispatch of them both. He, after all, came for the Thurmonds, and he held one in his hands even now. However, once the man called out a name, it became clear that he got the wrong one. Victor’s thoughts were frenetic, chaotic, desperate to find a solution to this lose-lose situation. On one hand he could hear the words of Jacob Thurmond, growling at him to do whatever it takes and the prizefighter was pretty certain that putting a bullet in his sister fit into that category. But on the flip side was Mariah, Mariah and her feathery kiss and her diamond tears, Mariah and her secret desire that became less of a mystery the more time he spent with her. Mariah and her pleading eyes that bore into his own even now.

Victor let his gun drop on the cushy scarlet carpet. Between Elena’s frigid benevolence and Mariah’s blazing lips, the former seemed expendable, the lesser of two evils. “Alright, now let her go.” he spoke calmly, his eyes fleeing from the deadly gray to the benign rich brown and back again, his hands spread at his sides. Two guards came charging up the stairs like raging bulls, but Victor instantly shook his head and motioned towards them to drop their swords.

“She... She’s in a... In a room next to mine.” Mariah finally found courage to speak, her voice mousy, weak, barely more then a doleful whisper. A portion of Victor was staggered by her words that were to be her mother’s guillotine. But he looked deep into her hazel eyes that sent tears trickling down her pale cheeks, and he knew that if she didn’t reveal the whereabouts of Evelyn Thurmond, he would’ve done it. For her. For them. For something that never was and never would be.

[Storm Veritas]

The location of Evelyn made sense, and was quite fortunate for Storm. Mariah had implicated that her own mother was right next door, and it was easy enough to check. He pressed her body forward towards the man with the gun; the strong, gallant looking type who was a bit too foolish to risk a life to save one. His body ached, but he was so close, and both victory and riches were now at hand. He turned the bronze handle with his left hand, feeling the door open behind him. Backing into the room, he saw something amazing by the window.

It was Evelyn, looking elegant and graceful. A pretty older woman, graceful in a long silk nightgown, long auburn locks spilling to her shoulders. An older image of the woman in his hostage, yet this woman was far more relaxed, nearly sedated. A near-empty glass by the nightstand was likely brandy, probably her social lubricant to speak with the riverman. She smoked a cigarette on the balcony, and let the moon cut a slick silhouette through the massive doorway. Had Storm researched better, he could just have easily avoided killing two men, and made the task easier for himself in the process.

Shit.

Her cool, smooth complexion was broken by despair, a resignation to her fate. She knew. She turned to the two now, a face of sadness and sorrow. She motioned to Veritas, speaking through choked tears as she gazed upon her once-loved daughter.

“So… so this is it. Like this. I knew from the gunshots… I knew it was over. Please don’t hurt her… I can’t believe it’s her fault…”

Storm looked at the girl, the stunning beauty who struggled to reach out to her mother. Not the easiest task with a long blade pressed to her tender flesh, yet to Storm restraining her was awful. He had to - he couldn’t release the grip, couldn’t let her turn one last time. Not with the man in the hallway with the gun. Thinking quickly, Storm realized he needed only seconds.

Not fatal. She won’t even slow him up dead.

He pressed the blade into her, sliding it through flesh and feeling the terrible yield of skin. He dragged it across her shoulder, a long and terrible yet purely superficial wound. No sooner had he cut her than he threw her to the hallway, into the outstretched arms of her idiot companion. The thick oak door slammed shut behind him.

No lock. F*CK!

Again, quick adjustments were the better half of well laid plans, and his left hand and dagger pressed into the door hinge and the latch. An electric sizzle, a softening of the brass. The hinge melted easily, and the latch was only a second slower. He had barely finished securing the door (temporarily) when she struck him.

It was a feeble thing, really, a last-ditch attempt of a dying woman. Her yell was jumbled through tears, her punch poorly aimed and directed at his neck. It hit, hurt a bit, but was more pathetic than effective. He held her throat with his left hand, effortlessly throwing her to the bed.

“No! You can’t have me like that too! How… could… my own flesh… Don’t let them see me… give me some mercy, some last shred of dignity, you… you fucking monster!”

The words cut deep, Storm realizing that this was no ordinary woman, no simple execution of the guilty. Evelyn was remarkably beautiful, had bravely stayed, and given herself in exchange for the daughter who had easily disclosed her location. He was past the point where the decision was his. The door wouldn’t hold long, and they’d hunt him to the ends of the earth if her money was available.

He had sacrificed his free will for money.

He sheathed his knife quickly, looking down at the woman who expected to be raped. He couldn’t bear it. He took her chin into his blood let hands, and watched as she was paralyzed with fear. Kissing her quickly on the forehead, there were only a few words he could utter.

“I’m sorry. I… I’m sorry.”

A quick twist of the neck and it was over. The door behind him was giving, too, and time was fleeting. The limp frame of Evelyn Thurmond remained postured like the queen she was on her bed as he hit the window, plummeting some thirty feet into the darkness.

On the run again, but this time wounded. The psychological cut deeper than the physical, and he was left wondering how the hell he had gotten this far in.

[The Cinderella Man]

Mariah collapsed in his arms with an afflictive cry, the wound on her neck marring her divine flesh and tainting the velvety texture of her nightgown. The doors slammed behind the bold scallywag, but Victor’s eyes were looking down on Mariah’s face, looking and expecting to witness the quelling of vigor in her eyes. But though the cut spread the crimson liquid rather bountifully, she wasn’t fading away in his arms. Instead her grip tightened, holding onto him with what might’ve been desperation, with what might’ve been the genuine desire for security. A part of Victor – the just, honorable part that still dwelled in some shadowy nook of his being – wanted to break the embrace and help the two sentries that slammed their shoulders against the heavyset oaken door. It was after all his job... No, more then a job. It was his duty. Thurmonds took him in like a stray mutt on a rainy day. What kind of a man would he be if he held onto the singular member of the family that wasn’t even a real Thurmond anymore?

The door gave in with a prominent crash, the hinges tearing through the wooden frame and sparing him the search for an answer to the dreaded question. Victor didn’t even need to look inside the room to know that the deed was done and that the only thing the killer left behind was the majestic corpse of Evelyn Thurmond. Whoever was doing all of this was a man of incontestable skill, a liquidator with slick fingers and predatory instincts. Taking out a frail, mildly liquored dame was like slaying a kitten to such men. And by the time the prizefighter would organize a pursuit, he would be halfway back to Radasanth, prowling through the shadows like a nocturnal animal. No, this mission was over, and once again Victor Callahan failed to prove his worth.

Once the two guards swept the room and found no trace of the assassin, Mariah finally released him from the firm clutch and gingerly made her way to her mother’s bedside. It was a haunting sight, a traumatic experience for the young and an inerasable memory for those that had the ability to comprehend it in a more mature way. Evelyn’s body – still rather imposing despite the significant number of years it served her – was basked by faint moonlight, her neck craned almost naturally, her hair slightly tousled. And if it weren’t for the abysmal glassy look in her eyes, one could never distinguish whether she was merely peering at the crispy night outside with some troublesome thought running through her mind or she was truly never to breathe again. Mariah sat at her side reluctantly, as if she was fearful of breaking the deathly silence of the lofty bedroom and took one of the rapidly-cooling hands in her own.

“I’m sorry, mother. I’m so sorry.” she spoke in a rickety, broken voice, but Victor could see no tears on her face. Was it from shock or was she simply a strong woman just like her mother, the boxer couldn’t determine without a shadow of a doubt. After all, Thurmonds certainly weren’t known to be the most emotional folk in Radasanth.

“It was not your fault, Mariah.” Victor finally spoke, his words sounding so intruding, so out of place in the timid serenity of the room. His hand grasped her unmarred shoulder gently, as if she was made from thinnest ice that was bound to break upon touch. “If you haven’t told him, I would.”

These words made her break her gaze away from her mother, the shine of her brown eyes amplified by the coy moonlight, and in his own she seemed to find shelter, redemption for the betrayal. He knew she needed to hear these words, to be acquitted from the parricide accusation, because regardless of how distant the two might’ve been lately, once they were a mother and a daughter. Once, before this manslayer started to gut them one by one, they were family.

“Come now. There’s nothing you can do for her. But we need to take care of that wound of yours.” he spoke in a sympathetic voice, loud enough not to be a whisper, but still soft enough to leave the heavy silence of the room intact. She seemed unwilling to move at first, but there was solid, unmovable reassurance in his eyes, the kind that told her that he would not allow the same to happen to her. With a kiss on the pale hand of her deceased mother, Mariah followed Victor back to her room, leant on his shoulder and holding onto his arm just like she held on to Evelyn’s arm after placing a red rose on the casket of her father.

“Why is he doing this?”

They were sitting at the edge of her bed now, with a candle providing a shimmering illumination that enabled Victor to work on her wound. The strap of her bloodied nightgown was down, revealing an ample amount of her skin that he wiped with utmost gentleness. Her hand was over her bosom, holding the suave cloth just above her breasts. She was so close to him that he could smell the sweat on her skin, the remnants of a perfume that she wore yesterday, the aroma of the soap and the bathing oils she used when she bathed. Combined with the tousled bed sheets that spread her scent throughout the room, it was more then enough to make Victor struggle with the same batch of thoughts that invaded his mind before the run-in with the mysterious assassin.

“I don’t know.” he replied, the gauze in his hand passing over the lengthy wound that started at her neck and ended on her smooth shoulder. “Maybe Frederick had some unsettled debts and somebody is collecting it with interest. Maybe it’s an old grudge that finally went too far. It doesn’t matter. This is as far as it gets. I won’t let anything happen to you, Mariah.”

His hand wanted to make another pass over her skin, but her fingers wrapped around his wrist and stopped him precariously, urging his eyes to make contact with her own. She didn’t smile, she didn’t even have her sultry visage on, but he still found her breathtaking, despite the fact that her mother’s body wasn’t cold yet one room away from them.

“Thank you.” she finally spoke, her face inches away from him, more then close enough for him to feel her timid breath on his skin. “Would you stay with me tonight? I... I fear and I don’t want to be alone. Please?”

It was inappropriate, it was scandalous, it was goddamn abhorring, but no matter what he called it, once she pressed her lips against his once again, all excuses and reasoning faded away like writing on a chalkboard. And as he lay with her, the emotions that they both kept concealed behind feeble masks, years and years of sexual tension and eerily magnetism, erupted in a night of unhinged lovemaking that both dreamed of. That both longed for. That should have never happened.

[Storm Veritas]

The forest was not a kind traveling companion, but the night carried far more ire and danger for the fugitive. There was no singular place to go now, no sanctuary, no direction for travel or rest except away from the manor itself. The road to Radasanth was the first place the police would look, and it was a long journey back, but it was also the only option. He hoped that the news would travel relatively slowly, but were the details of the murder passed on the back of a horse, they would catch up to him. He would have no place left to hide. This time he was sloppy, this time he had been seen.

Worse yet, this time he had killed what seemed by all accounts to be a fine soul. It was never easy to kill, regardless of what type of cavalier attitude he exuded about the process, but killing someone truly innocent was gut-wrenching. There was no justification, no sort of vigilantism that could coincide with this kill as he had comforted himself with following the deaths of the Frederick Thurmond and the bastard boys.

And why? Why the f*ck did they have to have her killed? The whole family… gone from the face of the earth. For what? Vengeance? To conceal? Why?

The tribulations came at a bad time, as each vagrant thought came with a twist of the ankle of a scratch of the arms and wrists on thorned bush or a serrated forest floor. There was no great moon anymore, nothing to guide his path with the canopy of evergreen overhead. He was nearly blind in it, and felt a small tremble of fear at the prospect of that which lurked out for there, looking for him. The irony of a serial killer fearing that which went bump in the night did not escape him, but he was a happier man still when the forest yielded to clearer road.

He could wander a hundred yards from the main road, and the dark would be marked with moonlight. Here the pain in his shoulder, that massive, numbing cry, could be sufficiently mourned and treated. He settled for a moment, wrestling an errant branch from a more isolationist tree to bite upon. The bullet would come clean from his shoulder with a long and terrible twist of the dagger. Falling to his stomach in pain, he felt dizzy as he watched the gore-coated sphere of iron glow black in the moonlight. Applying the electric charge to cauterize came next, and it had been a long time since he’d wanted to drink so profusely.

Son of a whore! Christ, like that moron’s firing a goddamned cannon in there. Can’t stop. Gotta move. Gotta move.

Elevating slowly, Veritas drank the fresh, dehumidified night air in a series of heavy, rich breaths. He would have to continue the odyssey, distancing and healing, becoming a wraith, fading back into obscurity. The walk continued now, his hand clamped hard around a bullet that had since been removed. He’d be a shadow in the dark, a passing aberration, something that no one had seen lest they be thought crazy. Here he could walk in silence, the pleasant plains to Corone’s capital being desolate and peaceful. The question, however, would give him no peace.

Why? Who benefits from the death of the family? Daughter gets the money, but she seemed a long way from happy to see me come. If her boyfriend there, that Prince Valiant straight-shot with the pistol were to cash in, he could serve to show his appreciation better than blowing me away…

And yet that so-called guardian hadn’t killed him. He had marched right past him, actually, being missed by several shots, and the defender of the faith had allowed him to escape, tending to the lovely hostage. Why? Why not seek retribution upon the one who endangered your beloved?

Storm smiled his sinister grin. This stranger had played things well, played him for a fool. He would wander back, watching the waiting wall of Radasanth rise in the distance as the depraved acts in the manor became history. The ideas swimming through his head were impure, yet profitable. How did this “O” fellow get the money to pay him so far? And how deep would the well go? Could he get more, were he to extort the villainous foreman of death?

Time would tell, he figured, yet the party was picking up. The business of the blade had a few more operations to undergo before he retired from his Radasanthian endeavors.

[The Cinderella Man]

Waking up next to a woman always felt like protraction of a dream to Victor. And as his consciousness started to reach the common cognizance that urged him to open his eyes and smell the coffee, he would recollect what happened beneath the bed sheets previously. And he always found himself unwilling to open his eyes. Because for that moment spent in no man’s land, between the hardcore reality and the mystic elation of a dream, there was always a sliver of doubt that what his mind replayed was just a figment of his overzealous imagination. The bedside next to him would be cold, the pillow smooth and puffy, and he would have to face the hard gauntleted slap of solitude once again.

Not this morning though. She was in the air around him, the enticing odorous aroma of her sweat on his skin encroaching upon his nostrils, providing him with a plausible evidence that last night events really occurred. Including the uncanny, abominating conclusion in which both of them permitted their emotions to go rampant. Any yet it certainly didn’t feel execrating for Victor. Despite his religious upbringing, despite all the tedious preachments and warnings enthused by his father on a random Sunday, the prizefighter saw nothing wrong with what transpired. He was happy last night, she was happy, and together they chased away the horrible events that brought them at the verge of giving-up the ghost. How could such an act be wrong and abhorring?

When his eyes finally opened, the disappointment that the empty bedside evoked was both instantaneous and transient. Because while Mariah wasn’t lying next to him, her magnificent au naturel body stood in front of the window that looked down on the azure lake reflecting the morning sun like a distorted mirror. Basked by the lustrous rays, her pale tan was perfected, caught between the warmth of the light and the chill of the mountain air. And then, as if she knew he was awake by some eerily telepathic magic, her head turned and once again there was that look over the shoulder that blew his mind off like a gunshot. She didn’t smile; didn’t have to, because she was a vision, a painting of an artist that just reached perfection. Despite all that occurred after that moment, this was how Victor Callahan would always remember Mariah Thurmond - bonny, exalted and his.

“Good morning.” he spoke amorously, with an obligatory meek smile that was alien to his face for the longest time. Nothing much to smile about when you drag your hobo ass from one town to the next only to get your head smashed by someone named Thunderclap or Shoddy Joe. But despite the ill luck that befell the Thurmonds, he got his five minutes of mirth. Well, significantly more then five minutes.

She didn’t reply right away, only looked at him with those cryptic eyes, both cattish and mild, before approaching in gingery footsteps and taking a seat on the bedside. And she kissed him again, a smiling grateful kiss of a satisfied lover that left him asking for more. But when he wanted to take more, she moved away slowly, teasingly, biting her lower lip like a jittery virgin and moving away from him.

“You need to get up, Padre.” Mariah spoke, intentionally using his ring nick, the same one she repeatedly uttered in between moans last night. “We have to make arrangements for mother and take her to Jacob. He will want to know what happened.”

Elena. It was uncanny how easily he forgot about her. A kiss, a sway of the hips and BAM!, the very dead woman in the room next door - the same one that told him to call her Elena because he was family - was sidelined. And even though he wanted to feel like a genuine callous prick for the lack of sentiments for the deceased Evelyn, he didn’t. She was just a chore now, a peanut matter that faded in comparison with the very alive Mariah that was getting dressed before his eyes with agonizing, teasing slowness.

“I don’t want you to go to Radasanth. Whoever...” he wanted to continue with killed Elena, but it seemed too indurate even for his rather indifferent state of mind. “...was here yesterday clearly wasn’t interested in you, but you shouldn’t be taking any chances. I can keep you safe here more easily then in that cesspool of a city.”

“I grew up in that cesspool. What would that make me?” Mariah asked, half in jest, though there was a touch of seriousness prominent in her tone. She was now standing in front of a lofty oaken wardrobe, her scarlet lace undergarments on as she chose from the numerous outfits. By that time Victor was already in his pants, trying to find where in the world was his right boot. He found it on the other side of the room, though he had no plausible explanation how it wound up there.

“You grew up in Scara Brae first. And that makes you better then majority of the bastards here.”

“Perhaps. But I still want to go. Jake and I are the only Thurmonds remaining. I need to talk to him. And I’ll have you to watch over me, right?” she spoke before flashing a smile at him, the kind that disarmed him even though he only had his shirt as a weapon right now. A nod was the only reply he could give her. “So what do you think? This one or this one?”

She held two garments in her hands, one a scaly scarlet dress with straps as thin as grass threads and a cleavage set to impress. Victor didn’t even have to look at the other one. She was so pretty in scarlet.

[Storm Veritas]

Anonymity is a pleasant property. It was something Storm had long tried to rid himself of, but despite various battles, a victory at Serenti, vast tumult in the Lornius Corporate Challenge and enough run-ins with the law to know some officers by name, simply could not be shaken. Here, today, on the fast-warming cobbles of Radasanth, it was a welcome refuge, and the fact that his handsome yet nondescript face could blend seamlessly into the masses was most beneficial. He was clad in black still, but so were half the citizens; brown and black leathers being common and inexpensive. There was much to do, and he knew he would have to return home. He had to be contacted, had to know the final meeting place, where he could potentially meet and put the screws to his employer.

When he managed up the stairs, the envelope was waiting beneath his door. The two neighbors he had in the shoddy brownstone building were unreliable at best; generally a good quality in that he was never recognized, here sabotaged him. None would be able to identify the messenger. Just as well, he supposed, as to not chase some red herring down a falsely-hewn path. He took the envelope and felt his palms sweat, the boldness of returning to his home at all striking him. Each rustle, each sound, each rattle sent him scrambling. The police would be onto him soon enough. They’d know to look for him, and this place was not safe.

Son of a bitch. Have to run… Where? How?

Neither his home nor the hotels would be safe tonight. With a few sweeping grabs, he was able to secure all he needed. The police would be by soon enough, no doubt helping themselves to anything they saw fit to pilfer. He was out the fire escape swiftly, sliding down with a deft athleticism, pleasantly surprised by only the thick and dull pain in his shoulder. A short walk and he could settle, expand. He secured the four thousand, eight hundred and seventy five dollars in bills and coins in a satchel tucked tight under his arm, and quickly found himself nestled under newspaper alongside alcoholic transients and ne’er-do-wells.

The richest man in Radasanth, cluttered amongst the trash.

He retrieved the envelope now, crisp and wax-sealed again, impressive in its professionalism. No fingerprints evident, no smears, no smudges. It was removed and opened, the trifold letterhead containing the striking, beautiful handwriting.

Mr. Veritas,

No doubt you’re worried now, word has spread quickly of your success at the Lake House. Quite impressive, very diligent, although I am sure by now you know that the police will be looking for you. Take cover, take care, the end is in sight. Soon you shall be VERY rich, and no longer listen to the beck and call of some anonymous patron. I’m sure by now you’re quite sick of taking orders, and for a man of your skillset, I can’t say I blame you.

There is only one matter, something which I alluded to earlier. The boy, Jake Thurmond, was not handled properly, and is still healing. Of course, for his safety, the boy was not checked in under his own name, and thereby exists in a world of low security under a false alias.

You MUST finish this job, Mr. Veritas. Jake Thurmond is healing at Radasanth General Care Hospital, under the name of Patrick Rafalt. Twenty-thousand dollars and a quickly closed investigation will accompany his downfall.

-O-

That was it, then. Storm turned to rest quickly, hearing the bleating snores of drunks and squirming as he tried to put these things together. How could he catch up to the author? How could he win this situation?

While neither dreams nor the terrible stench of the putrid alley air would bring with them an answer, his body did not allow him to choose to rest. He was asleep within fifteen minutes of folding the letter into his pocket, and would not reawaken until dawn broke on what would become the worst day of his life.

::Note to judge - Used "dollars" as opposed to "Gold" because I can't discern what the paper currency would be referred to. I'm not trying to ignore the Althanas stance on currency here, I'm just not sure what the specific rule is.::

[The Cinderella Man]

When Radasanth hospital towered before them in all its frigid dourness, Victor got the queasy feeling all over again without even getting a sniff of that gut-wrenching chemical odor of hospitals. In the back of his mind – the Scara Brae part that still clung to his morals and architecture lessons he attended once upon a time – he thought that whoever drew blueprints for these places obviously never visited one. If he did, he wouldn’t have built it like a goddamn prison. Still, that was just the back of his mind speaking. The bulk of it was captivated by the dame at his flank, her hand intertwined with his own as they entered the building. The two guards at the entrance acknowledged them wordlessly, nodding their neanderthal mugs and letting them through.

Victor didn’t want to be here, plain and simple. Not only did he have somewhat of a phobia when it came to hospitals, but he also had to stand in front of a teenage boy – that just happened to be his employer – and tell him that her mother kicked the bucket just like the rest of his family. And oh, not to forget, that he did his sister while his mother was still cooling down. Definitely not something he looked forward telling Jake. But then Mariah’s grip around his arm tightened, a miniscule meaningless soupcon to the image of them as a pair, and the reluctant boxer knew that he didn’t really have an option here. Not because of the wrathful retribution that the news might elicit from the young Thurmond heir though. But because the vixen in scarlet that tip-toed her way at his side wanted to be here and he was in no state to deny her. It was an enthralled state of mind, a general breakdown of reason caused by affection, and he reveled in it. Because it felt good to be needed.

If his thoughts weren’t infested by the sentiments provoked by the perfume that drew him nuts, Victor would have remembered what happened the last time when he was caught in this amorous elation. He would remember the greenhorn pugilist that rocketed to the top, fueled by what he thought was love. He would remember all the victories that he won in the name of his Delilah. He would remember the ultimate downfall when her fling was done and she turned to her real life. And he would remember that nothing hurt as much as knowing that all you did and all you are wasn’t real enough.

As it was though, Padre walked through the hospital lobby at a steady but decisive gait, the skirt at his side attracting looks like a magnet. They advanced down the nondescript white tiles and towards the lofty room to which the orderlies directed them. Apparently Jacob’s recovery flourished while they were away, though Victor thought that the medications were hampering his rationality. Room 614 was basically one of the coziest rooms in the hospital – or so the people in pristine white told him – with a large window that allowed a sight over the river. But despite all its aesthetical value, nothing could change the fact that it was a chancy place to lay defenseless, a goddamned stage waiting for the thespians to play their roles much to the pleasure of the assassins that might be lurking outside. And now that he thought about it, Victor actually wanted to reach Jake as soon as possible. He couldn’t lose another Thurmond.

“Promise me that you’re protect Jake and me, Victor.” Mariah cooed to him earlier that day, as the vibrant summer day passed by the window of their lofty chariot and he couldn’t take his hands off of her. “If something happened to him... I don’t know what I would do. We were never a perfect family, but he’s all that I have left.”

Of course he promised. She was his siren and her words seeped into his ear like honey, making him put a definite seal on his oath with a kiss. It took a resolute man with a strong will to withstand woman’s charms, but her seductive eyes turned him into butter even before they left the lake resort. And now he was ready to bleed for her, to kill for her... To die for her. And it felt good to finally have something to die for.

It seemed that that time had come much sooner then he had anticipated. Mere seconds after they left the lobby and started to make their way down a lengthily hallway that led towards the room, the sound of broken glass shattered the hallow silence of the hospital. There was no mass hysteria, no orderlies running around like headless flies, no panicky screams of patients. Of course there wouldn’t be, Victor thought. The killer was slick, a marauder that got a sniff of blood and went for the kill. And he was probably killing Jacob Thurmond right now. Mariah stiffened at his side, her body assailed by a mild shiver as he looked up at his face with fear prominent in her eyes.

Victor ran. He ran so fast he tore himself from Mariah’s grasp and charged at the doors like a runaway bull much to the dismay of the hospital attendants and sporadic patients that stood in petrifaction. He didn’t particularly care about the fate that might befell Jacob Thurmond, but right now his life was directly linked to the promise he gave to the scarlet beauty. And he wasn’t about to let her down again.