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Hell Hath No Fury

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Hell Hath No Fury

Post by Guest on Fri Feb 17, 2012 2:17 pm

North City. Positively... chilling. Today, the climate had been kind to them; the cold February sun stared down from within the clouds' clutches, domineering the sky from between those balls of white fluff which would otherwise decree the day to be overcast, or perhaps even, god forbid, rain. Ack. It was cold enough already, and the snow that topped roofs and the ice that lined paths, combined with snow, would just create a cold, unfriendly, and rather disgusting-coloured sludge. It had happened many-a-winter before down in Central... and it was possibly the only thing worse than black ice itself.

Ayden was out for a simple lunchtime stroll. The path less-travelled between Briggs and North had been hard to follow for the first time, but he was good with directions and practical when it came to what he could see. Most of the time, however, these walks were far more pleasant. He'd park the car and usually go and get something to eat, rush away from that despicable canteen food... but, today? His schedule was clear for the rest of the afternoon - he should've been happy, but instead, for once, Ayden Derocha was angry. Not irritated by a mark that had lasted longer than expected, or a spatter of blood across his back, but... truly furious. Stewing and bitter for lack of better terms.

He walked with a limp. Barely noticeable and almost fully healed, however, it was still there. An ever-present feeling in his right thigh that the flesh could just tear open at any minute, as the muscles, flesh, and sinew all knitted themselves back together over time; alkahestry had closed the wound on the surface and kept him from falling into the clutches of blood loss and delirium, but there was only so much that the mysterious practice could do. Beyond that, it was simply up to his body.

It hadn't been too debilitating; he would've survived, either way, but it was just a question of getting back into action. Had he gone to hospital... ack, that didn't bear thinking about. What with all his equipment, and his appearance, shady citizenship, and the question of his occupation... too many questions. Far too many inquiries. That just wouldn't do at all.

But, no, that wasn't why Ayden was angry. Any wound was always repaid twice over with triumph - he wasn't dead yet, after all - and a silent moment of respect for another's abilities; it wasn't often that precision, power, and control over weaponry or alchemy mirrored and reflected the good General's. No, it wasn't often at all that he was forced to bleed his own blood, and it was rarer even that such a wound as this was inflicted upon him. The bearers of the weaponry, however, they were what had angered Ayden.

Such cowards. Fucking imbeciles. Morons. Pathetic PIECES OF SHIT! SCUM THAT WASN'T FIT FOR HIM TO SCRAPE OFF THE BOTTOM OF HIS BOOT. Oh, how furious he was. Ayden was a master of repressing these urges; as a child, he'd been taught to lock up and bottle away anger as best he could, otherwise it was very likely that a good majority of the civilians nearby would now be suffering from exploding limbs, a knife to the throat, overwhelming sensory pain, or a good old copper-jacketed round between the eyes. The assassin was in no mood to play with his food. Business had been dry lately for one reason and one alone.

He was looking for someone.

He wanted... he wanted vengeance. What they'd done to him... no, what they'd done to Heart. The man hadn't... hadn't deserved that. Despite his travesties in the past, these men weren't even those who bore the mantle of justice. No man deserved to die like that, shredded to pieces by a hailstorm of bullets in his own home. No man deserved to have those six cowards shred his life's work to pieces with automatic weaponry. No man deserved to be caught unawares and be totally at the mercy of those he couldn't resist or fight. No man deserved to have his progeny, his real, spiritual offspring, have to escape a crime scene over his dead body and be unable to give him a proper burial. Hopefully... hopefully they'd keep him in the morgue for the next few months... until the heat died down, at least. When he'd taken care of... business, and could return to Creta with a clean enough conscience.

'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', ancient scriptures say. Pft. A woman scorned? Perhaps that was one thing. When you pissed Ayden off, however, you could run to the ends of the world. You could leave millions dead in your wake and shelter in the most impenetrable fortress known to man. You could have absolute and complete diplomatic immunity. Ayden didn't care. He would still find you. And he would kill you. And, hair by hair, nail by nail, tooth by tooth, cut by cut, hell, cell by cell, he would take you apart, he would inflict upon you the most horrific of tortures known to mankind, until you begged, positively begged for Death itself to come and take you from this terror.

And then he'd torture you a little bit more.

Shouting from down an alleyway. A silver-haired head snapped towards it; Drachman accent. The loudest voice was predominantly female. Harsh... obscene. He arched an eyebrow; even in his fury, he hadn't really ever thought of using words of the kind she'd chosen to. She was obviously... rather angry. And... well... so was he.

Bitterness aside, Ayden was at all times one thing above everything else. He was curious. And this woman... she didn't look or feel intriguing so far. She just sounded intriguing. And that was cause enough for him to investigate, no? Rationality aside - she could have been just about anyone - as was the norm for the silver-haired assassin, he let a small sigh escape, and a hand quickly drew one of the Talons of Despair from his chest, just in case. He tugged the overcoat back over his form and smiled bloodthirstily, flipping the throwing-knife into reverse grip, and heading down to the alley, and then into its murky, dank depths - towards the source of the noise.

There she was. He couldn't ascertain appearance so far, but her figure was... athletic. Slender. Two pistols, semi-automatic, they seemed, at her hips accompanied by blue jean shorts. Even in heat, they would've been... irregular. Especially for such a figure; although, she'd proven herself to not exactly be as lady-like as was possible already, from what he'd heard of her dialogue. Jesus, did she have a mouth like a gutter.

He filed the snapshot away for further analysis, and ducked behind a nearby dumpster, hiding the entirety of his form as he crunched himself down and made his body as small as possible, taking a quick rain-check. Heh. He presumed the other men were armed, as well. Whoever said that a knife to a gunfight wasn't a good idea?

"Well, well, well," The figure was on his feet, standing full and extended. Frame slender, boots tapping against yesterday's puddles, resounding clearly throughout the perfect acoustics of the thin alleyway. Clap, clap, clap. Silver hair swayed to and fro as he slid the knife down, and let those of the sun's rays which the alley permitted access to shimmer along the blade and refract; that would be warning enough, although, hopefully, they'd disregard it. A kill would do wonders just about now... and as he looked to the woman, registering her frame in higher detail, he realised that there was something... something else, just a little more primal, that would most likely do him good, anyway. Clap, clap, clap.

His mind had automatically blanked out thoughts of Jeu-Hee the moment that Heart had hit the floor and released that last, spluttering breath. No, this was... justifiable. Preying on women wasn't something he liked, but... she looked angry enough that she'd get something out of it, too. Bah. Enough with the analysis. He was just pissed off and he needed... an outlet. Clap, clap, clap His cerulean eyes fastened to the two men who were on the other end of the girl's rather... sonorous wrath, and he let a chuckle escape. It sounded full, flush, and dry... almost suave, nowhere near the maniacal giggling that those who'd known him moments before their death had to bear witness to.

Clap, clap, clap... crunch.

"...just what do we have here, then?"


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