The Simple Orders

[Storm Veritas]

((Closed to the Cinderella Man))

"Don’t struggle. You’ll only make this worse."

Clenched teeth lost their tight grip around his fingerless gauntlets, the fat man below him no longer struggling. There was an initial stir when Storm had rammed his fingers into the snoring man’s mouth, but a quick jolt of electricity had found those gold-filled molars and numbed the man to his cholesterol-riddled core.

Helpless beneath him, the once powerful man would now bleed out. Storm’s dagger proceeded to carve three quick slashes: one across the throat, one dedicated to each of the hapless inner arms. The arteries were opened from the razor-like titanium blade, and the blood loss was swift and fountainous. The sheets were fast dyed a deep scarlet shade, one that would look like black velvet in the moonlight. The ornate suite was surreally silent as the assassin operated, and he calmly removed his saliva and phlegm covered hand from the man’s mouth as his body went completely limp.

A quick wipe of the blade to a fast-reddening set of silken sheets would clean it sufficiently, and the dagger was re-sheathed by his hip. Turning, he walked a few paces, and retrieved a small, nondescript paper bag from a nearby alcove. From here, he casually strode to the large open windowsill, a matter-of-fact professionalism in place. Stepping out onto the lavish balcony, he smiled as he looked down at the doorman below. The man was oblivious; giving a vigilant watch to the incoming and outgoing pedestrians. This night was quiet, and the cool breeze was a fine reprieve from the overwhelming cuprous scent of the blood-welled bed.

Time to run… too f*cking easy. This must be a dream.

He hopped to the rooftop, a simple one-story vault that he could handle with the greatest of ease. He carefully stepped over a single slain man, lying strewn atop the rooftop with a glazed eye; a severed spinal cord belying his otherwise unharmed appearance. A few soft paces across the flat-topped stone, and he effortlessly leapt to the adjacent building, a cat hopping onto the kitchen table. This process repeated twice more, and the third of the stone-faced structures would be the stopping ground. This building was home for now, his hotel for the night. It was deliciously simple, and he longed to sit and rest and end this task. He would descend, enter his own room, and laugh himself to sleep, reading the note again. The note that may have just changed his life.

Entering his room only moments later, he withdrew a tattered yellow paper from his back pants pocket, the elegant bond paper long since smeared with his fingerprints and skin oils. The blotted blue ink was written in divine penmanship, the calligrapher of the inquisition obviously well educated. The words that changed him flickered in lamplight, but he didn’t need to see them to read them anymore. They were ingrained in his head, locked down from countless examinations.




Mr. Storm Veritas,

I come to you with a proposition that I understand a man of your particular skillset will appreciate. It seems to me that a man with lethal ability is easy enough to come by, but finding one that can operate with precision and discretion is far more tedious.

I won’t waste your time. There is a man who has wronged myself and my business more times than I care to mention, and this man must be eliminated. He will be staying at the Excelsior Hotel, Room 406 on Thursday, the 23rd day of this very month. On this night, your services will be required.

The man, Frederick Thurmond, is a man of some notoriety. He will be guarded. The doorman to the Excelsior keeps specific watch for his enemies; a man such as myself would never get inside the door. Two guards will also man the hallway from his room, at opposite ends of the long hallway, securely maintaining a watch on the stairwells. A third is generally the roof-watcher.

I do not care how he is killed; there is no specific symbology behind his death. Only death is required. I will secure one-thousand dollars worth of gold behind the ironing board of his room; something that pompous pig would never dare to touch. Take it as your payment; if this is successful, follow up work will make you a very wealthy man.

The rest of the works, as they say, lie in the hands of the artist. You will hear from me again, should you be successful.

-O-


His paranoia of a police driven set-up washed away into the night, as visions of wealth and happiness overwhelmed him. The days of scratching for nickels and running cheap scams on the market-folk were done; never again would he know the anxiety of a failed pick-pocket or merchant heist.

He was made now, and it was just beginning.

[The Cinderella Man]

Uncle was dead. The cortege crawled down the Owl’s Hill like a legion of crusaders fatigued by the long march and the battle beforehand. The dome above was mirky, ominous, releasing cats and dogs on the advancing procession that moved like a legion of undead. Even the ineluctable chafing sound of the ironed silk suits and gallant dresses seemed like an unwelcome guest, silenced only with the crackle of the farinaceous shingle beneath the soles of their polished shoes. There were no sobs, no sniffles, no troubadours torturing their tin instruments as they made the opus author turn in his grave. Just the ceaseless scrunching of the black caterpillar with a coffin for a head.

Minutes later they all stood huddled around the grave, staring at the ebony coffin and the trickling rivulets that slid down the polished surface. The preacher was flapping his gums in a falsely sympathetic voice, making his way through the tiresome litany of better places, trying and utterly failing to prove to anyone that death was just a beginning. Death was no beginning. Death was the numbing coldness of the void just around the corner. It was the last word on the last page of the book. And it came too early for Frederick Thurmond.

Victor never got an opportunity to get more thoroughly acquainted with the man that most knew as Uncle. About a week and a half ago he was just another bum in the vast collection that Radasanth had on display, a bare-knuckled gladiator down on his luck and fighting for scraps. It was during one of these bouts that Frederick noticed him. “Victor Callahan? Hector’s boy, right?” the fat man mused on that fateful day after Victor’s battle was done. Victor studied him suspiciously, peering over his shoulders in search for the goons that would ambush him and make him pay off some long forgotten debt. Probably break his knees as well. Nowadays, if somebody asked his name after it was clearly pronounced in the arena, chances were they wanted something from him. The goons were there, pressed and dressed, their faces emotionless, their eyes dead, but they made no move.

As it turned out, Uncle Frederick was in fact Victor’s distant uncle that moved out of Scara Brae some years ago. “That town became to small for me, boy.” he used to say, following it with a guttural laughter that send visible ripples through his voluminous abdomen. He took Victor in, gave him a clean place to sleep, threw in some money for fresh clothes, and all because... “You and your father, we used to be like this, Vic. And I can’t let his rascal run around in rags without a pot to piss in.” From that day forwards he was one of the guys, the new muscle, another member of the family, entering the Thurmond pyramid at the lowest level. Debt collecting, protection money, interrogations, intimidations, all the little unseen occurrences that take place in some random dark alley, Victor became an integral part of it. He strayed from the holy and righteous path that his late father adamantly preached about and he even found eventual slivers of enjoyment in it. Being the bad boy certainly had a bittersweet charm.

The figure of the sermonizer, clad in pristine white robes made out of glittery silk, closed the book serenely, bowing his head for a moment of prayer. The drenched sullen mass that stood around the coffin did the same. It was an automated motion; nobody here really cared too much about this inane crap. Because Uncle wasn’t in that black piece of polished wood that lay before them, he wasn’t in their hearts, in their memories, in any other fictive place whose mention was supposed to bring momentary solace. He was gone and no sentimental bullshit could change that.

A majestic woman with her face covered with a semitransparent black shawl stepped from the bulk. Even though she made mere two steps, pride and trained elegance could be clearly read in her motions as she placed a single yellow rose on the surface of the casket. “Yellow.” Victor thought. “The color of love.”. Contrary to what the folk believed, a yellow rose signified love, not a red one. She was soon joined by another female figure, tantalizing even in the concealing black attire as she squeezed her left hand through the crook of the woman’s arm. Her svelte pale hand lowered a burgundy rose next to the yellow one. “Red, for the blood spilled.” Two men flanked the females, their footsteps mute on the soft carpet made out of damp grass threads. They stood in silence for a couple of moments before they led the procession up the hill and ultimately towards the Thurmond estate.

[Storm Veritas]

The next few days were interesting ones, and Storm enjoyed his hours of silent celebrity. The entire town of Radasanth was positively abuzz with the news that Frederick Thurmond had been “hit”. His ties to organized crime in the area were far-reaching, and there was no doubt in the minds of speculative bartenders and whiskey swallowers that this had to have been some form of payback. A wealthy merchant strong-armed one too many times, a competing so-called businessman trying to work his way into more coverage, or an unscrupulous politico trying to hide his indiscretions. All were interesting theories, but Storm mused that ignorance was bliss.

And no one in town has a f*cking clue.

The morning paper was nothing short of entertaining; a stream of developing tales surrounding the newly-felled kingpin. Police had formed composite sketches, large and frightening images of scary men and rough-neck types. Even the cause of death was held close to the vest – although Thurmond’s assassination was confirmed as foul play, Veritas was told by more than one tavern-dwellar that the killer was obviously a sniper, as the open window and string of off-facing hotels offered far too many opportunities. Naturally, he agreed. It had to be a sniper; anything else would be preposterous.

At home not four days later, he received yet another letter under his doorway. It seemed that the original executor was serious in their claim to have a string of plans in waiting. Holding the crisp, wax-sealed envelope beneath his nose, Storm took a long, deep breath before opening it. The anticipation was half the fun, after all. Unfolding the letter, he sat firmly at his bedside table, wondering how elated his face must look before the candlelight.




Mr. Storm Veritas,

My sincere thanks for the skill and discretion displayed with the handling of prior business. I trust that you received your documented compensation. It appears you have a flair for the dramatic, but I suppose that is to be expected of such a job.

The lingering threat of the Thurmond estate lies not in the hands of the patriarch alone, but also in the sons. Edward and Jake are both threats as well, their newfound power all-too soon to be abused. These boys have long been a thorn in the side of my own enterprises, and I feel it is necessary for them to be eradicated as eggs before the hatching of the snake.

Do not be mistaken into thinking I am asking for the disposal of two hapless children; both Edward and Jake are coming-of-age threats that must be dealt with. Edward is nearly twenty now, and Jake, at fifteen, is already fast learning the ways of a tyrant in training. Should they not be dealt with now, the tyranny that Frederick reigned upon the town of Radasanth shall seem to be Halcyon days.

They spend much time together now, and their arrogance will lead to little security being allowed near them. They normally stay at the manor, wasting away their youth behind silver spoons and the lives men dream of.

I must alarm you – speed is positively CRITICAL in this endeavor. There are many servants at the manor, and they all parade with much regularity. I think your simple electrical prowess would work best – they do tend to enjoy the pool a great deal when they drink. To see these bastards suffer a painful death while lounging with such conspicuous consumption would be exceptionally attractive.

The compensation for these duties shall be 4,000 dollars, nestled taut in the plant pot to the fence-side of the cabana. Of course, you can simply take the money and run, but if you choose to perform the duties, your third (and final) task will earn you upwards of triple such an amount.

-O-



It was better than he had even dreamed. Fortune was knocking roughly at his door, and it was high time for him to answer.

[The Cinderella Man]

((Sincere apologies for the delay. I'll be home tomorrow and back to the usual posting pace.))

Though the setting shifted from the sopping ghoulish graveyard to the lofty parlor of the Thurmond manor, the general ambience was like a bad odor that stuck to your nostrils and refused to go away. Black suits and conservative gowns went about like phantasms, their words mere obtruding whispers, their eyes evading the lamenters that Frederick left behind. They were all welcome, but none of them wanted to be within these grievous walls any more then the Thurmonds wanted them to creep through the hallways of their home, offering their superficial condolences and piteous glares.

That was one of the reasons why the mourning family cloistered itself in a grandiose study, each arrogating a portion of it as their personal asylum. However, despite the death that transpired and the sepulture that robbed them of the last remnants of Frederick, sorrow and grief failed to linger with them in the room. Instead there was an aura of respect between them, solid and unyielding, like a charge of electricity hissing in the stuffy air. They weren’t mourning; they were all too proud to mourn, too aware of the fact that if you keep pushing, eventually somebody pushes back. Frederick kept pushing, for himself, for his family, and they were paying homage to his efforts.

The aroma of polished leather and yellow book pages stood at the thin line between a fragrance and a malodor as Victor stepped into the study. Jacob – or Jake for those that fraternized with him - was the first to notice his presence, the boy diverting his eyes from some random book at the bookshelf beside the door and onto his distant cousin. With long black hair slicked and incisive azure eyes, the youth already stepped into the world which his father built around himself like a fortress, wooing the significantly older maidens even at such young age. He wasn’t the chip off the old block yet, but Victor was pretty certain he was on a good path to become one in a couple of years. He would lose the fraction of innocence that still stuck to his beardless face like a placard and become a real Thurmond.

The path that Jake trekked, Edward crossed already. The older of two sons sat behind the mahogany table, his back rocking the tawny leather chair perpetually, his face adamant in hiding any and all trace of emotions. He wasn’t the spitting image of his father, his subtle mustache and goatee presenting a tranquil man that deviated from the impulsivity of his predecessor. His brown eyes noticed Victor’s entry, but ultimately fell down to the desk again as his back restarted the rocking motion.

To the left, sitting on the windowsill with her hands folded in her lap and a figure of a goddess outlined by the gray light from the outside, was Mariah. Out of all the Thurmonds, she was the only one Victor remembered from the time they still lived in Scara Brae. “Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” his mind always spoke, making him recollect the time when both of them were mere runts exploring certain aspects of their bodies. She showed him his. Their parents prevented him from doing the same. It was the anecdote that everybody selectively forgot, an inadvertent incestuous encounter between two kids that didn’t know which went where. But it was one of the moments that just stick with you no matter how much time passed, constantly teasing your mind and provoking the immoral thoughts. Even now, when her father was served to the maggots and she sat as frigid as a corpse, he could hear those words and look only for a second how her chestnut hair cascaded down her shoulders. She was the black sheep of the family - another thing in common with the prizefighter - a castaway that found nothing but dislike within her family members. Victor didn’t know what the reasons were for this and when they spoke, Mariah never wanted to talk about it, keeping herself veiled in mystery.

“My dear Victor, come here. Pull up a chair. I wish to have a word with you.” the fourth and final person present spoke from a majestic leathery armchair to the right. Despite her eminent age, Elena was still an imposing woman. Her brown hair was pulled back into a coiffure that allowed two streaks to encompass her pale face, her eyes gently outlined by dark mascara. Her dark burgundy lips managed a courteous professional smile as she motioned with her hand towards Victor to join her. The prizefighter obeyed instantly, taking one of the chairs and placing it beside the armchair before he took a seat.

“My lady Elena. If there is anything I can do for you and your family...” Victor started in a hushed tone, his voice an outlaw in the wasteland of silence. The woman cut him short with her disquietingly cold fingers wrapping around his large hand in a tender icy grasp.

“There is. With Frederick gone I...” she paused, her eyes fleeing to Edward first and then to young Jake, both sons now looking at their mother. “...I fear for my family, Victor. They are still young and I don’t think they are ready to carry the burden that their father left behind.”

“That’s nonsense, mother.” Edward retorted immediately, his voice only mildly disturbed as he paused the rocking motion. “We will hunt this dog down soon enough and continue father’s work. I already set the hunt in motion. We will prevail.” Jake nodded to these words ardently, standing beside his brother.

“Perhaps. But we have to be extra cautious because Frederick’s death might have been just the beginning. Frederick was good to you and you served him well. Would you do the same for those he left behind?” she spoke in a gallant refined voice, her emeralds looking into Victor’s plain browns.

“Of course, my lady. I will join the search immediately.”

“No. I want you here, in the manor. Streets speak to everybody with enough gold. But I prefer to out our safety into the hands of our kin. And stop with the my lady. We’re all family here.” Elena concluded, releasing his hand and announcing that the conversation is over. Edward and Jake merely shrugged their shoulders, complying with their mother’s desire and paying no more heed to the matter. She was being paranoid, they thought. The manor was almost like a fortress, an impregnable sanctuary diverse enough to fulfill all of their desires.

“Very well.” Victor replied, bowing his head before he made himself scarce from the presence of the Thurmonds. With a corner of his eye he managed to catch Mariah’s visage, noticing the minute smile pointed in his direction before it was effaced and her eyes returned to the downpour outside.

[Storm Veritas]

It had been three long, wretched days of toiling since he had received the letter. Rain, mist, and cold were the purveying themes, all making the execution of his task impossible. On this morning, he was woken by the sun and uncomfortable heat, something that told him it was finally time to work.

Radasanth always settled into a slump when the heat struck, all but overwhelmed by the sizzling weather. It felt to be at least ninety degrees here, an unseasonable warmth, but this part of Corone was a funny place. The markets would smell, the fish turning over by late morning. People would walk and move more slowly, many opting to stay indoors and behind the safe protection of their basements, the stone walls surrounded by pleasantly insulating earth. The poor wandered the streets, seeking isolation and shadow, miserable in dirty clothes that were always too heavy, and wouldn’t come truly clean until after the cold bit back at them in October.

Perfect day for drinks in the water, now that I’m sure all that pesky grieving has come and gone.

Storm walked comfortably through the house of the Thurmond estate, staying to himself but not out of sight. There were many people working here, all in simple white gowns, an elegant but easy uniform. All, of course, with the exception of a tall, slim fellow who had met an unfortunate accident with a stairway and a garrote. He was still in the basement, slumped nude in the closet. The earliest to arrive, he was very easy to take care of this morning.

With his hair pulled back into a simple servant-style knot, Veritas laughed at the pitiful security. All the crew had specific jobs, none conversed with each other. Middle aged women and young girls were cleaning, and a scarce few portly twenty-somethings patrolled the house, oblivious to the stranger in their midst, disconnected. The Thurmond feel of power was absolute, even in these dark times. It made for easy pickings.

Stupid motherf*ckers. I guess they didn’t miss their father too much, with a martini poolside order at ten AM. Shit… I guess it’s noon somewhere.

The task was pitifully easy, and Veritas almost felt bad taking part in it. Some olive-complected lovely asked him to prepare two lime-heavy margaritas with no salt for the boys, who had entered the pool only seconds before. With a full bar only feet from the refrigerator, and large pyramidish glasses hanging overhead, Storm happily complied, noting that it would be twice as simple to just drop something less desirable into their drinks.

Whatever. You’re getting paid to juice them. No sense in asking questions.

A bit of triple sec, a heavy dose of tequila, and a splash of lime juice later, Storm was parading out across the back lawn to the pool, tray in hand and polite half-smile draped across his face.

The boys sat in the pool, nestled in corners while the sun soaked them with warming rays upon their tanned faces. A raven-haired mongrel of a human was sitting on the right edge of the large, pristine pool, with a cocky smile and shit-eating grin.

“Thanks, but you need to work on those tits to serve me drinks, sweet thing.” Eddie began, taunting the servant and sealing his fate.

“Come on, bub, at least he’s got an ass on him. I bet the Crawford boys on Sycamore would give that a bid.” The doe eyed accomplice Jake was no less vulgar, juxtaposed brutality from his innocent appearance. With a lithe frame and child-skinny arms, this one had the look of brilliance upon him, terribly misused.

“Bah, you’re probably right. Well, pool boy, better get to mixing up another round. And try to give us a shake when you walk back. Next time you come out, you’d better have some bigger cans and maybe some hips to match.” The imbecile again, the larger one. Brutish.

Oh f*ck no. This just turned into a dream job.

Storm squatted by the waters, his cotton clothes hitching up a touch. Offended, the young one scooted up a bit, his chest huffed. Something was up, but it hadn’t worried his hairbrained brother. It didn’t matter; it was far too late for either of them. Plunging his hand into the crystal clear waters, Storm let it dance a bit, the young men flabbergasted by his boldness.

“You know, you two little pricks will die just as easy as your pa. Did you know he bled like a fish and cried like a bitch?”

Without another word, Veritas fired his energy, emitting a strong electric pulse. Tiny rivulets of purple-live electricity danced through the pool, sending thousands of high-current volt to the young fools. He focused on Eddie, the larger one, who instantly convulsed. Within five or six seconds, he was done.

And so was Storm, noticing the lesser of the two brothers also sinking back into the waters, looking glazed and inhuman. With a few practiced steps, he walked to the rehearsed drop point, and picked up his pretty paper bag. Elegant in its simplicity. A single, smooth walk with a pair of garden shears in hand, and he would hop the fence to freedom and wealth.

Sometimes I think I’m just too f*cking good at this job for the sake of humanity.

[The Cinderella Man]

((A bit longish... >_<))

“Do you remember the Rinsing Falls, Victor?”

He did. It wasn’t the recollection he liked to retrieve, especially not now when she stood before him in a dress prone to reveal more then it hid, but even before she spoke his name at the end of the sentence, the image flashed before his mind’s eyes so fervidly, it burned itself into his cranium. They were twelve, thirteen maybe, careless and oblivious, throwing themselves into the frothy water and making a contest out of who made a larger splash. She was more of a woman then he was a man back then, parading her svelte hoyden figure around in a yellow two-piece, and even though Edward and Jacob always tagged along, Victor always felt like it was just the two of them. Just the two of them, the vague rainbow in the midst of the condensation at the bottom of the falls, and an endless afternoon of ignorance and verboten glances.

“Everything was so much simpler back then. Life was just... just an unknown road beckoning you to explore, to see what’s beyond the next corner.” Mariah continued, reading the answer from his dreamy brown eyes with a gracious smile. The boyish pliancy was successfully eradicated by the inevitable maturation now, giving her a sizzling figure and a fair noble-like complexion that she wasn’t afraid to show. Her white silken dress touched her skin apologetically, creasing on all the right places and allowing a glimpse or three through the semi-transparency. The straps that held the garment were like lifelines, one of them falling down her bare shoulder like a teasing renegade. Compared to her pallid skin, her lips were like fire, as red as fresh blood and as untouchable as flame tongues. One of her hands was touching the fence of the loge in which the two stood, the other folded in front of her, amplifying the curves of her breast prominent enough to provoke eyes drooping, but subtle enough to reveal no clear intention.

Victor moved his eyes – had to move his eyes - onto the garden that stood splayed before them like a battlefield map, basked in the powerful sun that announced the soon arrival of the summer. The air was heavy, humid, burdened by the evaporation of the rainwater that showered Radasanth three full days, but it made the environment look rejuvenated. The dull navy green gave way to the lively viridity of the nature, the sky presenting the most azure hue it had in its arsenal. All of that served as an effective distraction from the vixen at his side.

“Yes, it was. But years don’t count backwards and we all have to grow up sometimes. And before you know it, throwing yourself in a river gets a whole new meaning.” Victor replied solemnly, keeping his eyes away from the enthralling woman. Sure, she was his distant cousin. Sure, even thinking of her in that manner was despicable. But he wasn’t the one that kept sending all these signals that prodded at the deepest desires and waking them up from their rightful slumber. Down below, Mariah’s younger siblings were chiming their glasses loaded with liquor, bellowing a laughter at some distasteful anecdote.

“Poor thing. Life has been so hard to you.” she approached him, breaking the safety perimeter he tried to maintain and embracing one of his arms. He tried to decipher whether or not she masked a dose of sarcasm in those words, but then she leant on his shoulder with a sigh and his thoughts were erased as if he wrote them on a chalkboard. “And look at us. At them. A person would think that they haven’t lost their father mere days ago.”

Victor’s mind tried to grasp some inane thought, something about her flamboyant attire acting in unison with that idiosyncrasy, but her proximity was too captivating for him to form that mentation completely. He didn’t respond to her comment though, didn’t even look at the Thurmond progeny. Pricks or not, the two below and their mother were his employers now, providing him with the fine black suit he was now wearing as well as a roof over his head. And that was significantly more then a multitude of others offered a prizefighter down on his luck.

“I just feel like sooner or later, all of this would backfire on them and...” but even as she spoke, Victor froze in her arms as if something down below petrified him, turning him to stone.

“Something’s wrong.” he uttered swiftly and by the time she tracked his gaze to the pool below, he pushed her away and ran for the stairs like a madman. In the pool, Mariah’s brothers floated lifelessly. The woman merely sighed and reentered the manor at a steady gait.

***

By the time he arrived to the poolside, the servants already fished out the pair of bodies out of the crystalline water. Edward looked so hapless, as pale as bleach with eyes peering into oblivion, his body cramped, his muscles caught in a deathly spasm. A pair of servants was still trying to get water out of his mouth, pumping his unremarkable chest, slapping his face desperately, but he seemed as lifeless as his father already, with his balled hands giving out an occasional seizure. A vicious though appeared in Victor’s mind for some reason.

“You don’t seem so cocky now, jerk.”

What they failed to do to Edward, the servants managed to do with Jake. They massaged the Thurmond heir, twisting and turning his sylphlike body to extract the water from his windpipe, and after what seemed like hours (and in fact was only two minutes), Jake coughed weakly and opened up his eyes. His muscles still stood convulsed, making him resemble a marionette whose owner cut the strings all at once. But he was alive and breathing in short frantic gasps. From the doors that led out of the backyard and into the house, a desperate voice outcried.

“MY BOYS!!!”

***

Victor hated hospitals with a vengeance. He spent hours upon hours in hospitals, sitting in frigid waiting rooms that smelled like chemical substances and overly strong cleaners, looking at the degradation of the human being that was once his father. His sister Yavannha would have called it a childhood trauma alongside some other tedious psychological mumbo-jumbo that would only confirm the fact that he felt utterly disconcerted once he walked into hospitals. But he had to do it. Jacob summoned him, asked for him explicitly and it was the least the boxer could do after failing to prevent the death of his big brother, Edward Thurmond.

Three checkpoints of armed Thurmond guards - set on the crucial stairways and intersections in the hospital – and two searches after he entered the hospital, Victor found himself in Jake’s room. The room was the apotheosis of a hospital chamber - white and cold and completely uninviting - and only a pair of muscle-bound grotesques with revolvers deviated from the usual scenery. Jake seemed motionless, his sickly wan face almost blending in with the comfy bedroll around him.

“Leave us.” he said in a raspy feeble voice to the two guards that obeyed soundlessly.

“How are you doing, cousin?” Victor asked, walking up to the bedside and looking down at the bedridden man.

“I’ve nearly been electrocuted to death. How the hell you think I’m doing?!” came from below in a disrespectful growl. Victor made no retort. The dog that barked didn’t bite, especially if it was your cousin. “Never mind me for now though. I’ll be fine here. I’ve got some of my finest men protecting me while I recover. It’s Mother I’m worried about.”

“What about Mariah?” the prizefighter asked, his question immediately resulting in a bitter cramp on Jacob’s face.

“I don’t care about that bitch. In fact, I think she had her fingers in this.”

“But she was with me...”

“Not directly, you numbskull. Keep a vigilant eye on her... But no too vigilant, if you know what I mean.” Jake attempted a wink, but it came out decrepit and horrible, disfiguring his deathly face.

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

“Yeah, right. I don’t care about your sick games. But if that bitch is behind all of this, I want her dead.” the Thurmond spoke, placing an emphasis on the dead part. Victor wasn’t sure if he would be able to do it; in fact her was rather certain that if the time came and he had to pull the trigger to ruin the perfection of that sweet face, he wouldn’t be able to execute her. But he nodded all the same. Surely she was innocent and Jake was having his paranoia amplified by his scorched brain. “Anyways, Mother went to our estate up in the Jagged Mountains. She didn't want to, but things are heating up in Radasanth and I don't want her get caught in the crossfire. She took an escort with her, but whoever is doing this knows his way around sentries. I want you to protect her, Vic. Do whatever it takes. You hear me? Whatever it takes!”

“I understand.”

“One of my guards will give you some weapons. Now scram, I have to rest.”

[Storm Veritas]

Success had come easily to him, and his prolific working was making Storm quite comfortable. He enjoyed the warm summer’s light, and soaked it in as he sat at the wrought-iron table of the lovely caf&#233; he had grown quite fond of. With his left foot draped casually over his right knee, he leaned on the table as he allowed his cigarette to burn freely. The air was fresh, his coffee warm and smooth. The people of Radasanth buzzed around him, hustling and hawking wares and trying to earn a buck. Dressed well in freshly purchased linens, the opulent Veritas enjoyed his newfound wealth. He smiled as he sipped the coffee again; a subtle hint of hazelnut accompanying the flavor.

A waiter came to bring him some fresh warmed croissants, delicious pastries the trim murderer indulged in politely. His eyes were all about the place, and he feasted on the soft piano playing from inside. Out here, he was the royalty now, and the time of luxury was perfect for him.

Easiest money a man could ever make. The life of f*cking Riley isn’t a bad one to suffer through.

After easing his way through the late breakfast, the lithe diplomat stretched once more and rose, watching out as a vigilant eye over the peasants that would now live to serve him. He smiled again, leaving a healthy stack of currency with his bill, smiling to the waiter with a debonair ease as he left the handed the tab over. Being nice was easy enough for him – it’s never difficult to be pleasant with a fistful of cash. People seemed to give him anything he wanted for a few pretty slips of paper.

The street was quiet as he strolled, humming back to his house with a skip in his step. There had been little follow-up to the death of the Thurmond boys, and he was able to leave there without incident or question. He was a ghost, hidden in plain sight, and was very well paid for his efforts. Hopping up the stone stairs to his semi-permanent hotel room, he carelessly pressed through the door, coat in hand and ready to hang.

Oh, shit… looks like a visitor.

His second step had landed upon a piece of paper, a sealed envelope with a single “O” pressed in cherry red wax over the flap. With a flip of the wrist he dispatched the bond with a singular slash of his iron dagger, allowing the envelope to fall to the floor as he read intently.




Mr. Veritas,

It seems as though you have enjoyed your riches quite easily, taking to them with fervor. The clothes, the women, the fine dining… I’m glad to see that our arrangement has brought you such pleasure, although I cannot similarly claim such happiness.

Jake Thurmond is alive. This was NOT part of the plan, as you damned well know. Security around him right now is razor tight, and getting to him presently is out of the question. I am thereby forced to move on.

Evelyn Thurmond is your new target. The wife has been removed to the family’s vacation spot, one nestled in the foothills of the Jagged Mountains just outside of town. No more than a day’s ride, or few day’s walk. You can find the Thurmond summer home in the valley between the two largest peaks from an east-to-west view, and it is situated just off the Concordia Pond. It is the lone red house on the lake, and will churn smoke from the chimney on cold nights.

She will not be alone, and this will not be simple, but it is critically important. In this event you will not be directly rewarded, but the successful mission completion will lead to the true final issue – cleaning up the loose ends of young Jake Thurmond, wherein you shall be properly compensated.

You have seven days to kill Evelyn Thurmond.

-O-

P.S. By attacking the boys, you have waived your right to decline this offer. Should you fail, or choose not to attack, the police will have their eyes opened to more of the details surrounding the death of Edward Thurmond. Finding someone capable of the crime committed will be easy even for these bumbling fools – Radasanth is not a very large place.



He read it once before dropping it from trembling hands. Frantic, he lit the oil lantern at his desk and forced himself to study the letter again. Carefully caligraphied letterwork, lack of personality to the writing… there was nothing there.

He was both scared and excited. He could still run, he knew full well. The ports were poorly secured, and he could hit the next ship to Alerar within a week. Yet this was a ride he did not yet wish to get off. Taking a fast swig from his bedside brandy, he breathed deeply as he considered what he was about to attempt.

He had work to do, and not much time to do it.

[The Cinderella Man]

Despite the grievous task at hand, Victor couldn’t help but stand amazed by the landscape that surrounded the Thurmond villa in the Jagged Mountains. The summer house – though given the size, house wasn’t the word that could properly portray the Scarlet Manor – rested on the east shore of Concordia Pond, jutting boastfully out of the docile scenery of the small flat plateau that stood between a pair of looming white-headed peaks. To the three sides the slopes darted upwards almost vertically, like ramparts provided by nature during the time when the earth was young. To the south, a narrow canyon led to the lowlands of Radasanthia. The lake was small and round, a crystalline tear of the gods that got captured in the natural vessel. The grass around it was lush and tame, plagued with wildflowers that sent their scents on the wings of the freshest air Victor ever breathed. It was a good place to live in. And an even better place to die in. One day in this heavenly refuge could make a man die without remorse.

Victor sat on the balcony of the majestic manor with a revolver in his lap and his eyes soaring over the plateau and towards the mountain pass. In the room behind his back, Evelyn (or Elena for those who knew they were allowed to call her that) went through some papers with a studious look cast over her low-hanging spectacles. She should be safe, he thought. He set up the watch himself when he arrived to the Scarlet Manor three days ago, placing two guards in her chambers at all times, two more in front of her door, creating a secure perimeter in the yard, one man at every staircase. The place was like a fortress, only better guarded. She should be safe. And yet his guts churned in that strange disconcerting the-storm-is-coming kind of a manner, in that strange manner that old badly-healed wounds ached before the downpour.

Would they come for Elena? Probably. This wasn’t some personal grudge as it seemed when the Uncle kicked the bucket. Somebody was out to exterminate the Thurmonds, crush them into fine dust and let the wind erase every track of them. Was it Mariah? He didn’t believe in that. He couldn’t believe in that. Not even when Elena told him the entire story about her renegade daughter, not even when he heard of the disownment of her father and the harsh words that flew on some day years ago, not even then he believed it was his cousin. Because he looked into her eyes, looked into her eyes every day as she moved around the manor like a fairy, teasing him with every glance, every movement, every sigh... No, there just couldn’t be a wolf hidden in such a sizzling fleece.

Victor’s fingers played with cylinder of the six-shooter in his hands almost reflexively, producing silent clicks at regular intervals. He never held a gun until one of Jake’s goons pushed it into his hands, mockingly explaining at which end he should be when he squeezed the trigger. He never fired it either. But the heavy weapon simply radiated power, hardening his balls until they felt like metal and injecting him with a shot of authority. Because people looked at you in a whole different light when you packed heat and showed no hesitation to hand out a handful of hot lead.

“My lady Mariah, Victor specifically ordered that nobody should leave the house.” a simplistic rough voice came from below, specifically from the small wooden pier that protruded into the shimmering water. Victor’s eyes tracked down the origin easily. Mariah ambled down the docks in a silken lilac robe, two of the muscular guards following her like puppies. She didn’t respond to them. Instead she paused her advance, turned just so her chestnut hair moved out of the way of a glance over her shoulder, and puckered up her lips towards the sullen man on the balcony. Victor didn’t know should he feel honored or abhorred by such a gesture. His groin seemed to have no such predicament, especially once she cast away her robe and stood in nothing but that same yellow two-piece as years ago. She got older though. She filled out. The swimsuit was definitely a couple of sizes larger, but still tight enough to hand out heart-attacks like candy, especially with her bombastic porcelain figure.

The prizefighter pondered on what to do... for about three seconds.

“Steven, take my place on the balcony.” he instructed one of the two buffoons that sat near the door. The man, possibly half a foot taller then Victor, rose up, folded his newspapers, placed them below his armpit and obeyed. The prizefighter snatched the papers from him as he passed by. “And leave that inside.” The bodyguard grunted something, but ultimately just shrugged his shoulders and took a seat on the balcony.

“You’re certainly keeping everything in order, Victor. But is it really necessary? With all the precautions we took, I doubt anybody would be bold enough to try something.” Evelyn spoke, lowering her glasses and giving him one of those motherly patronizing looks that were both cold and benign.

“There’s no such thing as too safe, not when it comes to saving lives. Now, if you would excuse me.” he politely responded before he left her chambers.

Getting out of the villa was like getting out of the maze, but luckily by now he got used to the grandiose red-carpeted hallways and the multitude of unused furnished rooms that collected dust. Outside the sun was setting, painting the lake orange and giving one last breath of life to the surroundings. Mariah sat at the edge of the wooden docks, her suave pale feet messing up the calmness of the water surface.

“I thought I made it clear I wanted everybody inside. You’re not safe here.” he spoke in a strict tone as he approached her. She giggled at his authoritative attempt in a sweet unoffending manner that only women could.

“Aw, don’t be so uptight, Vic. Come, sit with me.” she said, giving him yet another captivating look over her bare shoulder this time. “I’m just so lonely and mother is always a drag to talk to.”

Victor, whose will was seldom adamant about majority of things, was defeated easily. “Leave us.” he said to the two guards before he sat with his legs crossed beneath him. Mariah instantly shimmied closer to him, breaking the safety perimeter yet again. Victor’s mind made a good excuse for being here though, stating that at least he could keep a close eye on the potential murderer but that was a bunch of baloney. He wanted to keep a close eye on her, but for a completely different set of reasons.

[Storm Veritas]

Preparation was easy; the walk was the hard part.

Storm knew full well how to take out the woman. She’d be guarded, sheltered, but still very vulnerable to someone bold and capable. Security, as he knew, was the most tedious task in the world, and people grew tired, drowsy, and lazy. Night time brought alertness, as the strike always came after dark, yet as the night grew old, eyelids grew heavy. Human nature was on his side, except for the voyage out to the cottage.

He started early, making his way through the gates of what was once called Radasanthia on foot, thinking carefully as he took the long walk. It was hot; the dry air filling his lungs with dust, and Storm could barely think of the task at hand in lieu of the assault of other glaring sensations. The heat distorted his vision, creating waves of quivering illusion above the pebble-strewn path. The smell of discarded horse fuel was foul and plentiful, not easy to avoid in some paces.

Ugh. The only thing worse than Radasanth are the people treading hard to get in. Don’t you assholes have jobs?

There were others on the path, men and women wandering to town, most full with carts of wares for trade. There were wanderers as well – mostly poor, as he would appear to the untrained eye – and they gave Storm a pleading look before he would inevitable rebuke any suggestions of charity. He looked like a fool, donning a V-cut twill white shortsleeve peasant shirt and shorts, heinous denim things which hurt his very eyes to gaze upon. A small but considerable satchel was tucked over his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but play the part of the traveling buffoon. It was tortuous, and he resented the very sweat which was beginning to circle his neck, chest, and underarms, making his groin itch and uncomfortable. It was miserable. The whole voyage seemed an odyssey, and yet lasted merely two hours of high paced stroll before he saw the colossal red “cottage” by the lake.

Holy f*cking shit. The paper-boy has me chasing down the King of Althanas. This place is ridiculous.

The lavish house was easy to view in the cut path from the simple pebble lined road, a swatch of dense maples giving cover to the area. They hugged the massive house as a loving mother, keeping some desolation to the home in spite of its size and select location. Marching from the street to the forest cover, he was able to see the tall, opulent establishment with a lingering, careful gaze.

And they can see you, if they know how to look. Take it easy.

He would wait and plan and think. Time was on his side, and it was a powerful ally.


~*~

Night crept in on cat feet, stealing away the sun behind the twin peaks to his west in an awesome purple haze. The bugs in the forest were bothersome, but Storm was prepared with an answer. Opening his small travel satchel, he withdrew two thin rolls of black cotton, which unfolded into small, taut fabric forms. The clothes were little more than a simple shirt and pants, looking not so dissimilar from thermal underwear, yet were very effective in keeping the nasty biting little things away.

He moved quickly, low and steady in the brush. While not so meticulous that he wouldn’t ruffle leaves or snap twigs, he was careful to keep his head down and look no more inconspicuous than some four legged nocturnal hunter. He was the panther, closing on the house, spotting a few possible points of entry.

The rear of the house was an option. Second story window, with a trellis access. The trellis was wood particleboard, likely weak, and may not hold him. Were he to use it successfully, it may bring him right to the point of action.

But I’m not falling and breaking my f*cking neck from that little vine-line.

He contemplated the front door. Perhaps he could blast his way through the front, disregarding stealth and using the powerful lightning he commanded to dispatch any and all in his way.

Unfortunately, all the lightning in the world won’t do sh*t to stop a bullet.

He saw a bulkhead, finding it peculiar. Most of these lake houses lacked foundations entirely, sitting instead on blocks of concrete. There was likely something else going on with that operation, and the organized crime ties of the family probably operated down there.

Head downstairs, meet with Tony Two-Toes and Frankie Fast Finger? Not a f*cking chance.

Balcony. Gutter. Roof. Jackpot.

He smiled as he saw the balcony from what had to be the master bedroom. Open door, sharp overhang, no easy way to access it from underneath. The setup was not so dissimilar to the balcony he had used to execute Frederick, the leader, who died with so small a struggle. Life was moving fast, and plans were not in accordance to adjust.

He moved scary-fast, a slick sprint to the wall and sprint to a higher spot of a single drop-pipe tin gutter. It quaked as he hit it, but his hands grasped taut about the metal close to a wall mount, and the pipe did not break free. With quick feet, secure hands and a scary confidence, he scaled the gutter, an arching acrobatic step and pullup bringing him to the slate shingled rooftop. The view was breathtaking, he surmised, a single deep breath before running to the front of the house, the spot where the balcony stood.

Move fast. Can’t give them time to react.

He was ill prepared but acting quickly and outside of their expectations. He leapt and landed smoothly, looking up not at the demure bride of the Mafioso, but rather a large, beastly and slightly startled sentinel.

F*ck.

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor tossed and turned more then a fish caught in a net and it was all Mariah’s fault. They talked for what seemed like hours on that pier, reminiscing, recalling both the good days and the bad ones with melancholy in their eyes as the sunlight faded like a burned out candle. Their entire lives wound up compressed in the words they shared, telling the story in leaps from one major event to the other. She ultimately told him – through what seemed like the most genuine tears Victor saw - her side of the story, how Frederick molested her, how she feared the footsteps on the stairway and that creak of the floorboard before her door that announced another night of horror. And when she finally summoned enough courage to oppose him, he disowned her, threw her out of the house like a dog that just made a tear on the couch. Compared to that, his unfortunate story seemed trivial.

But it was not her story that upset him this night. No, it was what followed afterwards. She wound up sobbing, her head on his shoulder and her hair spilling over his chest like softest silk, her voluptuous body shivering in the evening chill that swept over them soon after the dusk. And when he wrapped her in his coat and pulled her closer, telling her that the worst had passed, she lifted her head and kissed him as gently as if her lips were rose petals. A part of him wanted to push her away, a ruthless, righteous part that still crusaded for the right things to do. But the part that yearned for those lips ever since Rinsing Falls – the part that ultimately made him lay in bed with his eyes staring at the ceiling – embraced her as if she was made of paper and accepted her expression of gratitude.

And yet, the unholy caress wasn’t the thing that chased away his sleep either. Or rather, it wasn’t the only one. It was what she spoke in a whisper after their lips parted and her lipstick left a lingering taste for Victor. “It’s getting cold. Maybe we should continue this somewhere more cozy. Like my room maybe.” She hovered away like a fairy, down the pier and into the house, leaving him with her scent still prominent in his nostrils and her kiss still warm on his lips. And in the end, it wasn’t her offer that brought this disconcerting turmoil in his mind, but the fact that he was actually considering to accept her invitation. After all, they weren’t exactly direct cousins, it wouldn’t be that bad.

Victor lifted his head for gods-knew-what time since he lay down, turned the pillow around, fluffed it a little bit, then sunk his head back onto the significantly more comfortable surface. “It’s still early. She could still be awake......Sleep, you sick bastard!” yet another conflict broke out in his mind. “Maybe she just wants to talk some more......Do you want to go there and talk?” No, of course he didn’t, not after what happened on the pier. There were enough innuendoes in her words and looks to make it clear talking was the least they would do. “Tomorrow. Sleep over it, let it settle.” Finally his mind’s voice didn’t contradict itself and provided a plausible solution. The morning was always smarter then the evening. Though, whether or not he actually wanted to opt for the smart or the wise or even the right solution in this instance was something he was still unable to decide.

The prizefighter turned amidst the velvety sheets in the queen’s bed once again, facing the balcony that served as an extension of the master bedroom. Elena was rather upset when he told her that she was not to sleep in the room, but after what happened to Frederick, that was something Victor insisted on. Whoever was knocking the Thurmonds off the grid was cunning enough to know how the minds of the royalty figures works. Frederick found out that the hard way, so did Edward and only luck saved Jake from buying the farm with his big bro and his father. Now, instead of the defenseless lady, the murderer – if in fact there was one coming to the Scarlet Manor – was bound to find a pair of buffoons and an extremely light sleeper with a six-shooter.

It seemed his gamble paid off because another ten lustful thoughts about Mariah after his last turn, the bulky figure of the sentry that stood on the balcony was joined by another. Their shadows fell inside the room, outlined by argent moonlight, providing the only illumination of the benighted room. The second guard – a lazy scrawny looking thing with graying hair and a pair of daggers – sat in the corner of the room with his head sunk to his chest and his figure hunched forwards almost enough for him to topple over. Victor decided not to wake him. His fingers cocked the hammer of his revolver beneath the sheets, pointing the barrel towards the balcony doors and waiting for the mysterious visitor to enter.

[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.

[Storm Veritas]

Too easy. Way too easy. Something’s up.

It wasn’t that he had expected the hospital to be crowded; he would have thought that having a strong security presence would have been a security risk in and of itself; calling too much attention to a spot, becoming far too defenseless from some ordinance charge or stick of dynamite. It was the quiet. He lingered in the broom closet some forty feet down the hall from the room of Jacob Thurmond, and the place was positively serene. He supposed that the bright lights and drab monochromatic theme was depressing enough to keep the morale low, but there should have been… something.

Three family members go down within a few days and the boy’s room is quiet, two half-assed guards? Doesn’t make sense. Can’t be right. Bullshit.

The more he thought about it, however, Storm reasoned that it could be correct. They had kept the shades drawn to the room at all times, the position of the youth impossible to discern from outside. Besides, there would be a pall over the family for some time now. The boy was tired, wounded, and recovering, probably sleeping more than normal. The pang in his own shoulder cried out again to Veritas, reminding him that perhaps waiting an extra day and allowing himself to heal fully would have been less than a terrible idea.

He waited in the darkness for a short spell, hoping inspiration would overtake him. How many were in the room? He had waited here for nearly an hour now, and the rank odor of the antiseptic and ammonia was beginning to burn his lungs. Two different orderlies had checked the room. Three visitors had come and gone, three men that looked to be familia paying respects to their future employer. Each one left in a fashion both nonchalant and sufficiently stupid looking, the unassuming gaze of the roaming tough guy-types. He had heard conversation, and even once grown bold enough to walk by the doorway, unaccosted but also obscured from view of the room. There was another set of two men in there, but Storm figured one or two security goons had never slowed him before. Besides, if they were given a brain of their own, they'd guard outside the door.

Fine, f*ck it. Hit the door hard, come up blazing. Catch them in the catnap. Make it fast.

He wandered up to the door, thankful that he had worn the soft-soled shoes today. The heavy clack echoed on marble tile, but his feet came without warning of his entry. With the door closed to room 614, he took a deep breath and withdrew his daggers. One more breath, the blade had some browned residue on it. Whose blood was this? The killing was too much. Too many. Too fast.

One more time. Hard and heavy, make it happen.

He hit the door hard, hands aglow with electric hate. It burst open, the heavy brass handle smashing into the drywall and sticking deep. A spacious, sprawling room, no normal hospital layout. A blur of action, overwhelming motion. They were all about him, many of them, perhaps too many to count. Clicks and clacks, but very few words aside from a collective breath and the singular “Now” uttered by the one across, by the glass. They had guns. They were waiting for him.

Fuck.

Extraordinary measures were certainly called for, and Storm took them. He leapt high in the air, making use of the elevated ceiling as he thrust hands through a light fixture, daggers driving deep in the ceiling as the electricity coursed into him. The surge was fantastic, his body pulsing with raw power and a vibrant sense of invincibility. He would need it. A smattering thunder rang beneath him as bullets sailed wildly, none expecting such nimble activity in tight quarters. The light was shorted, and the room went dark, save some thin streams of sunlight from the window. He had to get killing.

He leapt down from the ceiling to the bed, a panther pouncing with ferocity and an accurate rage. The blades dug deep, searing and slashing, a terribly cry uttered forth from beneath thick sheets of wool or cotton. He couldn’t move before the hands and arms were on him, pulling him back and away from his kill. They pulled him back and he resisted, surging forth to finish the job. Another click, another gun drawn, and he reacted once more, desperately rushing back hard in the direction of pull. The crowd fell back as he shifted weight, one man not enough to counter his newly gained strength. With another bound, he drove the man holding him up and back hard, feeling the yield of glass and another terrific explosive shatter. The shards fell onto him, into him, but the man behind him went limp. The pain was overwhelming, horrendous, and disorienting, but he sought only escape. The light that ushered in from the sunny expanse of the outdoor brought terror with it.

He laid eyes on the kill, the reality gripping him with a steely hand. The man he had killed was at least forty years old, bearded, thin, frail. A trap. And in the wildly contrasting dark and newfound light, a large set of steadied iron sidearms would take aim at him again.

This time, they couldn’t all miss.

[The Cinderella Man]

“Drop the weapons or I’ll drop you like the trash you are!”

Victor Callahan was never known for his aptitude to trashtalk, not in the boxing ring and not outside of it either. But as he stepped into the shattered doorway of the room 614 and whipped out his revolver, he felt the distinctive urge to play the tough guy. No, not to play one. To be one. To show the murderous scoundrel that stood before the .50 barrel of his widowmaker that this was it, last stop, end of the ride. Despite the adrenaline gushing though his veins and his heartrate going through the roof, he could recognize the black-haired man. How could he ever forget those eyes, those ghastly lifeless eyes that peered at him seconds before he twisted the neck of Evelyn Thurmond as if she was a chicken? He wouldn’t forget, he wouldn’t forgive and he wouldn’t let the rogue slither his way out of this quandary. And the best part of it was that today he wasn’t alone. Five dumb-faced gorillas stood on the other side of the room, pistols cocked and glimmering in the piercing sunlight. They couldn’t shoot for shit, but there were five of them and that meant five projectiles that moved a lot faster then one man.

“And don’t you bloody move either or I’ll turn your head into a canoe!” the prizefighter added, sidestepping precariously, maneuvering his feet over the sentries that bastard fell already. He didn’t give a crap about these poor sods right now. Neither of them was exactly an angel with a spotless record anyway. What he did care was Jake Thurmond that seemed awfully lifeless, lying on the cheap light-gray linoleum with his face in a pool of blood. Victor turned the body over with his foot – a rather harsh way to treat a recently deceased, but then again, the man below didn’t complain. And that man wasn’t Jacob.

“That... That’s not Jake? Where is he?” Victor said, retracting his steps until he once again stood face to face with the intruder, presenting the gun mouth as the last thing the man would see if he didn’t answer. And still, those eyes, faded blue and as cold as winter morning – poker eyes – looked at him with no visible emotions.

CLICK

The oiled metallic sound came with something cold pressed against the back of his head. And with something steely pushing against his skull came a scent that struck him like an iron pipe. He assumed the metal was the gun. He knew that the gunner was Mariah.

“That is none of your business...” the dame spoke, her whisper climbing up his neck on the wings of her warm breath. Even now, when she held him at gunpoint for some obscure reason, it drew him insane. “...cousin.”

“Mariah? What the...” the boxer tried to speak, but the cylindrical metal only bore into his hair stronger.

“Shush. And give me your piece or I’ll make certain that the next thing that runs through your mind is a hot piece of lead.” the minx spoke, snatching the revolver from Victor’s hands and pointing it towards Jake’s would-be executioner. The five guns that were his allies seconds before now separated unevenly; three for the murderer, two for the prizefighter and all eager for a quick kill.

“It was you. You ordered all those killings. And now you’re going after Jake.” Victor still found enough steel in him to speak, despite his gut turning into a bedlam and his knees getting shaky under the influence of genuine fear. She couldn’t kill him, though, not after all they shared. Not after last night...

“Oooh, close, my little dumbass, but no cigar.” Mariah spoke, her voice soft and condescending, mocking him with every word she spoke. Though not the brightest star in the sky, Victor soon managed to assemble the puzzle that he started working on since death of the Uncle. The damsel in scarlet moved on her high heels like a gazelle, circling around the prizefighter and holding her guns with staggering serenity. “A woman, my boy. A woman can kill you in a thousand different ways. They all have the backbone when the shit hits the fan.” his boxing manager always told him. Victor nodded affirmatively back then, but only now he understood what Arslan was talking about.

“You two are allies?” he asked and she smiled with subtle viciousness, but didn’t answer. Instead the answer presented itself. Jacob Thurmond waltzed into the room as if he owned the world, his grin on like an acute defection. He took one of the guns from Mariah’s hands, pointed it towards Victor and gave his sister a lengthy ardent kiss.

“We are lovers, Padre.” the boy spoke, the grin on his face a perpetual mockery that the prizefighter wanted to punch into smithereens. It was a wiseass kind of grin, the I’m-better-then-you grin and there wasn’t a damn thing the boxer could do about it. “And once we take care of you and your partner here, we’ll be rich lovers. Heroes even. How else would you call a poor wounded boy and his sister fending off a greedy ingrate of a cousin and his henchman?”

“I’d call it a goddamned fraud!”

Mariah giggled and Jacob’s irksome grin turned into a toothy smile. “You would. Unfortunately, you won’t be alive long enough to tell your side of the story. Not after my boys here put two in your chest and one in your empty head.”

Jacob gingerly moved away from the line of fire of his five gunmen before lowering his revolver. He unloaded it, kicked the bullets so they scattered all over the smooth floor, and threw the gun on the bed.

“Goodbye, cousin. And say hello to my folks for me.”

The smile was once again substituted with a grin as he moved out of the room. When Mariah did the same, Victor’s hand caught her by the elbow. Her gun pressed at his chin, a tiny looking single shot, nickeled and shined to the point where he could see his reflection in it, but he had no doubts that it would introduce his brains to the ceiling if she pulled the trigger. Her look, so tantalizing only minutes ago, looked indifferently in his eyes.

“That’s it?! You’re leaving me for dead after all that happened? After all we shared?”

She snatched her arm ardently from his clutch.

“All we shared? You were nothing, honey, nothing but an instrument. And I played you like a guitar. Ciao.”

And with the fading clicking sound of her heels on the tiled hallway, Victor and the assassin that was his nemesis until the entire deal went sour were left alone with their executors.

[Storm Veritas]

It all unfolded so quickly, so simply, and the whole exchange shook him to the core. The arrival of the two from the Manor stopped everything, the brash talk and double crossing bringing a smile to his face. His eyes darted about the room as the people were confused, and there was no action as the woman spoke to her former protector in defiance. It was a setup, and she was involved. More important was the opportunity to assess the scene. Five men. All armed. The protector, armed yet double crossed. Could he be turned? The metal framing exposed, to attract the lightning. A diversion, if necessary.

Maybe, just maybe, I’ve got a chance here.

Yet all thought and strategy ceased when he saw the boy. Jake Thurmond, not hurt or slowed but cocky, walking with confidence, even arrogance. He spoke as though he knew the outcome was inevitable. As though this was all part of the larger plan. Sneering at the youth through the sea of faceless goons, the sea of memories flooded him, a reminder of how this had all transpired. The letters, the actions.


Edward and Jake are both threats as well, their newfound power all-too soon to be abused.


Jake, at fifteen, is already fast learning the ways of a tyrant in training.


I think your simple electrical prowess would work best – they do tend to enjoy the pool a great deal when they drink.

The nerves hit him again with a harrowing reality. It all made sense now. Who else would know as much about the family, and their private security? Who could have access to the money? Who would care how they were executed?

The one who wished to survive, of course. The boy who could lean out of the water while talking down to a servant. The one who knew all along, and knew how to play the hired gun for a fool. The boy. -O-.

It had to be this way, the boy and his sister? The motherly older girl who had blossomed into beauty? Was this part of the plan? Could it be?

It doesn’t matter. Survive now, philosophy later. You’ve got a powerful gun on your side now, even if he can’t shoot for a shit.

“The game is over, Thurmond,” he began, a voice pompous and falsely brave. “You won’t beat US both.” Subtle, like a brick.

Am I really saying this? Jesus, Storm, you get high and mighty when you’re desperate.

The implication was simple. Bring in the hired gun, distract with a flash of lightning, assault, slash, kill. It didn’t stand a chance, but it was his only prayer. Perhaps the confused hands on deck wouldn’t know what to do.

Or perhaps they’ll make a human sieve out of your sorry ass.

He had to take the chance. A brilliant flash of light erupted from his hands as he burst forward, the electric energy spiraling out to the ends of the lavish hospital room. It was everywhere, all inclusive, and would buy him a second to slash forward towards the boy.

That hateful, manipulative thing that had planned his father’s death and taken sister’s hand. Of course, the monster behind the puppet was a child. “O” began to make sense.

”I’m coming for you, Oedipus…”

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor heard numerous people speak about the peculiarity of those crucial life-or-death moments, where the time supposedly slowed down to a crawl and enabled a person to achieve the seemingly impossible. He also heard about boxers that told similar tales about the bouts in which the world around them moved in slow motion. And on that day, in the Radasanth General Care Hospital, Victor Callahan discovered that those stories were bullshit.

The truth was that between the time the assassin acknowledged the fact that they were both throat-deep in dung and the time he launched a blinding lightning flare, the prizefighter thought only about the five gun barrels that seemed much too eager to perforate his body. His stomach was a furnace, twisting and turning, and ultimately making him feel on the verge of releasing the contents of his bladder. “Fear is good.” his father liked to say in his ultimately-wise, undisputable voice that sometimes irked the boxer with its callousness. “Fear puts you in your rightful place.” Victor didn’t like these words replaying in his head. Because right now he felt that his place was down on the ground, bleeding to death, and the five crooks with malicious smirks seemed prone to get him to the place.

And when the lightning flashed with fierce white light, the time didn’t slow down. In fact, Victor was almost certain that the opposite thing happened and that it accelerated. Because he was rolling to the side with bullets whizzing by him like angered hornets, grabbing his unloaded gun and overturning one of the beds before he even realized his legs were in motion. It was an instinctive motion, self-preservation on a basic, primal level, and the phlegmatic brooding prizefighter was lost in it, effaced to make way for a beast that wanted out. That wanted to live.

The makeshift cover was almost no cover at all, but in the bedlam of gunfire splintered wood and bawled curses, it was a godsend. Victor swung the cylinder of his six-shooter swiftly, his other hand gathering the unloaded shells and loading them into the gun. Only three. The rest were scattered efficiently through the room by the courtesy of Jacob’s foot. His mind suggested reaching for the spare cartridges that stood in his gunbelt and his fingers obeyed. Inches away from where he sat on the cold linoleum, hidden behind the iron bed and the lofty mattress, another salvo of bullets bore through his cover, leaving a puff of dust and a sharp beam of light behind its advance. He was running out of shelter and had to make his move, now or never. Do or die. His hand swung the cylinder inwards single-handedly, the gun making the satisfying click. Victor grinned. It was too early in the game of life for dying.

When he sprung up and strafed for the door, the time didn’t slow down. The world seemed blurred, glossy from the rapidity of the movement, and the only sound he could hear were the gun blasts, echoing in his ears like cannons. Three of these miniscule explosions were his own, one sending a bullet through the glass and out in the sunny garden, two others finding their targets. His second shot struck one of the gunmen in the chest, the third hitting his comrade in the neck. His surprise worked, the doors were a foot away from him. All he had to do was swing...

Pain.

It crashed through his left shoulder like a club strike, then proceeded to turn into a heated dagger piercing his flesh and bone. It sent the prizefighter careening, hitting the door frame, leaving a crimson blot on it and then cast him on all fours as he crawled into the hallway. The gun escaped from the clutch of his fingers, the treacherous thing sliding over the white tiles as if it wanted to flee from him. It stopped only when it reached the opposite wall. His instincts were telling him to forget about the bloody gun, to get up and run like a bat out of hell. Behind his back, two pistols were clicking dryly, the third one firing another round that ricocheted off the tiles with an audible twang!

They were out. The son’s of bitches were out and they had to reload. His mind quelled his instincts and motioned his body towards the pistol, the three legged crawl of the boxer looking decrepit and agonizingly slow. He didn’t know what happened to the assassin that went after Mariah and Jake. He didn’t care. All three of them could live happily ever after as far as he was concerned, just as long he got his gun and blew these nitwitted goons of the face of this planet. He could hear the cylinders swinging out, the hot empty casings spilling over the floor with a jingling sound. Not much time left.

When his right finally swiped for the revolver, Victor allowed the momentum to turn his body. His head hit the wall, his back connecting with the smooth tiles, but his right held up the pistol from the lying position, pointing it towards the three stooges. The pain in his left shoulder was throbbing, burning, numbing his entire left side and consequently making his right wobbly. The three were nearly done reloading, too dumb to take a peek and see that there was one very pissed off gunslinger taking aim right at them. He had just enough time... If only his hand stopped to fucking shake.

The first one swung the cylinder of his pistol inwards. Victor’s brain was blank, caught in between fear and expectation, standing on its toes like a child on a fair. No more time. Victor’s finger pulled. And pulled. And pulled. And when the gun smoke dispersed like a morning mist, there were none left standing in room 614.

[Storm Veritas]

His trick worked perfectly. Well, almost perfectly.

The flash of light was incredibly effective in blinding the room, yet far be it from the sub-brilliant Veritas to acknowledge that he, too, would be blinded. His eyes pulled into a taut squint as he ran forward, but colors meshed in a sea of white and gold. His knee smashed hard on what was probably a hospital bed, and gunfire exploded all about him again as he fell.

Something hit him hard, tearing him in half. He wasn’t sure what it was, but couldn’t fathom less than a cannon lined up off his flank and opening fire. His stomach was split, and his hand moved to the lower back where he would later find the bullet had exited. The pain was incredible, but staying here would be certain death. When the smoke cleared, the room would find a smear of blood trailing from the floor to the doorway, where Storm finally stood as he brushed by the man he would one day learn to be Victor Callahan. Fortunately, he was every bit as desperate as Storm was.

Jesus. Guess you aren’t the sniper in the trees, but point blank maybe you’ll take down a few of these idiots.

A whisper came. “Hold them off and run to the West Corridor. We’ll flush those two in and settle up.”

Had he really thought of a plan? Was he ready to trust the guard who had tried to kill him? How was this one different? How was he involved? How was he differentiated from the faceless masses that Veritas had slashed through, cleaving his way to fortune and fate? He had –no- way to differentiate, but knew that this one was different.

Up ahead in the hallway, escorted by a pair of lumbering brutes, the two remaining Thurmond children ran, darting left into another path and off to freedom. Children was inaccurate, perhaps “offspring” was the only sensible way to describe the two demons that conspired to raze their family to live the life of incest. More enraging than their own sins was the ease in which they had duped Storm. They would have to answer for this, although their two guards would say otherwise.

No sooner did he turn the first corner than was he blindsided by a big looping punch. He staggered back, falling to the ground as his momentum carried him hard around the corner. He scrambled now, the punch not registering nearly as much as the terrible ache in his stomach. A pistol was pulled, and he watched the thumb slide to cock the hammer. The huge security agent didn’t stand a chance. Storm flipped the pistol hard and violently, watching it land firm into his stomach. The hulking guard dropped his gun as he reached for the blade, and then it was over. A second swipe dragged the dagger firm across his throat, and a thin stream of crimson began to coat his chest. Storm pulled the first blade from the fat stomach as he turned, looking up ahead for the coconspirators.

The hallway was deserted. Doctors and nurses peeked from the doorways in terror, wide eyes in disbelief. Jake and Mariah were gone. His shoulder and stomach and head throbbing in ridiculous pain, Storm didn’t know if he could continue.

He felt sick as he clasped the handles again, his mouth filling with an acidic purge that he popped upon the hospital floor. He coughed, hacked, and cleared his mouth. Stumbling ahead like a drunk, it seemed hopeless. They would have escaped. They must have escaped. And in his movement, he realized that his only belongings – the coins he had taken from the deathtrap apartment he couldn’t return to – were likely on the floor at the scene of the shootout.

His stomach rose again as he lurched forward. Jake and Mariah Thurmond had to die.

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor didn’t bother reloading. Even if could animate his left arm – which he couldn’t – the process would be utterly redundant. The hospital was deadly calm, the white-attired staff joining the patients in search for sanctuary within the numerous rooms that weren’t filled with smiles, lies and gunfire. Jake and Mariah were probably long gone by now, riding that lofty carriage as if hellfire was at their tails, and even if they weren’t, the prizefighter didn’t care. His shoulder hurt as if somebody drove a hot poker through it and left it there for good measure. The only difference was that the perforation didn’t close the wound, so he could feel warm blood drooling down his cloth and skin like syrup. Combined, the pulsating ache and the inevitable blood loss were forcing him to put the white flag up and wait for somebody to scoop him from the cold tiles. He was, after all, in a hospital. They would patch him up, some fat nurse with a chip on a shoulder and a patronizing voice would lecture him on playing with guns, and all should be well.

Only, it wouldn’t. Because then the law would come, asking questions whose answers fled in an incestuous embrace. He would tell them his story, they would nod their unintelligent faces, take sporadic notes, and ultimately decide that his explanation had as many holes as there were fresh corpses in their morgue. Especially if somebody took the liberty to send an anonymous statement which incriminated him ever further. Somebody who got very rich very young by hacking through his family members as if they were grass threads. Fucking family. Fucking Mariah and her swaying hips and the scent that the gun smoke pried from his nostrils.

So despite his desire to take a breather and wait for the men in white, Victor struggled back to feet like a drunkard with a mean hangover. He pushed his widowmaker back in its holster at his hip, then used his functional hand to push himself up. His left insisted on amplified pain even though he didn’t use it. His vision blurred at first, the hallways turning into a twisted optical illusion that seemed like something that wanted to hypnotize him, but a minute shake of the head focused his eyes. He thought he saw a pair of nurses open a double door to operations room, take a peer, then retract back to safety, but in his current state it might’ve been just a mirage. Didn’t matter anyways. He had to get away, away from the hospital, Radasanth, possibly even Corone. With the finances that Jacob and Mariah acquired with their little treacherous endeavor, they would have more then enough to hire a professional or three to tie up loose ends. And he didn’t go through the fiery christening moments ago just to get shot in the back of the head by some nickel-and-dime crook out to earn easy money.

Part of him wanted retribution, there was no doubt about it. It was the just part again, the part that he threw away like a filthy rag on the night he bedded Mariah. Now that part of him was back and beside the usual I-told-you-so, it was demanding justice. Victor made a couple of wobbly steps forward, supporting himself against the wall with his healthy shoulder. His face was cringed in pain, the blood oozing down the left sleeve of his leather coat and down onto the pristine tiles. To hell with justice. To hell with revenge. It was bound to get him into another pickle just like this one – or possibly a much more worse one – and he had enough pickles for one lifetime.

Let bygones be bygones. It sounded like a good piece of advice.

When he swung around the next corner and started heading towards the exit, he noticed the black-haired assassin and he wasn’t in a better shape then the prizefighter. Pale as death and bleeding profusely, he looked like somebody who wouldn’t get through the door, let alone away from the hospital. And yet there was some strength pushing him forward still, not the brute kind, but the sinewy stringy kind that certain weed had. It was the kind that wasn’t killed easily, holding for dear life regardless of the grim outlook. If the man wasn’t a bloody murderer, that trait might’ve earned him some respect with Victor. As it was, the prizefighter reckoned the best course of action was for each of them to go their separate ways. No questions asked. No falsely friendly handshakes. They were both mere mutts fresh out of a dogfight and they each had their own wounds to lick.

“That’s what I get for trusting family.” was the only thing that Victor muttered, adding a bitter smirk before he pushed the glass doors and left the hospital, the dead-eyed assassin and the carnage behind him.

What would he do if his paths crossed with those of Jacob and Mariah? He would put a bullet in the cocky prick, there was no doubt about it now. He was outsmarted, outgunned, outdone in every aspect by a runt that couldn’t grow a proper beard, and that was a wound that would never heal. But Mariah? Mariah was the salt on the wound, amplifying the pain, reveling in his anguish. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that, if put in a situation to kill the gorgeous traitorous dame, Victor wasn’t certain that he’d be able to pull the trigger.

((SPOILS: .50 caliber revolver, dubbed “Widowmaker” ( http://ssl.maxsell.com/image.aspx?productid=404&height=75&width=100) – this pistol is the only good thing that Victor procured from his ordeal with the Thurmonds. It’s a six-shooter, made out of hardened steel with a titanium barrel, with a handle. Victor currently has no bullets for the revolver and has practically no skill in wielding it. He wouldn’t be able to properly wield it until he reaches minimum level 2.))

[Storm Veritas]

So that was it, then.

As soon as he saw the familiar gunman come around the corner, he knew it was over. The face told the whole story. Resignation, loss. A general malaise, known that they were both beaten, both defeated by the somewhat simple ruse. There was no anger in his face, only sadness. Their own history together made no difference now. The fighting was over. They had lost.

“I suppose I’m in good enough company for those that were tricked. Fought hard back there, even IF you can’t shoot for a shit.”

He smiled, it was the only thing the situation could warrant. He couldn’t go back and search for money that had no doubt since been claimed. He couldn’t dress and heal his wounds here, where the police would arrive soon and the murderer would shortly be hanged for all the public to see. His body cried, mental and physical fatigue meshing with emotional exhaustion. He once joked that emotions were womanly things, and that they came from the ovaries. He was wrong.

Gotta keep movin’, then.

He didn’t stop trudging, knew that he couldn’t. He would leave inconspicuously, stealing a simple lab coat on his way and suppressing the blood flow from horrible wounds. He would hit town soon enough, and be gone within a day or two. There was no money for him anywhere, no food, no home to return to. His wounds would get much worse before they got better. The good life was short lived indeed.

Within the set of a few days, he would find himself aboard a ferry to Raiaera. Another opportunity was there, one where he could call the shots, and no longer listen to a grand manipulator.

You fool. Got too greedy. Didn’t run when you could. Fooled by a goddamned kid. And a bitch, to spare.

The bitterness festered in him, unfortunate as sourness was already in no short supply. He had met one good man in all of Radasanth, and had tried to kill him. Along the way, he had taken the lives of three, at least one of which was guiltless.

It was time to run away again. This time, he fled not the police, but rather his own history. He was running out of places that would extend him their goodwill.

[INDK]

This was certainly an amazing thread with awesome twists and turns. Things were done so well here that I had to not only change my initial impressions of the characters, but my initial notes in quite a few places!

Total Score= 83 God, Letho, could you stop filling up the judges choice forum with just you? You’re making me look soft and overly generous.

Introduction – 9 One of the things I really liked about this introduction is it seemed to get at the basic crux of the thread early, without trying to overload me with the elaborate plot. Honestly, if you’d thrown all of that in my lap at once, it would have fried my brain and then I would have given you zeros in all the other categories because I was no longer capable of forming coherent thought.

Setting – 7 Storm, sometimes you need to be careful with your descriptions that have links to things in the modern world. I’ll give you an example;


Most guns in Althanas were not semi-automatic death sprayers, but needed to be cleared, cleaned, loaded and fired.

This begs a bunch of questions about what Storm knows about other kinds of guns and all that stuff. In general, since you use third person limited omniscience in your writing, it seems odd that you would bring these kinds of things up unless Storm knew about them. Unless you’re going to elaborate, don’t do it. Plus, you miss out on opportunities of using descriptions to tell me something about Storm.

Strategy – 8 I really appreciated the fact that even the easy killings were creative. There was no “alright, I stabbed you from the dark” crap that isn’t particularly novel.

Dialogue – 9 There were some really good lines in here, such as Storm’s wondering if he is too good at what he does for the sake of humanity. Most of it though, was not nearly as snappy though equally effective.

Character – 8 I had originally written something about having trouble deciding who to root for when you guys had seemingly divergent goals. However you really put this together in the end.

Rising Action – 7 I liked the fact that while there were parallel stories running here through the quest, you gave me a good idea of what connected the people together. It really annoys me otherwise.

Climax – 9 I loved the end when everything came together. On my first run through, I had dinged you a bit in strategy and dialogue because of the kind of information you were getting in those letters. However, when it all made sense, it just notched up the excitement of the thread one bit.

Conclusion – 8 Letho, it really feels like you’ve solved your problems with conclusions that used to be your biggest downfalls when I judged your threads. This one was very good, I felt both for Victor and Storm.

Writing Style – 9 Letho, there were a few mistakes here I saw using “to” and “too.” You use “too” to convey that something is exceedingly something else. “The writing was too good, this quest was too long, my eyes are too tired.” For other things, you use to. “I have to give you a good score even though I want to rip my eyeballs out.” I’m not sure if this was a typo or a mistake, but I saw it more than once so I thought I’d point it out.

However, this plot was just majestic, and most of the writing was superb. I hate to be nitpicky, but I really went over the main complaint I had about this thread.

Wild Card – 9 I’ve always assumed that paper currency was a promissory note for gold pieces and just referred to as gold pieces, can’t ding you for the dollars though. We really do need to figure something out that way.

Spoils=

The Cinderella Man receives 925 EXP and his gun
Storm Veritas receives 3775 EXP and 1000 GP

[Zieg dil' Tulfried]

EXP and GP added.

Storm Veritas leveled up!
Cinderella Man leveled up!