quicksilver
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Posts: 1013
(6/26/06 5:18 pm)
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Vendetta
NOTE: So, I wrote this a little while ago, and I might add to it - it's just a snippet from characters in MY character's backstory. From her history before her history, so to speak. Enjoy!
The Last Episode, Really, Folks:
Final Curtain
The setting: a gutted sky-rise, steel ribs gleaming and glass covered in sheets; paint and sawdust on the floor; the entire place is in modern decay. The players: a young man with sky-blue eyes, pale blonde hair, freckles. His eyes, just now, are furious; are frightening in their intensity, and narrowed. One of his arms hangs uselessly, and it becomes obvious that his legs won't work. He drags himself, one-handed, across the ground, and leaves behind a dark trail. He's bruised.
There's a sound, behind him. The cracking of glass, or the movement of a pipe. He looks up, and he says in a controlled, tight voice: "Why do you do it? Why do you just kill people as though they had no value?!"
No one was ever more sincere. . .
"Because I'm asked to."
The man who replied--who kicked the pipe, who stepped on the glass--stops ten feet from Kaitetsu. He lifts his weapon--an ugly gun with silver casing, of indeterminate make--and aims it. Kaitestu's eyes begin to darken and dull to the black of oil pools, iridescent, but without light. The man is smooth; Kaitestu, anything but as he shudders to his feet, which slip in his own gore, slip because they can't quite work, but his eyes are determined and bright, and they demand --
One shot.
Outside, the city flares with a radiance invisible to those who can't see ghosts or the inner energy which makes a person; but then it's gone. There was a wind, too, which all the spirits felt, which blew down some homes, and even in the normal realm, people felt it.
Inside the ruined skyscraper, the killer has his wrist over his forehead, his head slightly turned, as though he'd had to shield himself. And, behold; when he lowers the wrist, there's a cut on it, thin as a papercut: but still, a cut. There, too, on his forehead: another thin line, which gathers to red, and then drips down into his left eye.
Enter, the third: "Did he whine?"
"A bit," the man replies. The camera doesn't pan down to where Kaitetsu must be, doesn't show his fingers twitching, as if he's going to rise again. That's because they don't, because he's not.
"Was he brave?" the newcomer asks, and he moves to stand at the killer's side. He's a beautiful creature, and some might mistake him for a girl: such fine, delicate features, sharp, as if carved by a knife, and hair as black as the shadows, which cluster thick inside the ruined place.
"Pretty much."
"Awwwwwwwwwww, I wanted to play!" The beautiful man stares--fixedly, at a point on the ground, and his pupils are too small, just pinpricks.
"Tchuh," the man laughs, with a shake of his head. "You make messes, Slash. Dad wanted this done quietly. Play with what's left, if you want." Then, before Slash can reply, he holds up a finger: Quiet! Turns, slightly, to the side, the hand which doesn't still hold the gun, cocked, so, held against his ear and temple: "Yes, it's done; kill them all."
"You only had to use that?" Slash says, staring now at the weapon. "So easy!"
"Not quite," Michael says, flexing his hands.
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