Blind Faith

The chaos was visible in the small London-town diner. One Zenith Howler, investigator extraordinaire, looked out of the small tinted windows from his humble booth by the door, subtly enough wearing sunglasses despite it already being past 7:30PM. Staff and customer alike were flailing around, trying to keep up with shift changes, a new rapid influx of orders, one specific chef's absence... and amidst it all, Zen simply sat there, staring out of the window, intermittently checking his watch every ten seconds to see if time had warped somehow and skipped along another half an hour.

The systematic, repetitive hiss of heated frying pans being dunked in water to be cleaned and then slabs of some indistinguishable red meat being thrown on freshly-dried identical pans a moment later had become naught but ambience to Zen... as, once more, he squinted out into the darkness, looking down into the streetlamp-lit haze, trying to discern every second figure that walked past, hoping, just hoping it was his subject.

He'd organised a meeting for about ten minutes ago with one Elastor Ito, specifically in a diner that he knew would be open through into the late hours of the night - the matter he had was of great importance, and would definitely require intense discussion when it did come to it... the mystery- NO, the curious affair... the Curious Affair of the Lack of Donut Production from the Factory on Kensington Street!

Okay, well, that didn't sound too good for an operation name. Zen had been musing upon one for about a week now - ever since this operation had started. He'd even got these Men In Black-style sunglasses and a small detective-type notebook - this was his first real break, at least, the first real break that he'd recognised. Simply enough, donuts had stopped production in... yes, as he'd said, a factory on Kensington Street, and... well, the affair was curious. Also, they made some damn good donuts. NOT THAT ZEN WAS LETTING PERSONAL BIAS GET IN THE WAY AT ALL.

He took another sip of the horrifically strong double black espresso sitting at the table, and stared longingly at the empty pie dish. No matter what he ate, no matter what he stuffed lovingly down his gullet in an attempt to quench the wailing abyss that now was his stomach, it asked again and again for one thing: glazed donuts, from that same factory on Kensington Street. That rich dough they used, the sprinkling of caramelised sugar, the shaking of sprinkles upon the special ten-pence-extra donuts... oh, how he longed for them. How he longed for them indeed!

And so he had been informed from an outside contact who shall not be named that... just perhaps... there was a rising emergence of anti-donut practises in the Cretan RTF. Even such a heinous scheme as to prohibit the consumption of the fluffy, sugary rings in promotion of more alert soldiers or some shit like that. But, no, Zen Howler, investigator extraordinaire, knew IMMEDIATELY that their glorious Prime Minister, Dietrich Von Vermont, would never allow such a crime as this! Plus, everyone knew that Dietrich definitely loved the odd Chocolate Crunchy Limited Edition donut - he would in no way possible allow this scheme to go through.

So Zen had all-too-quickly analysed a probable reasoning for this lack of donut influx, and the latency in incoming deliveries: the factory, and its delivery list, had been sabotaged by someone taking exercise and diet regimes into their own hands. Someone with something to prove. SOMEONE WITH A PERSONAL VENDETTA AGAINST AND HATRED FOR THE OH-SO-SUGARY TREATS THAT EVERYONE ADORED. BUT JUST WHO COULD IT BE?!

Well, that was, luckily enough, where top-notch, grade-A detective Zenith Howler came in. A renowned patron of detective work, called even 'the real-life Sherlock Holmes, minus most of the drug use' by his subordinates, ones that he definitely hadn't bribed, the case had been sent his way immediately - and by going through a list of possible anti-donut activists, he had eliminated all but this particular figure on the list. A promising new prospect in the Cretan Royal Guard, and up-and-coming young'un. One Elastor Ito.

His profile - that Zen had arranged in his new scrapbook which he carried in a small folder, well-organised, under his arm, at all times, for operational purposes - made Elastor Ito out to be a badass; but Zen took just one look at that perfect physique, those rippling abs, and that immaculate complexion, and knew this man was no donut patron: this man looked as if he DESPISED all-and-any sugary foods, and looked to be a prime suspect for the ringleader.

So, using his awesome and totally not-underwhelming powers as chief of IA, Zen ordered a meeting with Elastor that the man was in no way obliged to turn up to, but the detective used fancy lettering and shit like that, as well as an undertone of importance, hoping the guy would actually come along, for an intense and in-depth investigative chat.

And that was exactly why the man sat now in the middle of the diner booth, across from an empty seat, sipping his rapidly-cooling coffee, and with a headache quickly coming on due to nicotine withdrawal - these damnable new smoking laws were certainly doing his head in.

Either way, it was only a matter of time until Elastor showed up - or perhaps until he didn't, and Zen would have take matters further into his own hands...

...and fuck things up once again.

Elastor Ito arrived precisely on time, official letter in hand; however, he was not happy. Having dragged himself back from the grave, he had to also drag himself from the confines of his apartment to re-emerge into reality. Not just that, but he also had to fight his way through his elder sister in order to answer this work-related calling of interrogation. That was all he had left anymore--work, and Nu of course, but being a Cretan Royal Guard now was what defined him. Without this constant banging at his door, he had nothing to live for--nothing to strive to. Takatori was dead. With it, he was prepared to accept the dull mundanity that came along with it and all its ghosts. Despite a gaping gash in his gut, he surprised himself with his ability to get past the wall that was Anouk, escaping down the many flights of stairs and to her sad excuse for a Porshe. The sides were further bulleted with holes, pain chipped in an assortment of places. It irked Ela beyond belief to see such a disaster on wheels, and but further the fact that it was his only close means of transportation to get to the random diner. Dodging children on his heels, whining "Uncle Ela", he just barely managed to get himself into the driver's seat.

As he started the vehicle, he grazed Nu's eyes from the sidewalk. She mouthed 'but you still have a fever', but he ignored it, gunning the pedal to the warped metal. Work never stopped, but he didn't want it to. Initially being a random choice as a means to making a large sum of money, the Royal Guards soon became him and him it. This was all he could do: fight, and keep fighting until his limbs were torn from him. Even now, he was shredded but still going, unable to stop long enough to heal. This was Ela's life--how he lived and faced each day without hesitation. His older sister's naiveté and that of her mopping children came across to him as an obstacle despite the inklings of a family building between them. Therefore, he had to be the breadwinner. If this job had even a taste of profit, he was all over it regardless if he was feeling up to it or not. Katana resting heavily in the passenger seat, Ela fastened his seat belt at the first red light and blew the second. Swinging the car into a parking spot a block away, he squeezed out of the tiny door, grabbed his sword, and made his way slowly to the cheap establishment. His limbs creaked in resistance, bruises smarting in all sorts of unpleasant ways, and, of course, the finishing slash of the beast no longer present in this tomorrow. Icy blue eyes flickered with an inner burst of cold flames, holding strong against the warmth of the London night. As sweat beaded invisibly under tousled auburn bangs, he struggled the rest of the distance and reached the door at exactly seven-thirty. The cacophony of a bell resounded and a waitress greeted him, but he ignored her, scanning the inside of the establishment for any sign of Zenith Howler, Internal Affairs. Mainly...he wanted to know why a diner.

The woman was leering at him in a rude manner, causing Ela to avert his eyes into a morbid death glare which silenced her immediately. The greasy glass door slowly slammed shut behind him, rough black boots skidding across the syrupped floors. He had taken note of the badge haphazardly tossed on the tarnished table of one of the booths. At it, was a man with hair that looked like cotton candy gone rancid. He did not appear particularly official, and considering where they were, Ela was certain this was not what he expected. Did he feel let down? Not really; he took things as they came, hunting deviously for any form of distraction from the fact that all goals he had ever had were now met. Did that mean he could now die in peace? Possibly... But he wasn't ready to face that darkness, but instead, fight for the love--if any--that was left in the world so that others may not become a monster like himself. He could not change. Ela was as Ela would always be--stubborn to the ideals of a man that knows only how to work and keep working in sight of a single goal. Now a new goal he had set in a desperate attempt to keep himself grounded; he would become a man that fought for that love: a protector.

Without even an introduction, he sat heavily on the opposite cushion to the Zenith Howler man and placed his hands on the counter in a menacing way. Leaning forward just slightly enough to prove he was in pain, he stared him down. "I am Elastor Ito." If the bloodied patch on his cheek, the bandages all over his hands that disappeared under the long sleeves of his black trench coat, and the peekings of white across his neck weren't enough to allude to his obvious state, then surely it was the way he held himself. However, the immediately-to-the-point demeanor of the Royal Guard was simply straight-up Ela. "How may I be of assistance?"

"How may I be of assistance?" The file was a hundred percent right. This guy was blunt, cold, and straight to the point; though Zen figured that anyone in his position would be. He felt bad for him; with the amount of bandages the guy was sporting, it looked as if he'd had a bad day on his job as test dummy for window strength at the factory down on Kensington Stre-

A pang of guilt hit Zen once more as he realised just what was next to the window factory; and luckily enough, that pang of guilt was actually somewhat productive. Instead of offering the guy a little help and asking him if he wanted a drink out of sheer absent-mindedness, Zen quickly remembered that this guy was a prominent suspect for terrorism, in the form of interrupting the donut distribution infrastructure - a matter of the highest priority.

Still making an effort to stare into the middle-distance, despite his joy that the subject had actually decided to turn up, Zen couldn't help but peek out of the corner of his sunglasses and notice the man's total adherence to the file picture. This was Elastor Ito, alright. "You can call me," He said, taking a long, faux breath, centring on Elastor, and pulling off his sunglasses and swishing his hair in the most secret agent-esque manner possible, sighing and setting the cheap plastic replicas down on the table. "Officer Howler." YEAH. Now that was badass.

Whilst onlookers looked at the possibly mentally 'prohibited' man with confusion in their eyes, Zen ignored them, blissfully ignorant to how much of a prick he'd just looked, and continued on. "Mister, uh, Ito," There we go. Forget the subject's name. Remind them they're not worth shit. Master interrogation 101. God, Zen knew he was built for this. "I've got a few questions for you,"

Zen took an overtly dramatic look from side to side - resulting in a timely sneer and an obscene hand gesture from the waitress who he'd insulted at the counter as he looked away - and then pushed himself closer to Elastor, hoping there were no eavesdroppers, trying to figure out the extent of Zenith's operation. "Mister Ito, I'd like you to know that I'm a man of the law," He paused, and sighed, looking straight into the Royal Guard's ice-blue orbs, trying to be as deadly serious as possible. "And... that... I have assets of my disposal that I'm sure we'll both agree you'd rather not experience,"

With that, Zen sat back, straining the leather as he did so, outstretching his arms over the seat and nonchalantly sitting his coffee. The seat beneath him made a suspect farting noise, completely offsetting what little seriousness his obviously-fake spiel had possessed, though Zen didn't register it at all. "Just answer my questions, and I'm sure we'll both be fine,"

Well, that was a lie. So far, this guy checked all the boxes for anti-donut activist, terrorist, and pervert of justice. Wait, pervert of justice? Was that how you said it? Eh, it didn't matter. Zen brandished his super-manly bright pink 'My Little Pony' pen from his pocket, and clicked the button at the top, drawing his detective-issue notepad from his pocket, and flicking through the pages to an empty square of space, writing down 'Elastor' in unintelligible handwriting, underlining it, and making a dash - indicating the space for Elastor's answer to his first question.

"Where were you..." Zen's eyes flicked up once more, locking with the Royal Guard, as he made overdramatic head movements. "...on the night of January 23rd, Mister Ito?"

"Officer Howler," Ela repeated dully, adding no color to it whatsoever nor humoring him in any way. He seemed not to even notice the pause for anticipation, staring blankly at him as the man placed his sunglasses on the table. Ela's focus drifted, blinking past the pain to notice that he had been wearing sunglasses indoors and had also taken the time to try and be impressive in his demeanor. Thus, this man certainly took on qualities of an egotistical dipshit. He rolled his eyes inwardly, resisting the urge to refute the sad excuse for a display of eloquence.

"Mister, uh, Ito..."

"Elastor." Ito made him sound like his father. It also made him sound Aerugese, not that it offended him, rather it was a bit of an annoyance. People called him Elastor, therefore, before it became a habit, he liked to correct it. He shifted agonizingly in his seat, listening to the typical line that was usually spouted before a series of questions. He hated questions. A few was obviously an understatement; one always lead to another and it nearly never ended. Clenching his teeth together, he nodded solemnly, preparing for an early departure to hell. Questions didn't fill the bank; this meeting was entirely useless, but perhaps there would be a twist? Blinking blue eyes in inquiry, he leaned his chin on his hands and focused, nearly ready for anything.

The man continued... building up and building up to the main point, nearly driving the redhead out of his wits trying to be patient. Wait, was that a threat? "I have assets of my disposal that I'm sure we'll both agree you'd rather not experience." ... Ela was not amused; instead, he frowned openly, lowering his eyes with disinterest to study the boring pattern on the surface of the table. Small lacerations were towards the middle where it seemed knives had misfired from the plate and lack of the eater's control. Hm. They were dirty, attracting everything scrubbed a hiding place. Certainly this man had no place speaking to a Royal Guard in such a fashion, but honestly he just didn't care anymore. However they wanted to treat him was fine with him. Ela worked directly for Lord Dietrich and nearly nothing stood in the way of his job. This, this was most likely a rudimentary exercise Officer Howler was pulling to entertain boredom. Heh, needless to say he would enjoy butchering this man's questions before dinner. A thin smirk alighted his pale lips, pulling at the deep cut on his cheek, and making it smart. Sweet pain.

Ela as well disregarded the natural human expulsion of gas in the seat behind Zen, writing it off as typical background noise in a cheap diner such as this. Ela never frequented places like this...for good reason. There was just something about--

...

Was that a My Little Pony pen?

No, no it couldn't be. But it was pink. It was...pink. W-why. He felt his head listing to the side in bewilderment. It...it couldn't be. A man high ranking enough to bluff his way into authority was currently sporting a pen his sister wouldn't even adhere to liking. He shuddered inside his mind and straightened his head, refocusing on what the man was saying now as he pulling out a notepad and began scribbling on it as he would picture a first-grader doing. Just what...had he gotten himself into? It was too late; there was no escape now... He was royally screwed.

"Where were you...on the night of January 23rd, Mister Ito?" It was hard to take a bobble-head seriously, keeping a look of disgust out of his eyes was becoming work. Well, this was technically work. Elastor just wished he got paid for this...

"Working, obviously; it was a Monday. Let's skip the rest of the questions; I'll cut to the chase. 7 AM I woke up, had breakfast--think it was just toast. 8 AM I was acting as an intermediary for the sparring match held by Lord Dietrich in the main hall in London. It ended at 9 PM. I had dinner at home. Watched the news, practiced kata, went to bed at 11." Why did he remember all the details? Well, that was his typical schedule, save for the event. Usually it was more boring work than attending and keeping track of a sparring match. He remembered that day precisely because it had snowed the whole time and it was a bitch getting his porsche back home without killing himself or any other reckless drivers who attempted to fair 3 feet of snow. "Will that be all?"

"Working, obviously; it was a Monday. Let's skip the rest of the questions; I'll cut to the chase. 7 AM I woke up, had breakfast--think it was just toast. 8 AM I was acting as an intermediary for the sparring match held by Lord Dietrich in the main hall in London. It ended at 9 PM. I had dinner at home. Watched the news, practiced kata, went to bed at 11." Eesh. Either this guy was a pretentious, lying douchebag, or Doctor Happiness needed to prescribe him a touch more excitement. It was no wonder Elastor acted as he did. Life for him sounded as grey and bland as down-market ten-cent cereal.

Confident he looked sleek, chic, badass, cool, officer-esque and definitely not like an egotistical dipshit at all - My Little Pony pen integral to the look in all of its beautiful irony - Zen furrowed his brow once more and scribbled notes down. He took noticeably longer than usual, as he simply jotted down 'regular schedule, needs more fun, goes to sleep early', and then went on to put the finishing touches on his impeccable doodling of a bunny rabbit with a chainsaw.

Pressing the top of his pen inwards, slipping it back into his pocket - the tip still very much visible... and pink - Zen sighed, and stretched himself out once more in a detectively manner, taking another sip of his coffee. Man, that was strong. He grimaced as he set the cup down, flipping the notepad back over overtly dramatically, and set it down on the table once more.

Since his Horatio Caine moments had all-too-quickly been forgotten by both parties - presumably because he hadn't gotten a groan-inducing pun in beforehand - Zen was now thoroughly convinced it was time to stop fucking around with this guy. There was little doubt now in Zen's mind; Elastor didn't enjoy sugary snacks at all. He was far too healthy! Undoubtedly a terror-monger of the confectionery world...

The results were going to be clear: no more Mr. Nice Zen.

"Tell me, Elastor," His hands now drummed rapidly against the mass-produced plastic of the table lining. "Do you eat many... donuts?" A pause as veins bulged on Zen's arms, hands, forehead... this man was a criminal, of the worst kind and calibre. A horror of the sweet-shop world. And Zen... ZEN WOULD SEE HIM PAY.

"Do you even... like them?" Zen's hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms, skin stretching and whitening as colour faded from his pallor. He'd get a confession. He'd get a confession if he had to kill him! Well, maybe not, because... then... he wouldn't get a confession. "DAMMIT, ITO,"

Throwing himself into a standing stance and slamming his balled-up fists on the table, Zen growled ferociously down towards his 'comrade'. "I CAN SEE IT IN YOU. YOU'RE ONE OF THOSE FITNESS FREAKS, UP ON YOUR HIGH HORSE, TOO GOOD FOR CHOCOLATE, OR MAPLE SYRUP, OR EVEN THE TINIEST OF CANDY BARS," His voice resounded through a suddenly-silent diner. The only ambience to accompany the officer's voice was the hissing of a pan, steady and monotonous; through the small gap in the wall, even the fry chef now stared at him. Waitresses, eyeballing him, pupils locked and dilated. "A PROCLAIMED ANTI-BACON ACTIVIST, A HATER OF ALL THINGS SWEET, SICKLY, SUGARY, FATTY, OR FRIED," The manic shouts now lowered to a growl, Zen hanging his head, staring down at the floor, then flicking it up to gaze directly into the man's lavender orbs, staring through his Cretan disguise and into his terrorist, anti-donut, broccoli-loving SOUL. "A... A... vegetable-loving, salad-craving monster."

"DAMMIT, I WON'T HAVE THIS. LOOK AT THE MEN AND WOMEN IN HERE, LOVERS OF DONUTS." Zen gestured madly towards them with a whitened, opened palm. "YOU'RE RUINING THEIR CONFECTIONERY EXPERIENCES JUST AS YOU ARE MINE." A loud thud echoed through the room. "SO GIVE IT UP, ITO, TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED TO THE FACTORY, TELL ME WHERE YOU TOOK THE WORKERS,"

His knuckles now pounded the table, salt and pepper shakers falling over. He couldn't contain himself any more. THERE WOULD BE REPERCUSSIONS. This man couldn't just get off with one of his famous Zen-tastic* rants. "TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED, OR SO HELP ME, I'LL SEE YOU ROT IN A JAIL CELL FULL OF SUGARY SWEETS AND FINGER-LICKING DELIGHTS FOR THIS."

Another pause, and, trembling, trembling with furious might and donut-fuelled anger, Zenith Howler, Warrant Officer, investigator extraordinaire, at one of his lowest moments, lifted a single, outstretched finger, and pointed it directly down into Elastor Ito's face. "Y-you... y-you donut-hating, fruit-loving, triple-glazed work-a-holic fun-detesting stoic, silent, criminal terrorist BASTARD."

*The word 'Zen-tastic' is trademark of Zenith Howler Industries PLC.

Ela watching the rancid-cotton-candy-haired man take a sip of his coffee and grimace presumably from the taste. This extorted a frown from the other party, making him haphazardly wish he had ordered one before he sat down, but the leering waitress had already put her two cents in before Elastor could even proceed to thinking about if he wanted anything. His blue eyes played with the menu in the corner, hunting for the lowly prices that befitted such a rundown place. Why he wanted a coffee was not because he liked it, was thirsty, or tired, but simply because Zen's expression made him mildly curious as to how terrible coffee could be made to taste and still actually be sold. He made no move to request anything from the milling staff, and instead continued to stare blankly at the man. To leave now would be rude, but Ela was on the edge of his seat, itching to walk the distance to the beat up dump of a Porshe and drive home so he could finish reading the book he started the other day...

Officer Howler was jotting something down in his notepad, irking Ela's curiosity but further, yet he inquired not, content with waiting patiently to get on home. But wait... Did he not look as if he were drawing something instead of writing? Those were sketch sounds... Ela blinked, but again, said nothing. What was he even drawing? He tapped his hands, annoyed, on the table, leaning back against the seat. He was getting tired of being here, tired of the commotion and just... really wanted peace and quiet. If this wasn't anything important...

"Tell me, Elastor," Ela alerted to attention, eyes shifting over to lay on the other man's, "do you eat many... donuts?"

...

What? Doughnuts? Ela was taken aback briefly, too stunned to fully grasp the plausibility that he was actually supposed to answer that question. Was that even a question directed at him? He looked around the room, checking behind him first to dispel any possibility of there being someone else Zen was talking to... He found no one. The diner was void of people around them, most likely keeping their distance from a man who had a sword and the man with badge on the table. The redhead turned back to the officer, hesitant to formulate an answer. With that, silence formed, the other growing paler the more time that progressed. ...Was he sane? "Do you even... like them?"

"..." A fist slammed on the table, Ela's sword was half drawn, eyes narrowed into slits of suspicion. What was this about. He was angry, this man. He was--

"I CAN SEE IT IN YOU. YOU'RE ONE OF THOSE FITNESS FREAKS, UP ON YOUR HIGH HORSE, TOO GOOD FOR CHOCOLATE, OR MAPLE SYRUP, OR EVEN THE TINIEST OF CANDY BARS!" ...What did that even mean? No, Ela knew what it meant, but why was he suddenly being accused needlessly on a planted lie that pertained to work? He sheathed the half he had pulled out at the sign of aggression and settled back on the booth. So many eyes were on them now, unsettling Ela in the most uncomfortable way. He shifted, trying to swallow the frustration and focus on the situation at hand. How to handle this...whatever this was. "A... A... vegetable-loving, salad-craving monster." ...actually he didn't really like salad all that much. But as for a monster... Ela showed his teeth slightly, stifling a laugh that half-came out anyway in the form of a scoff. It was just downright hilarious--so unethical and deranged that Elastor was surprised this man was allowed to walk the streets. But he was really getting disturbed with the scene that he was making and the many awkward glances that followed from the clientele and staff alike. Another bang happened, this time knocking over the salt and pepper shakers, spilling out the white crystals along with the spicy shavings. "SO GIVE IT UP, ITO, TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED TO THE FACTORY, TELL ME WHERE YOU TOOK THE WORKERS!" Now they were getting somewhere. Ela crossed his arms and then leaned forward slightly, his eyes ablaze and the laugh long gone.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Ela said calmly with a sigh, shaking bangs from his eyes more better to glare with. "Certainly you are mistaken and you are not only wasting my time, but making an unneeded and childish scene." Elastor made a struggled face, guessing that in order to be rid of this whole ordeal, he would have to admit some things about himself to get away. "I like the occasional doughnut, I like meat better than vegetables, and I like my tea with honey." Ugh. That was hard. He wiped sweat from his brow and stood up. "Will that be all?" He repeated, taking out his sister's car keys.

Man, this guy was tough. Tougher than three-week-old beef jerky left in the sun. Zen had already concluded that application of typical Horatio Caine tactics wouldn't be enough; groan-inducing one-liners, terrible puns, and the occasional use of the shades-swish would do nothing to break this man's ridiculous exterior.

He was cool, too. Sub-zero. Frozen... like ice. But... there was cool, then there was Zen. Zen was minus two-hundred-and-seventy-three degrees Celsius, he was zero Kelvin. He was ABSOLUTE zero. So totally absolute, even, that he knew that he would get to the bottom of this entire donut fiasco. There was no other alternative. He WOULD solicit the truth from this auburn-haired bastard if he had to shoot him in the kneecaps to get it.

But... that sword... did look pretty sharp. Almost too sharp. And Zen was confident a terrorist fuck like Ito had been trained in the ways of the blade in one of those super-Aerugese-ninja-terrorist-training camps he had documented so much upon (hypothetical, of course, the Aerugese government denied all existence of ninja terrorists). The question was... had Zen fired five bullets, or six could he draw his gun before Elastor could his weird Aerugese sword?

Zen wasn't exactly willing to find out. He liked his innards and their current placement - much to the chagrin of most curries his digestive system wrestled with - and wasn't in any mood to have them moved around or forcibly realigned by that long-ass glorified razor blade any time soon. "I like the occasional doughnut, I like meat better than vegetables, and I like my tea with honey." How old was this guy, seventy? Tea with honey? Isn't that what people with flu drunk?

Though, Elastor's voice did sound pure as all hell. And silky, too. Zen liked that. Almost entrancing. Soothing, smooth- DAMMIT, ZEN, SNAP OUT OF IT! Don't let his terrorist charms and wits get to you... the Internal Affairs agent's irises buzzed and thrummed with energy as synapses fired and electrical impulses bearing half a dozen question each bounced from each corner of his brain. So much to do, so much to say, so much to conclude.

As Elastor stood up, so did he; a reflex. For now, he had been observational... staying cool. Cucumber cool. Absolute zero cool. He grasped his badge, the aviators, and the last of the coffee cup, downing it in one with another grimace. Jesus, it was cold, too. He shot another scowl towards the waitress, probably deducing she'd spat in it. Or, maybe, she was a part of the same terrorist cell as Elastor... and he had been poisoned! He could feel the acid burning through his veins now... oh, woe was Zen, for he had been vanquished, he was dying a noble death, his hands clutched his stomach as he felt a burning pain like a hot iron ready to dig its way out-

And then his stomach rumbled, and the pain flushed away in an instant. He grasped the table, and pulled himself back up. "Sorry. Indigestion." He'd be back to sue the owner soon enough, scowling openly now back over towards the waitress as he slipped the sunglasses back on and shrugged his coat upwards, Elastor looking up towards him with that ice-cold lavender glare of his.

"Will that be all?" Zen released a low growl as he began to remove the car keys, near-snarling and shaking his head, his ferocity - as part of his anti-terrorist guise, of course - knowing no apparent bounds. He slammed another fist on the table, now toppling the miniature likeness of a real coffee cup, and growled back towards him.

"Dammit, Ito, you're lying to me, and I can tell," He took a long, nasal draw of the air, overdramatic to a t. "I can smell ya' lies, I can smell ya' fear..." He rose a finger to push down the sunglasses, piercing eyes staring over them. "It smells like... asparagus." A snarl, and he gestured to the keys of the old Porsche. "Ya' can put 'em away, busta'. Ya' comin' with me."

He gestured haphazardly to the window, to the Exige. "We'll take my car, not ya' piece a' junk," He waved away the cherry-red Porsche, not even bothering to grace it with a look. "We'll go down ta' the factory on Kensington Street. We'll see just what's happenin' there..." He pulled away the sunglasses, not a moment after pushing them on. "And we'll see if ya' break or not, asswad." With a growl, Zen headed straight for the door, tossing a crumpled five dollar note behind him for the meal, unfettered by the whinging of the waitress who'd cried that he was twenty cents short.

Dramatically, Zen spun around, after he was outside, glaring through the window, candy-cotton hair and all, and he sneered over towards Elastor, beckoning for him to come. Oh, the donut vigilante would get justice... he'd see this man dethroned from his rank and file for his heinous crimes against the confectionery world...

It almost appeared as if he had finally released himself from the confines of this deranged thing wearing an officer's u-- He wasn't even wearing a uniform of any kind. He could have easily acquired a fake badge as such from the black market... What was Elastor even doing here then? This was a ruse of some kind; it had to be. It was a meeting revolved around by lies--a single phone call, a fake ID, and a strong cover. And Ela had the guy almost convinced of his innocence, but Officer Howler's eyes returned to their accusing blare that he was already long sick of. Enough with the games; he was through. The redhead had more than enough of his share of meaningless encounters. Holding himself wrought, he turned to the door, stopped only by "Sorry. Indigestion." ...What? What did he even care!? He was fed up, done--so done he was practically touching the door. Indigestion did not concern him. It was probably from the foul coffee and obviously had nothing to do with Ela at this present time. Sorry did nothing for him but take up more time. He wasn't even willing to inquire as to whether it was okay if he could leave anymore what with the possibility of this entire exchange possibly being a fraud of some kind anyway. His suspicions were irked, and his hand was on the door out.

The keys jingled, signifying an end to this madness, but a feral growl alerted him to this animalistic man's intentions. He wasn't going to let him just walk out of here, was he? It would have to be a physical fight or more verbal thrashings before he could get back to the car and back home to his unfinished novel. His headache intensified and his wounds were taking their toll, lolling him into a place he didn't want to be: a place of weakness where he fell into the trap of simply accepting his current situation. Okay. Ela slowly put the keys back in his pocket as if making small movements under the eyes of a predator. Whether he was fake or not, he was fucking insane. Elastor didn't deal well with people off their rocker. Even the guy's hair was disillusioned grandeur, being all green and all and resembling that moldy cotton candy he couldn't quite stop himself from thinking of every time his eyes alighted unfortunately upon that mop of a head. He himself was practically losing his mind like a caged bird throwing itself against the bars in a futile attempt to free itself into the sky by which its wings were too broken to flap. This thought served only to aggravate, piss off, and irredeemably make Elastor Ito very, very angry.

"I can smell ya' lies, I can smell ya' fear..." The only one lying here was this guy. He was like a child given a coloring book, but intent on coloring outside of the lines, leaving the image itself as a sad conclusion for his own misconduct. Ela clenched his teeth together, almost letting steam coil out his ears and into the musty diner air, humid and filled with the aroma of putrid meats. That was all he smelled. There was no fear here, simply the desire to rekindle his life with his sister--to let go of the past and somehow resume some sort of meaning for the future: to keep going. Now the final chapter in his life had ended, he had to pick up a new book and currently he was reading 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami (his favorite author). And he'd like to continue if this sad excuse for a day would allow. It seemed Ela's bad luck with people had escalated to such an extent that he had to meet this unfortunate soul named Zen Howler. Although his name was rather intriguing, certainly his misguided personality was not. "It smells like... asparagus."

...

No, no actually it didn't. For one this diner didn't even serve asparagus. And that statement only further led to Ela's concern for the man's metal stability. What metal disorder did he possess? "We'll take my car, not ya' piece a' junk." At least he was right about his sister's Porsche being a piece of junk. But he had parked it a block away, how had this man even seen it? Ela glowered, fastening his eyes to every movement of the man before him. He was dangerous, that at least was clear. The implication of their leaving together made Ela go for his sword again. There was no way he was going anywhere with this man after what he witnessed here. This was a joke and he was not one to laugh. "We'll go down ta' the factory on Kensington Street. We'll see just what's happenin' there... And we'll see if ya' break or not, asswad." He didn't like the sound of 'we' nor did he enjoy the thought of breaking. It was wearing on him though, enough to nearly make him snap and slit the man's throat to be done with it. But Ela wasn't a murderer, no, he killed, but he killed for reasons that more or less had nothing to do with losing one's mind. Sure, Takatori was insane, but he wasn't deranged to the point of sketching notes and claiming he didn't like doughnuts...please.

A crumpled five flew past Elastor's sight and hit the table where the coffee mug had also toppled over. Hopefully now Officer Howler wouldn't have the pleasure of slamming his fists into the table again because that was getting really annoying and rather unsettling. Who knew, maybe the next time he did it, Ela would have unintentionally decapitated that dysfunctional head of his with deaf ears that didn't process a word he said. The redhead flicked twenty cents from his pocket onto the table and followed the guy out unwillingly, thoroughly ignoring the sad excuse for a glare and tripling it. This was not okay.

Elastor reaching for his blade as Zen finished talking flew right over the man's mouldy cotton-candy-topped head, and he simply grasped his aviators and slipped them back on - darting back in, obviously, having forgotten them the first time he'd left - before slipping into the Exige and opening a door for the redhead with a faux smile. "It's a little tight, bud," Zen grinned, forgetting for a split-second that this man was his supposed enemy. He narrowed his eyes beneath the sunglasses as Elastor entered the car, trying his best to look as intimidating as possible, however, of course, it failed.

The Exige, undoubtedly made for people below the height of five-and-a-half-feet, pulled out of the murky, shadowed parking lot all too quickly, with a gentle thrum as Zen spun the car around and onto the London-town roads. For all his negative aspects, Zen certainly knew the streets well, and how to navigate them in a car which had long-since been the would-be detective's ally. It didn't take long before the same car, headlights bright, chromed body sleek and slim, pulled into the industrial estate's car park, just outside building number 24.

The Kensington Street K-Yum Donut Factory.

Zen pushed his sunglasses down and fumbled for the headlight switch on his dashboard, trying desperately to flick it off and instead cycling through all the brightness intensity options for it possible, and, as a bonus, turning his windscreen wipers on, too. Once the momentary fit of chaos subsided, Zen stared over the brim of his aviators off into the distance, looking up at the factory.

"Well, well, well," Zen grinned to himself. Fucking finally. He'd made himself a break - and a Royal Guard, too? Man, this guy was a big fish to fry. All-too-homosexually, Zen smacked his lips together and trailed his tongue over them, grinning all-the-while with dire, yellow-coloured teeth coated with all manner of plaque. "What do we have here!?" Almost manically, he recited the textbook facetious-detective phrase as if he'd committed it to heart.

On the third storey of the factory, a light in the upper corner was on. But that wasn't it; waste pumps outside were still humming, past working hours, on a day like this. Generators still thrummed with activity, and, above all else, donut-flavoured steam and smog erupted from the humble factory's chimney like a deadly sweet poison cloud. Even the tarmac beneath the Exige's wheels were hot, despite the car having stopped many a moment ago. There was no doubt about it - the factory was still working... but if not to create donuts... then... for what?!

"Anythin' ta' say for ya'self now, busta'?!" Drawing his badge in one hand, and rifling through the glove compartment with the other for a pair of novelty handcuffs he'd purchased for the IA division's fancy-dress party the other day, Zen didn't notice as a number of figures' shadows in the illuminated third-storey window he'd highlighted twisted and contorted amongst the pale yellow beams of light. He also didn't notice as the starlight above danced across a small cylinder of glass suspended by bipod above a mysterious, sleek black frame - a rifle scope glinted amidst the estate in the darkness, complete with its body, a Winchester Model 70, fitted with a suppressor.

"The evidence clearly speaks for itself," Zen sighed. "Ya' stole it! Ya' usurped the throne of K-Yum Donuts, ya' took the factory to ensure that these delicious snacks would no longer 'poison' the veins of good Cretans," Zen removed the aviators, once more, with an overdramatic swish, almost accidentally hitting Elastor in the face with them. He set them down, and grasped the handcuffs once more, giving his would-be comrade a dire look and finishing his pre-apprehension speech. "But... you were wrong..." Zen sighed, one final time. "Cretans... Cretans love donuts-"


Squealing like a young girl and losing all sense of co-ordination, Zen immediately dropped both the handcuffs and his badge, his hand flying to his belt to fumble for his pistol for a good few moments. The round fired from the Model 70 had missed by barely an inch, piercing the windscreen glass and Zen's headrest as he bucked his head up and down - overdramatically, of course. Those high school extra-curricular drama lessons had paid off, and saved Zen's life, after all - however, the Exige was small, and far too so for Zen to accurately hide from further gunfire as the owner of the rifle in the third-storey window cycled the bolt and took in another breath to re-align the scope, this time aiming for Elastor...

Zen finished off with a shriek comparable to that of a preteen banshee whinging about the new Twilight film. "THE VEGETARIAN EXTREMISTS," He howled. "THEY HAVE COME FOR US AT LAST!"

When Ela was a child, he foggily recalled watching a television program that morbidly displayed criminals right before they were put to death for their crimes. Some walked timidly down the hallway while others fought against the guards and were dragged. There was a burly heavyset man that almost got away, but wasn't there always one of those? Ela found some dark interest in that show. Nu never understood it; he never really understood it himself. But this moment now attested to it certainly. Walking from the diner to the disheveled man's car felt instead like a death walk to an electric chair. He was the walking dead, the shackles heavy with false accusations, brimming him with the desire to prove his innocence and silent those words forever instead of his own. Narrowed icy azure eyes fumbled down the sidewalk with weapon in tow. The sports car door was pulled open, meaningless words exchanged, and Ela nearly got in without a single complaint, but there was no way he was going to allow his discomfort to not be known.

"Where are we going." Elastor tended to ask questions as statements, a commanding level of why-haven't-you-made-this-obvious-thing-known-yet raging through the words. Shiny, well-groomed auburn hair slithered in the slight breeze, eyes blazing as ever. Satisfied with his own baritone, he slid into the tiny space, effortlessly making himself fit despite his height and Officer Howler's unnecessary sentence. ...And he wasn't a bud. The car came to life and it was only a short time before they were driving away, past Ela's car and any hope of going home anytime soon. The stitches in his abdomen were beginning to ache, causing his head to bust out painful throbs in retaliation for first place. Ela gripped his sword with white knuckles, dizzily focusing not on the blurring landscape, but on the street signs as they whizzed by. He was astounded by the number of Dunkin' Donuts there were on the way. The headache grew. And surely but not sweetly, a sign that read: Industrial estate's car park came into view. The ostentatious bunker of metal swung into a spot just outside of a building labeled with number 24. Without the motion of the car suddenly, Ela swallowed the spinning of his head and instantly removed himself from the cramped space and to the outdoors. It looked like it was going to rain again... The windshield wipers snapped on, making Ela turn back to the car and stare at Officer Howler through the windshield. What was he doing...? The headlights went to their brightest, back to normal, the fog lights turned on, the brights went on, and then the head lights and the fog lights turned off altogether. He was amazed. How could someone be that inept and own a license?

"Well, well, well, what do we have here!?" Rhetorical question. Elastor barely heard it. All they had there was a man who looked like he hadn't brushed his teeth for eons. The redhead died a little bit more inside, heaving a breath, and leaning against the car in some form of exhaustion. When would this day ever be over?! He followed Officer Howler's eyes anyway, concluding that he was staring at a light coming from the third story window second from the right. Okay, so there were people inside, and? Ela scanned the premises, noting the hours listed on the sign and comparing it to his watch that spoke ill. Okay, so there were people working overtime, and? Maybe there really was something amiss. To be accused so blatantly by this man... there could actually be something wrong. Could. He wasn't going to fall into a game and get arrested over some lunatic's ramblings that was for sure. What could possibly be wrong with a doughnut factory? He got back in the car, leaving the door open to somewhat alleviate the closeness. "Anythin' ta' say for ya'self now, busta'?!" ...Was that supposed to be aimed at him? Ela stared at Officer Howler blankly. If he was a criminal, he'd either have run away a long time ago, ran the moldy-haired man through with his sword, or blown him up. How dense could he possibly be...?! Ela was beyond fed up with this fool.

"I have no affiliation to this factory," he stated blankly, continuing to stare at the window as if at any moment dead bodies of some sort would come flying out from it. Anything would make sense at this point. Wait, what was that...a glint? There were weird silhouettes doing something with a long metal object that reeked of danger. The royal guards eyes flitted down to the jingle of handcuffs that sure as hell better not be for him or else there would be bloodshed. A low growl escaped his breath, but he managed to swallow all of his own accusations. Face it, Ito, there was no hope of getting out of this anytime soon. He just had to solve this to prove his own innocence so he could go back to reading his book. A shadow scoured over him, forcing him to swerve out of the way of the flailing aviators he was so sick of seeing the guy take off and put on, almost wishing he hadn't dodged them just for the excuse of breaking them with his face so they would never see the light of day again... A distraction. They had been distracted with their own movements--their own useless games enough to miss that the object in the window was in fact a gun.

Bullet hole. It was in the windshield that cracked from the pressure. The man beside him would have been dead, but the girly scream and dramatic twist of his head had saved his own life. Ela rolled his eyes and dove out of the car. So there was someone fishy happening at this doughnut factory after all. "THE VEGETARIAN EXTREMISTS" was hardly right. "THEY HAVE COME FOR US AT LAST!" Ela liked the 'us' in that sentence; it proved Officer Howler now knew of his innocence. Could he leave now? Ela raised his eyes again to the glint in the window now revealed to him as a scope.


He just barely dodged the bullet by having ducked behind the car. The shot meant for him lodged itself into the other side of the metal's fancy paint job. So he was a target now too? He discarded his sheath, wasting no time in the loading period to make it to the locked door and kick it down with a black leather boot, bruised with many a door-kicking. He disappeared inside, masked in the darkness. All that was on his mind aside from killing the man with the gun was simply that Zen Howler certainly was a damn loud howler.

Rolling out of the car was one thing, Zen wincing as another veritable storm of rounds pierced the windscreen of the Exige continually. It was almost painful to listen to, and Zen had to keep himself from a sheer compulsion to distract the bastard sniper from his fucking car, the amount of limbs he knew he'd have to sell in order to fix the fucker.

He caught a snapshot of the auburn-haired Royal Guard slipping into the shadows and kicking in the door. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Suddenly, the whole situation had got a lot more serious... it seemed the vegetarian extremists weren't in the mindset of playing about, and, given the nature that they'd done the whole shoot-first-ask-questions-later thing... they were probably the worst calibre of extremists. Terrorists.

Zen shot another glance at Elastor as he slipped into the first room, the lock on the supposedly industrial-strength metal door snapping into jagged lumps of metal with ease, leaving a single screw to spin around the floor wildly as Zen cursed, skirting around once the continuous fire stopped, Calamity clutched in one hand, the detective easing down the hammer and flicking off the safety. Many people had called him many things; an idiot, a dumbass, a bashful moron, an airhead, a cocky, arrogant dick... but Zenith Howler was no rookie!

The investigator hurried through the shadows, still-crouching, slipping into the foyer proper. It was illuminated with a dim light, and filled with the sound of chattering footsteps on metal catwalks maybe a room or two away; but beneath the yellow that washed over the conveyor belts and machinery, Zen picked out not one, not two, but a vast slew of white, plastic, rectangular parcels... strapped up with brown tape... and one, sheared in two, a combat knife still sitting over the vast gash, with a sprinkling of white powder spattered about the immediate area.

This wasn't a donut factory... not any more, at least. This was a drug den. A dope lab. A distribution office of the shadiest sort. Elastor had disappeared into the room, creeping about like some redhead pedophile as he clutched the blade, off-yellow light dancing from it. Zen threw himself down beneath the first conveyor belt's cover as the first of the cartel troops appeared at an upper-level doorway, with another six following, four positioning themselves at equidistant points along that platform opposite Zen, whilst the last three descended the stairs on the orders of the first - probably some form of lieutenant. The orders seemed to be hissed in a language Zen couldn't understand, and it was too quiet to grasp the gist of it, but he guessed Esparian. Cocksuckers, bringing their crime to his damn country. Well, Dietrich's, but, hey, he was allowed to get patriotic too.

Each cradled an AK-47, rickety as the rifles were, and all Zen was left with was his nine-millimetre pistol, a pouch of dice, and a strapped deck of cards in his jacket pocket, hanging like the bullet-resistant bible in that WW1 vet's flak vest. Three were descending the stairs just about now; Zen grinned to Elastor through the darkness, his head barely visible through a yellow-lit slat in the belt itself, cocking it ever-so-gently in the direction of the men descending the stairs. Those three were Elastor's. The other four belonged to him.

As the last of the trio filed onto the rather loud and rickety old metal stairs, Zen pulled the slide back on his pistol, causing the four opposite to raise their rifles, point them exactly in his direction, and hover their fingers but a millimetre from the triggers. Ah, how unexpected. Truly, he was taken by surprise. That he'd MADE NOISE and BEEN NOTICED?!

These men were amateurs - rich as it was, coming from Zen. The warehouse exploded with noise as the IA detective threw himself onto his back, sliding properly into cover, and releasing the first gunshot. Another two followed, aimed up at the ceiling, and, luckily enough, each found its target, save for the first. Zen shattered the two, off-yellow bar lights, letting the argon within escape, relieving the room of any incandescence of illumination. As wildly different as Elastor and he were... in a situation like this, they could at least mutually agree that darkness was beneficial, and very much so.

The crack-crack-crack of rifles in unison focused on what had been Zen's position as the muzzle flashes of the old Drachman guns were the only sources of light left to the entire room. Zen released a grin to himself, and hooked his gun once more around the right side of the stairs, having previously taken cover on the left, and releasing another two shots, before snapping back into cover. One caught the target, and four upon the upper catwalk became three, with Zen clutching the dice in his pocket, and pulling one red cube from the pouch itself, and pressing down on two pads on opposite sides of it, sliding back into cover as confusion took the cartel troops.

His eyes had already acclimatised to the dark - as much of a moron as he could be, when it came down to it, Zen Howler knew, more or less, what he was doing, and here was his prime time to display that to Elastor. He wasn't... wholly useless, just... mainly. The die found its target moments after the detective had lobbed it, letting it scatter along the catwalk, before detonating with a beep.

Zen had gone for a lucky dip, but the resounding hiss meant that a foul-smelling heavy smokescreen quickly engulfed the trio on the upper catwalk. Behind it, however, for a split-second, Zen could just about catch the figures obscured, shadows dancing behind them, even with the light like this. A few trajectory calculations, a wayward glance at his pistol, and another four rounds launched - three, plus one, for good luck - and another three grunts in unison, followed by another three soft thud noises.

Zen looked down at the pile of cartridge casings beneath him, and ducked back to the conveyor belt proper as Elastor finished up. Hopefully he'd caught SOME of that spectacle, at least - perhaps enough to garner some respect from the- pahahaaaaaa. Fat chance of that, in all reality, Zen realised with a grin. Wait... how many shots had he fired? Five... or six? Three for the lights, two for the first, and... how many for the last burst?

Ela was not a big fan of guns, but he was certainly a fan of the darkness. The moment the metal door groaned inward, Ela slipped in, running his eyes along the yellow lights and taking in the allotment of conveyor belts containing illegally smuggled drugs. Silently, he scoffed to himself, scanning further inside at all possible entry points of attack. "Llegaron en el interior! Prisa rápida, Go, go, go!" Echoed down from above, accompanied by the shuffling of things and loud pounding of feet. They were Esparian. And they were amateurs. ...Of which Elastor was not the least bit surprised. He shot a look to the downward rectangle of light where sunlight bled in and Zen joined him. Men appeared on the rusted catwalk directly above his head, the poof of green hair disappearing to cover on the left. The Esparians had the advantage of an aerial view, but to the Royal Guard, it appeared as if they had painted targets on themselves. The first thought that simmered through his mind was that he didn't have a gun on him. The second was what he was going to do about it. Seven men, he counted, were about to be taken out by the loony officer who cocked his weapon just as the cacophony of footsteps stopped to access the area. Zen's position was given away immediately, all guns aimed, all triggers caressed for the life of a man that wasn't even worth it. This was the perfect opportunity to disappear. No, as much as he would have liked to, Ela was not about to leave the sad excuse for a Cretan militant behind to most likely get killed or trafficked into slavery. Instead, he swooped to the holdings of the catwalk stairs and reached it unnoticed just as the already flickering yellow lights were fired out in a crash. He was bathed in glass, feeling wetness form in some places on his cheeks. True darkness bellowed viciously amid nine intakes of breath, eyes fighting to adjust first as the popping of old Drachman guns slithered out from under the brush. Ela pulled out his phone, using the light to see while he bit the blade of his Labrose alloy katana to free his hands. He stooped under rumpled pillars and squinting into the makeshift light. This was going to be easy.

Four separate thumps vibrated the bolt he was removing, saliva gathering on the sword wedged between his teeth. He got the third out and left it on the dusty floor, moving towards the last, somewhat within range of the guns. Three men left, Ela felt sweat pill on his brow, removing a few other components holding the hunk of metal upright. It groaned, still managing to carry the few remaining men as a foul-smelling smoke trickled down to where the redhead ducked out. A foreign moan breached the repeat of gunfire and the three remaining slumped over, dead weight causing the staircase without support to list sideways. Elastor threw his sword into his hands, waiting a couple seconds, blue eyes trained on where the men had first come. Seven. Seven was not even. They would not have sent all their men out in one go. They were amateurs, but they weren't stupid.

Zen scurried back towards the conveyor belt, Ela paying him no mind while more men flooded out towards the stairs. They lumbered across the catwalk, shaking it ignorantly until they came to the steps. They seemed to have only taken notice of Zen, seeing as the Royal Guard was hovering at an odd angle from under where they stood. When what seemed like the final slew of gunmen reached the stairs, Ela positioned his sword at a perfectly trained arc, pulled in a soft breath, and sliced the remaining pillar apart. Rust shavings shattered his cover by jingling to the ground, slowly releasing the stairs to a downward crawl that sped up as it gained momentum. The men, realizing what was happening, began releasing yelps of surprise as they plummeted like rocks in a pond. Ela fanned himself, wiping his brow under his bangs whilst he turned around and began walking towards Zen. Like metal drums being kicked in, the catwalk, stairs, and men in all fell straight down, knocking over heavy supply carts, and being slammed unconscious. Nine out in one go, he assumed that wasn't all of them. The fat man with riches who didn't get his hands dirty and his three weasely advisers were mostly likely still up the stairs Ela had just destroyed. No matter.

He shut his eyes momentarily, counting to sixty twice and reopening them to see Officer Howler walking away from a pile of cartridge casings. He turned and eyed chains hanging from a pulley within reach. Placing his sword in his mouth once again, he launched his body at it, vice-gripping the cold rings, and throwing himself upward in a climbing motion. After some time, he swung into the entryway and disappeared inside. The bandages around his center were sticking to him, oozing only what he guessed as blood. His trench coat was tightly wound around him, concealing it however whilst his eyes glimmered dangerously at the only ajar door in the hallway. A ruff baritone voice careened into Ela's ears, making his press his back harshly against the wall and ready his katana. Two men peeked out to see, but instantly caught sight of the assassin come to lead them into hell. In a few quick strikes, they non-fatally crumbled to the ground like discarded love letters. In a whisk of speed, Elastor entered the room, earning him bewildered looks and scattered files. Something was uttered in Esparian, but he wasn't bothering to try and understand. He stoke with silver instead.

Black boots sidestepping bodies and blood, he bent to retrieve the discarded files, checking the room for anything else aside from loads of ammunition and various weapons. He turned and exited, unhinging the pulley to slowly drop him down. As he set foot back down, he instantly found Zen with his eyes and let the first hint of a smirk shine through the haze of his hatred for the man. "Let's go," he murmured, hitting him over the head with the files that most likely would lead them next to a tasty cake factory for heaven's sake. He needed a vacation.