June 1999
A primal urge to scream rumbled in his throat as he lifted his sword up high. It was indescribable, this feeling -- elatedness, joy, sorrow, anger, satisfaction. All rolled into one. And it coalesced into a yen to howl, to cry for release.
And Mikhail Krokopovitch gave in to that urge and screamed as he brought his sword down, the stained blade keening its own death wail as it prepared to accept the blood sacrifice waiting for it, bowed and helpless in the form of one unmoving dead immortal. A parody of a grin broke across the blonde man's blood-streaked features, giving his face the look of a garishly painted clown's mask that hinted at nothing remotely joyous. Just want. And need. Pure, unadulterated need. A need that would only be assuaged by the sharp crack of severed bone, splitting flesh. A need that would be satisfied *now*.
"STOP!"
Was that his inner voice? His conscience? Telling him to halt what was only natural?
"Damnit! I said *stop*!"
You might as well tell the sun to stop rising, conscience mine. Stopping now would be as impossible as willing the waves from the beaches. Stopping now would be -
The clatter of metal on concrete shook Duo out of his stupor. The rancid
smell of drying blood dripped cloyingly in the air, breaking through his
barriers with its pervasiveness, bringing back images of so long ago.
The gun in his hand felt cold, clammy. That was impossible, Duo knew. The
bullet that had just escaped through the gun's muzzle had left behind it
the pungent smell he was so familiar with, a heat that seared through each
metal part with intimate accuracy. The gun should feel warm, as warm as
the blood pulsing through the hole between Krokopovitch's eyes. Wide open
eyes that were blank and glazed with death.
A soft mewl escaped the teenager's lips and Duo shrank back. It shouldn't feel like this. It shouldn't be so hard. Killing was a part of him now, such an extension to himself so as to be absolutely inseparable. So why did it hurt so bad?
*Because he saw you.*
Unconsciously, Duo nodded. Acquiescing. Killing was easy when you couldn't look your victim in the eye. Targets were easy to take out -- had always been easy for him to eliminate -- because he always took the precaution of never letting them see him. It was easy, so much easier to kill when you remained anonymous. The perfect assassin.
Duo shuffled forward slowly, squaring his shoulders as he shifted his backpack to settle more comfortably between his shoulder blades. With each step he stood straighter, taller. With each breath he willed away the gnawing little voice that whimpered within. With each heartbeat he tried to erase that look on Krokopovitch's face as the bullet took his life. Until finally he could view the sprawled bodies on the dirty, bloody floor of the alley with just detached curiosity, instead of heartrending guilt.
Dropping to a half crouch beside Krokopovitch's body, Duo quickly assessed the corpse, needing to stick to procedure, to a set of steps that were already etched firmly in his consciousness. A reality he could relate to. Slender fingers pressed into cooling flesh, searching where the jugular should be, feeling for the throb that signified life. A brief smile flitted on his lips when he detected none. He passed his hand over the dead man's face, closing the glazed eyes in one sweep, almost imagining that he could see his own face permanently etched upon the lifeless retinae, a morbid record of his sins against life and all that was holy.
Clinically Duo searched the corpse, patting clothes and pockets for
anything that might be deemed important to his contacts, to his mission.
The man's weaponed glove claimed his attention for a while, but he dismissed
the thin blades as a simple triggering mechanism reminiscient of old spring
blades. Finding nothing else, he was almost relieved. Mikhail Krokopovitch
was dead. He had completed his assignment. He would never find out the
whys and wherefores of what transpired here tonight, but at that moment
he felt too exhausted to feel much regret. Duo's lax
hand brushed across the fallen sword, lying inanimate beside its master's
body.
Picking it up, Duo hefted it with both hands, feeling the weight and experimentally swinging it through the air as he stood up. The handle seemed encrusted with shiny little stones, and for a brief moment the thrill of the find coursed through him. Duo gave a soft chuckle, remembering a time when such finds were so important, a matter of life or death. A simpler time, on a simpler world. When he had a simpler life.
"Hmm...wonder if the other one is as pretty?" Duo turned towards the
other body in the alley. Where Krokopovitch lay in an almost-spreadeagled
position with his face up, the other was curled into itself. The ball of
what was once living, breathing man seemed so small, so harmless. If Duo
hadn't seen the man it once was, he would have not believed that here was
the body of one of the more intriguing men he'd
ever had a chance to encounter.
As Duo dropped to his knees beside the fallen man, a sudden pang of
regret bit through him, and he had -- he just *had* -- to look once more
into this man's face. So he reached out, holding onto shoulders that
felt as strong as they looked, even in death, and he turned the body so
that the corpse's face was revealed.
*So much blood.* Duo shook his head unconsciously, and had to actually
restrain himself from wiping away the thick red liquid that bathed the
handsome features, caking on cool flesh as it dried in thin lines across
the pale throat. He almost laughed aloud as a random thought popped into
his head, that he'd miss this man's -- Adam's -- voice. As if by instinct,
Duo reached out instead, straightening out the curled body so that it held
once more a semblance to the ease it had when alive -- not tensed and scrunched
up like a bunch of crumpled cloth.
"Well," Duo sighed to the body, knowing full well that he would be the
only one to hear. The alley was secluded, far away from the usual paths
the city's pedestrians took. The only time someone would come to this spot
would be when the city disposal came to collect the trash. And there was
little chance of anyone popping out of the back doors. All the buildings
were dark, office and business-related. No homes where some housewife or
dutiful husband or child would suddenly pop out to let the family cat out
for the night. "I would have liked to get to know you,
but you know what they say. Can't always have what you want, ne?" Duo
chuckled mirthlessly, shifting to his feet once more.
Absently he wiped the traces of blood on his hands on his jeans. He'd dump the clothes later, anyway, chucking off the innocent civilian persona as easily as he had assumed it. He looked around and suddenly remembered the sword in his hand. His fingers plucked restlessly at the small stones, trying to pry them off the pommel but failing. He wondered why he was doing what he was doing. God knew he had no need for money, nor could he spare the time it would take to find a fence or a suitable buyer. And for all he knew, the stones were probably fake. Rhinestones. Glittering decorations without value.
But old habits die hard and the young once-thief stooped down to pick up the other sword.
And Duo discovered that Ivanhoes were damn *heavy*.
Duo grunted, and discarded the smaller sword, needing both hands to actually lift the large sword off the ground. "How the hell did he carry this?" the boy muttered as he examined the blade. It was simple, with no embedded stones, precious or otherwise, like Krokopovitch's sword. But it was decorated all the same, with fine metalwork that extended from the grip to the blade. It was fascinating. So fascinating that Duo missed the first sound that signified his first step off the edge of reason.
End Part Seven
Shirin
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