Skin to Bone, Steel to Rust, Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Ayden awoke as he did every day, his body adhering to a strict regime even if his mind was in a world of its own. 4:30AM, the alarm chimed, and the voice of groggy radio hosts pierced the hotel room silence. A thin veil of darkness still sat upon the Vaingloria skyline, faded stars and crescent moon held still in a blanket of black that would quickly turn to blue. He pulled open the shower doors and stepped in, washing himself for exactly six minutes, hair inclusive.

The assassin was on foreign soil, but that made no difference. What with his occupation, part of the whole job was travelling, and Ayden was well-used to disposable one-use complimentary soap, hand towels, shower gel, and even the little trays of biscuits and the sachet coffee the maids left on the board aside a kettle in the fancier hotels he'd dwelt in - albeit that was most of the time. Once contracts had really hit the air and become both flowing and lucrative, he could afford to both travel and reside in style. Staying with contacts was too unprofessional, and hotel rooms were always somewhere to go back to and scheme further, or wallow in failure, whatever the outcome of the job. Many a successful night had been spent alone upon those luscious, memory-foam double beds he so adored, content with but the silence and nothing else as a companion.

Perhaps his wedding now threatened that. Ayden had never really considered Jeu-Hee factoring too heavily into his occupation until now; she'd accepted it, but when they were truly a couple, would they want to come along? Alarm bells' shrill tones rang through his mind and red flags were quickly raised, but all as quickly, Ayden washed the images and noise away with the reassurance that he'd simply cross that bridge when they came to it - for now, his concentration had to fall upon, as it always did, the contract, and nothing but.

His regimen was strict and maintained across every country on the globe, with Ayden having frequented each at least two or three times for one reason or another, though usually just the one. Some, like Amestris, he'd performed as many as fifty jobs in. He was son of no-one, and loyal to no flag, despite the stars that hung upon his lapel when he seldom strapped the uniform on; he was privy more usually to a uniform of his own, black as night and carved of only the most perfect and versatile leather. In actuality, that leather came from nowhere other than Vaingloria itself.

After six minutes of washing, the smug-faced slaughterer stepped out from the shower, his slender, imposing, and almost ghost-like gaunt frame wrapped itself in a towel. Silvery scars traced and lined his body, and the black ink of his newest tattoo, the Toxic Laughter array, shone on his back, the bathroom's pale orange light piercing the steam and making the colour of his pale skin and darkened ink twinkle in beautiful, perfect unison. Markings, bruises, bumps, scrapes; almost every inch of his body he usually tried to hide, even the ugly ridged scar on his thigh from when those thugs had shot him, for this fact and this fact alone. Much like his very existence, his body with scarred and crisscrossed with markings, each one pertaining to a separate memory. Each slash or shot he'd been too slow to dodge was another contribution to his learning, negative reinofrcement; and each blow he'd not been fast enough to swerve around was just one more story to tell.

Ayden stepped up to the basin and knotted the towel swiftly about his torso, before grasping a straight razor and a handful of gel. From there, the assassin went on to cleave the bristly silver-white hairs from his chin, which formed almost in the same silken sheen and pattern as the long, luscious locks upon his very head; but Heart had always told him of his creed. "Clean-shaven means professional, no matter what job you're in," And, of course, above all else, Ayden valued one thing: his professionalism. Shaving took a further four minutes due to the assassin's meticulous nature.

Images of Heart idly flushed his mind as he shaved. He wasn't prone now to the pangs of vengeance and hatred he had been maybe a few months ago. After all, the job was almost done, and whilst the anger took control from time to time, and the beast rattling the cage within sometimes broke free, Ayden knew that he couldn't let these things become too personal. He'd managed to suppress what he could in order to not compromise his image. And so whilst the issue with Heart still left a gaping desire to cut the remaining figures responsible down within him, Ayden had done what he was the very best at doing: he had slipped into a facade and acted as if it didn't bother him, for the most part.

The bullet to his leg was partially thanks to dumb luck, and partially thanks to overkill. It was, however, arguably, the most horrific of all the wounds he'd had to endure yet. What with eleven years now under his belt, Ayden considered that impressive; and his ego aside, it was. And it seemed as if things were truly beginning to pay off - and whilst any time in the past few years, the silver-haired genocide artist could have been heard saying this, this moment was when it really rang true. This was the long run.

After shaving, Ayden finished drying off for another five minutes, his hair taking up the bulk of that time, and then kitted himself out and made a full equipment check of his attire. Today, that consisted of his sleeveless, rigid vest, his jacket, his trenchcoat, his leather slacks, and the regular combat boots. Along with that, he was choosing to strap on the usual: the Talons, the Fangs, the Children, the Twins, a small satchel containing grenades, and some blood phials. From there, he spruced up his inventory a touch more with a suitcase containing Andromeda, the trigger cord hanging slack over the top of the briefcase, and, keys to his R8, parked immaculately in the hotel lobby. If he got it back in anything less than a condition like he'd left it, he'd kill that blonde bimbo receptionist, and hunt down her entire family for good measure, too. "If there wasn't family to get to a man through, try his car." One of Heart's... other mottos. Not quite as profound as the other, and a bit more blunt, but functional all the same.

The equipment check took another staggering fifteen minutes, and as he finished tying up the laces on his boots, the second hand on the clock slid over the twelve, and it became the morning. 5AM, sharp. The skyline black became tinted with a jot of orange, and, soon, that orange would flood the sky in a beautiful and pure sunrise for the day, probably best glimpsed at the outskirts of the city, or atop a skyscraper. However, today held a slightly... different order to that, though not one Ayden was unfamiliar with. Sitting upon his dresser was a letter, addressed in what appeared to be... blue crayon, to one 'Aiden Dyrocha'. Though, the address at Briggs had actually been fortunately impeccably written. The assignment and proposal within had intrigued him so much, despite it being written on a novelty Christmas napkin, that he'd decided to come along to Vaingloria.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. What had more enticed him was the letter's main bulk, which was a wad of Cen notes as thick as his fist as an advance fee, for 'expenses', and a plane ticket. Alongside that, even having dealt with odd clients before, Ayden soon realised that it was someone far more than 'odd' who required his services; someone entirely unique. One Wolfgang Murinyo. The unorthodox and Esparian-hating monarch of the Ciel Dominion himself.

And, even if it had been a lie, he had money and his ticket was paid for. The hotel room hadn't been organised, either, as assurance he wasn't being set up for a taste of his own medicine, and he hadn't been assaulted at the airport - or checked for weapons, considering Wolfgang had flown him in via private jet at the North City airstrip. The man wanted him for a 'meeting', having heard of his worldwide renown. Perhaps he needed a job that required discretion... professionalism... or maybe a man of his alchemical calibre. He was renowned in the world of science just as much as he was the world of murder. Though most weren't set at ease by his guinea pig massacre displays, and several animal cruelty campaigns had appealed for his execution, amidst other things.

Since his arrival, Ayden had dialled Wolfy's public service number (surprisingly easy to get ahold of) and the pair arranged a meeting in the hotel restaurant at eight, under the pretense of a game of 'golf'. Ayden grinned. He wasn't too partial to golf. It was something of a passive sport, and usually used as a game of bragging rights for old men talking of their yachts and whinging about their business partners. He'd played golf before... yeuch. Oh, and, tartan really wasn't his style. Either way, doing what he did, the assassin had a well-fashioned set of improvisation and other drama skills over years of subtle honing, and it had been a simple matter of follow the leader.

So, eight o' clock. It was five now, which left him three hours; the first, Ayden spent cleaning all of his weaponry to perfection and practising a touch of alchemical theory and battle plan - Briggs required him to be on his toes, so studying was ALWAYS a good idea. You could never have enough knowledge, in Ayden's opinion. At six, he descended the stairs to the lobby, and went into the establishment's rather exquisite restaurant for a quick spot of early breakfast. Being a connoisseur of food just as he was a patron of art, literature, and music, considering it another expression of creativity, he pondered for a good half an hour or so before finally choosing his meal, sitting down, and allowing the taste to soothe his pallet and wash his mouth clean of toothpaste, and give him a far more natural scent upon his breath. Mint gave off a scent of anxiety. Little tips and tricks helped the meetings go along a little more smoothly. Not just that, but Vainglorian chefs were damned good, and the meal was beyond delicious.

Nutrition and supplement, along with something warm and solid in his belly, was also good; instability on the job should be kept to the minimum. After years of working in this world, Ayden never tripped up - but, more importantly, was the reason. Purely and simply, it was because his regimen and numerous layers of protocols and failsafes never allowed him to.

Deft hands were fast at work, working almost to a ticking clock- NO! They WERE working to a ticking clock, an internal clock. Like a mechanism of sheer power and dexterity, these hands flitted and flickered through their actions, recieving in return from the very bottom of the insanely powerful holding cell a rectangular slab, nearly a millimeter or two in depth, a few inches length and width-wise. Gingerly setting this object down on a storing disc, he delicately, as if working with the most fragile of ornaments atop the tallest fir at Yule time, placed his hand back into the contraption, withdrawing a similar slab. Quickly placing a small plastic locking mechanism on the holding cell's entrance, he pushed it to the side, grasping a vial of searingly yellow fluids. With great care and precaution, he placed a dab in the center of the quadrilateral shape, using a steel instrument of great power to spread the viscuous stuff evenly, before removing from a great golden square its own protective coverings, setting it gently atop the slab of fragile material. Taking his tool back into hand, with no time to reach a sanitized cleaning station, he cleaned away the fluid with his own saliva, by scooping it into his mouth with his tongue, swallowing it with a sharp grunt, from the powerful shock having hit his mouth.

Now utilizing this utensil of ultimate use, he took a carefully estimated quantity of white goop on the cupped end of the tool. Flipping it over the other slab of material, he allowed it to drop off onto it, before spreading it on the other slab and again licking the tool clean, now obviously wincing from this other taste, so unlike the previous that its milder blast into his taste buds was felt tenfold. Quickly taking a flexible disc, quite thin, and placing it on the now-coated slab, he repeated this process, before placing the two vials of fluids, the pack of yellow squares and the pack of thin discs into a cooling unit. Taking the slab with the yellow square now, holding it lightly, so lightly, he placed it slowly atop the slab with the disc...


"WHOOOOOOO-HOOOOO!!" SUCCESS! Taking his ham and cheese sandwich into one hand, he munched thoughtfully at it, as he drank a fine glass of tequila. Soon finishing, he wiped his mouth with a piece of cloth, as he used all his napkins to write important letters and documents, WHEN HE WROTE LETTERS, which wasn't often, He'd never admit it to a soul, but he was terrified of paper. So, speaking of letters, he then recalled his letter to one Ayden Derocha, he of the hard-to-spell name. He was to meet him at a golf course today, it seemed, and so he would. In fact, he'd just gotten off the phone with him, having cut the call short due to the intense pressure of sandwich making, which was when they'd set the location. This wasn't much a shady affair, but it WAS one of GREAT privacy! PEOPLE MAY WANT HIS AUTOGRAPH, YOU SEE. And both Molotov and his Praetorians were preoccupied with stuff. Nobody to forge his signature! OH WOE BE HE WHO HAS TO ACTUALLY TOUCH paper, of all things!

Anywho, he was to meet Ayden at a hotel, not too far from the palace, for a game of "golf." Oh-ho-ho... But there would be no golf! Wolfy entered the limo's driver's door, going for TOTAL discretion. Turning on the siren that began to blast KC and the Sunshine Band's "Please Don't Go," he sped over the the hotel, making sure to flash his headlights at any car moving faster than he. Parking in the parking lot, he locked his car and went in, taking a seat at a corner booth, where he would wait for one Ayden Derocha, he who was to become Gelemort's FIRST honorary Crown Alchemist. If he passed the trials...


Checking his watch, he noticed that Derocha was precisely FIFTY-SEVEN SECONDS LATE. Unacceptable. Standing now, he moved to another table, where a silver-headed man sat. "'Scuse me, but you hadn't seen noes..." ... OH. THAT WAS AYDEN! So he took a seat. "Youse is early, I see."

RIGHT. He smiled, and extended a slightly mustard-stained hand to Ayden, his wild dull black hair shifting slightly as he sat. "So, youse is the great'n'gran' Ayden Roacher, in the fleshes, eh? Y'look like'n alchemistical geenjus! Anywho, I'm sure you knows why I callja here, ne? SO! I'm Wolfgang Murinyo the Third, and we gots us a game of "golf" to engage in! If'n youse catch me drift. Hop in me limo'n, we'll head out to the "course", byahahahaha!" Oddly enough, nobody else broke pace, assuming NOTHING out of the ordinary, for this WAS ordinary, when the Roí de Royaúme was present. Anyways, Wolfy, as quickly as he had sat down, stood back up, gesturing Ayden to the limo. Climbing into the driver's seat, he allowed Ayden to choose his own seat as he cracked open a twenty ounce can of mango soda from underneath the glove compartment on the dashboard. Slurping a fair amount down, he offered a can to Ayden, letting him choose to accept it or not, as he drove to his palace. Parking outside the front door, he exited the vehicle, and headed down a sidewalk to his private golf course, which was shockingly WELL MAINTAINED for a seldom used course like his. Turning to face Ayden, at the first hole, he gave a gleeful grin. " ¡Mi casa es tu casa, y mi baño no es amarillo!" Aye, t'was true; his house was open to Ayden, at the least for the now-time, and his bathroom was most CERTAINLY not YELLOW. That would be silly. His bathroom was green, with an AMAZINGLY GUARDED SECRET FLOOR TILING, painted in a color nobody had ever seen before, somehow OUTSIDE the color spectrum. But he generally covered the bathroom with various dime-store rugs anyways, diminishing the value of his amazingly colored bathroom floor.

Anywho~ "SO. Now wese done gotten interdeuces and al that stuffing, how's about we go 'head'n begin the Trials of Stardom, the ULTIMATE test to determine whether'r not you can become an honorary Angrybird Alchemist; the most elite pf Gelemort's elite!~ First round is easy questions, BUT. I'ma need youse tah sign this waiver." He then extended his tablet to Ayden, noting where Ayden was to digitally sign the digital waiver, as he REFUSED to give him paper, vile paper.

Ting. The sound of the bell resounded through the hotel restaurant as a strange-looking man in his mid-thirties entered, and sidled down in a corner booth, looking fairly... wait, was that Wolfgang? Ayden arched an eyebrow as he matted his mouth with a napkin, and smiled matter-of-factly as the man made his way over. "'Scuse me, but you hadn't seen noes..." Yeah. At this distance, he recognised him from various badly-timed pictures that the tabloids had decided to publish - and as he drew ever closer, his features became even more prominent in the early-morning pale rays of white Vaingloria sun.

"Your Highness," Ayden spoke with a calm, cool tone to his voice; one wouldn't have suspected he still owed vengeance to several with that smile that sat on his face. It was no bloodthirsty grin, and no crazed look of anger; the professionalism had suppressed whatever emotions within that so desperately wished to rattle their shackles and break free of the silver-haired assassin's self-imposed bindings. "Youse is early, I see."

"Your observational prowess is astounding," Ayden stared as the man outstretched a hand, and he took a second take, a survey of the monarch's figure... he'd heard rumours of Wolfgang's being unorthodox, but this was really... something else. He'd met Ace, Spade, Hans... and now Murinyo. This world very much liked to pick and choose a variety when it came to world leaders.

The yellow, grainy mustard stains on his hands prompted Ayden to grasp a clean napkin from the tray on the table and wrap it around the palm of his hand before shaking vigorously. It wasn't intended as an insult; but the assassin valued cleanliness before Godliness, certainly. Perhaps he enjoyed bloodying that blackened leather suit of his; but that was art. Foodstuffs really just made him look a slob. "So, youse is the great'n'gran' Ayden Roacher, in the fleshes, eh? Y'look like'n alchemistical geenjus!" He was slightly taken aback at the man's accent and his choice of words... and his pronunciation was slightly off. Ayden grimaced, not sure what to think of the man.


"Derocha," He corrected. "Ayden Derocha." How he loathed to speak the name of that vile madman; but if only for his mother's sake, he wasn't sacrificing his namesake... not quite just yet, at least. "As for the alchemy..." Ayden looked down to a few inches of pale skin barely visible, poking through in the gap between the end of his jacket sleeve and the beginning of his glove. Spiralling and entwining black ink of the alkahestrical array tore across the flesh of his arm; truly a dedication to his art. A smirk. He was feeling mellow, today. "I suppose that's one way you could put it." There was modesty as an option, always, of course, but he still had yet to assess this man's patterns in full.

"Anywho, I'm sure you knows why I callja here, ne? SO! I'm Wolfgang Murinyo the Third, and we gots us a game of "golf" to engage in! If'n youse catch me drift. Hop in me limo'n, we'll head out to the "course", byahahahaha!" Ah... the 'golf' pretense. It worked well with clients with lucrative professions; as most actually had a golf course, for one reasoning or another, and it allowed him a touch of sightseeing, to indulge those orbs of purest cerulean, to sate the need for beautiful sights. Rolling green hills, a trimmed, velvet fairway; bunkers of the most excellent Esparian sand. In truth, despite his shameful lack of skill when it came to the sport, and his personal disdain for it, golf courses were usually exquisite. Just a shame their space and extravagance was wasted on such a petty activity.

As for the first sentence... "Actually, I don't-" He began a sentence in the rolling, excellent Gelemortian dialect of Rouenian he'd perfected to fluency in the past few months, but Wolfgang cut him off by standing up and bolting straight back for the limousine, leaving Ayden there with a look of quiet surprise as he got to his feet, collected Andromeda's briefcase, and made a brisk walk towards the back compartment of the limo.

Wolfgang was eagerly slurping down some form of drink when he sidled in, offering a can of the foul, sickly-smelling liquid to the man who slowly shook his head, holding up his hand. "I'm not thirsty, but thank you," Politeness seemed to be the only card he held with this wildly unpredictable man. He'd have to be on his guard; power and professionalism often came hand in hand. Their bonding... that could come later.

"¡Mi casa es tu casa, y mi baño no es amarillo!" The course was just as extravagant as he'd expected, though the maintenance and meticulous level of care taken to keep things prim and proper were maybe something he was a little more surprised at, considering Wolfgang's otherwise... chaotic appearance, and aura. The Esparian meant nothing to him; 'casa' he knew was home, and that was about the limit. The language didn't entirely appeal to him; he'd never planned to make any interactions with the Esparians, aside from killing them.

Maybe that was a point to offer up to the monarch - the tensions between the two nations was most definitely not swept under the rug, and his proficiency for murder was too something made very clear to those who should need it. Though... that prompted the question... why in the hell was he speaking the language of his enemies? Thus far, Murinyo didn't seem to be the most formidable of adversaries, let alone any form of political mastermind. And from the state of disarray that Vaingloria's streets were in... well, all in all, the man's status and mantle were... most confusing. "I'm afraid I don't speak Esparian," Ayden said dryly, making the utmost effort to try and keep his accent flowing.

"SO. Now wese done gotten interdeuces and al that stuffing, how's about we go 'head'n begin the Trials of Stardom, the ULTIMATE test to determine whether'r not you can become an honorary Angrybird Alchemist; the most elite pf Gelemort's elite!~ First round is easy questions, BUT. I'ma need youse tah sign this waiver." ...ah. Now, it was clear. Ayden quickly began to redden, and if one were to look closely, they may have seen waves of heat in the form of distorted curves, not too dissimilar from the visual effects of a heatwave, emanating from his ears.

A frown carved onto his face and his pleasant smile subsequently turned down. He turned, and set down the briefcase containing Andromeda upon the grass as his face contorted into an irritated sneer, as if he was dealing with a cockroach. "You mean to say," He was speaking firmly and sternly, now; all his many facades and charades of politeness had long since been discarded. "That you didn't call me here today to kill someone," Birds fluttered nearby, but all else was silence, as if nature itself had split in two to allow a liberal path for the movement of Ayden's fury. "And you just want to test me?!"

Ayden grasped the tablet from him, and swept his gloved fingers across the plastic surface as he read through the declaration aloud. "'I, Ayden Derocha, agree to waive and personally attend to any costs that arise from misfortune or harm that should befall me whilst undertaking the aforementioned Trials of Stardom.'" He scrolled down a moment later, and screwed his face into disgust, running his finger along the very fine print. "'I also agree to the fact that Wolfy is totally the most awesome monarch ever.' Bah," Ayden handed the tablet back, and ran a gloved hand through his hair, trying his best to shake the anger away and think rationally. Could he afford to piss this man off? Esparia wouldn't exactly want him for his alchemist status - but 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'. Or, more correctly, 'the enemy of those who would persecute me is a moron'.

"I'll offer you an ultimatum," Ayden snarled. "I don't have time for your barbaric and utterly moronic trials. Now, for the last time, if you want me to kill someone, to live up to my name, to shed some beautiful BLOOD across the canvas of my resumé that you've probably not even deigned important enough to read," He allowed his swaying hands to become still, his entire body settling, before speaking once more in the most lowered and delicate of tones. "If you want me to do something worth my time, and worth my sophistry, then I will happily oblige you," The snarl returned again, and thus did the growl. "Otherwise, I'm going to leave."

Hmmm... How dilemnatic. It seemed Ayden didn't speak Esparian! Curses! Ah well, he didn't feel like translating. OH, AND GET THIS. It also seemed he'd angered the man with his reasoning for why he'd even come. "...Wha? Wait, you mean I din't ever tells ya? Could'a swored it weres in that letter... Ah well..." The usual excited glint in his eyes had vanished, and he was now speaking a bit more seriously. As such, these Trials were serious, despite their outward appearance. He may not seem the wisest, sanest leader, but nobody, nobody could ever say he was a bad one. He'd contacted Ayden for very specific purposes, not merely to test him, rather, to gain an ally and to give this Ayden fellow some lovely perks in exchange, as well as more opportunities.

"A'ight, well yeah, youse could say I'm testin' yah. But it ain't no test ta sees how good an assassin you is, naw; it's a test ta sees if I'm willin' ta hire you fer this title, all it has in it. You kin leave now if you wanna, but if you stay'n listen to me, I'll cut you a deal. You complete the eight challenges of the Trials and I'll give you contracts, a'ight? Not them sassy-prassy craps you'd think I'd give you neither, I can see it in your eyes. I'll pay you handsomely, upon completion of these trials, to find and put down members of Gelemort's blacklist. Heard of fellas like Adryion Summers, the mass murderin' chimera? His type. Him, the Bloodluster, an illusive serial killin' cannibal, the head of the Falzone fam'ly- lots'a people, scores of'em. All ya gotta do's the trials. And you can have full creative freedom with all those hits; I read your resumé, y'know, n' that seemed like your style. So whaddaya say? You in?"

"...Wha? Wait, you mean I din't ever tells ya? Could'a swored it weres in that letter... Ah well..." He snarled instinctively. So help him, if this meeting didn't show signs of getting very productive very soon, he wasn't going to be able to be held accountable for his actions. The silver-haired murderer opened his mouth to speak when Wolfgang came back with a grim rebuttal in Amestrian.

"A'ight, well yeah, youse could say I'm testin' yah. But it ain't no test ta sees how good an assassin you is, naw; it's a test ta sees if I'm willin' ta hire you fer this title, all it has in it. You kin leave now if you wanna, but if you stay'n listen to me, I'll cut you a deal. You complete the eight challenges of the Trials and I'll give you contracts, a'ight? Not them sassy-prassy craps you'd think I'd give you neither, I can see it in your eyes. I'll pay you handsomely, upon completion of these trials, to find and put down members of Gelemort's blacklist. Heard of fellas like Adryion Summers, the mass murderin' chimera? His type. Him, the Bloodluster, an illusive serial killin' cannibal, the head of the Falzone fam'ly- lots'a people, scores of'em. All ya gotta do's the trials. And you can have full creative freedom with all those hits; I read your resumé, y'know, n' that seemed like your style."

Now that was much more the real run of things. He smirked; and the anger contorting Ayden Derocha's face settled from a distorted, heavy, world-ending hurricane into nothing more than a gentle breeze, calmed with but a moment's simple effort. He smirked, and mulled over the facts that Wolfgang had given to him with the spiel, and what he could get from a mere few moments of analysis. He'd spoken in Amestrian, too - and his fluency was on par with Ayden's. That of a native. It seemed Murinyo too had his secrets...

"Well, that's progress," He sighed, before breaking into something of a maniacal giggle. Now he was calm, he realised he could let his facade shatter and his true colours shine and glow through like a glorious lightshow, tints and hues of only the purest silver and the brightest crimson. Ayden continued to speak after the laughter faded. "I presume you know my terms. Send me each of the dossiers, and I'll respond in kind with an offer. Non-negotiable," Well, that was usually the run of things, anyway. Maybe with a monarch, even one as puzzling as Wolfy, he could make something of an exception. "Each of those sounds like an excellent contract to my trained ears, however," He snarled triumphantly. "And as you're hopefully well aware, my liege, there's no contract I can't deliver on."

Ayden knew he could give the Bloodluster a run for his money in namesake. Serial killer on serial killer. He smirked. And his Drachman contracts had been talking about one Summers. And the infamous Falzone was maybe a little more untouchable; the price would go up tremendously, but anyone could be killed. Then, he finally got to the point of Wolfgang's giving him creative freedom, at which point he burst into laughter, leaping up and grinning uncannily at the king.

"BAHAHAHAH!" The cackles resonated over the dawn-lit rolling green hills of the field, over the perfect bunkers of Esparian hand, and the velvet turf of the strips of fairway. "OH, HOW EXCELLENT~! I UNDERESTIMATED YOU BEFOREHAND, YOUR HIGHNESS," He struck an accusing finger out to point at Wolfgang. "BUT NEVER AGAIN!" His tones calmed, and the intermittent giggles dropped to silence. His voice became nothing but a deadly, quiet, near-silent croak as he edged closer to the purple-suited ruler and grinned uncannily at him.

"It is good to see that you're a monarch with..." He pondered the words he would speak. "A taste, or, at least, an understanding for my... creativity," The grin only widened; his lips pulled back and tucked themselves as far out of the grin as they could, revealing two rows of large, pearl-white teeth, shimmering in the Vaingloria sun, much like those silken silver-sheen locks of his. "Someone who can appreciate the many uses of my wanton desire to spread agony and pain," His irises narrowed into slits. "Someone who realises the advantages of my symphony of desire,"

The grin slipped back into a giddy smile as another chuckle or two escaped the threshold of his pursed, paled lips. "Lead the way, Wolfgang," Ayden's grim voice was far more sullen than before, and his head staring idly towards the ground for a split-second, before he snapped it back up. "I will sign no form you put in front of me," He stated. "But if it takes these tests to prove my mettle and legitimacy to you... so be it."

Ah, that's wonderful. Progress, Derocha said. Dossier in return for a non-negotiable offer seemed good. Too good to pass up, actually. That was why he'd contacted Ayden to begin with, really. He seemed able to keep to his word of no failure, always completing his task. So it would seem he could handle the things Wolfy wanted to utilize his skills for; few others in the world were as known for seeking out targets and eliminating them with such speed and efficiency. Even those such as the Bloodluster could be found in relatively good timing, and they barely knew a thing about him.

However, when Ayden started madly laughing, Wolfy couldn't resist cracking a grin of his own. He'd thought well of Derocha before, even when it seemed the hitman wasn't going to comply; now he saw exactly what sort of passion for blood this man held. And while Wolfy himself didn't quite like spilling blood, he had to appreciate one who could not only master the trade of it, but to take delight in his mastery of it.

As Ayden said lead the way, WOlfy smiled and gestured to a table, sitting outside a small one with a chair on either side. Taking his seat, he looked to Ayden, eyes shimmering with the very seriousness of these examinations. "A'ight, so. Sit rep; The first Trial is one of questions. Easy. As for the others? Once youse begin, ta turn back would force my hand to have you yourself blacklisted. So do understand, no matter how mad or asinine them trials may seems, they all got a purpose, an' they serve that purpose." Breaking the iron-orbed stare, he grinned, eyes glimmering with a wild light as he engaged in asking questions. "So let's begin!"

"ONE. Why did you choose your alchemical specialty?

TWO. Have you ever been on drugs of any form, and if so, did you engage in the method of 'puff puff pass'?

THREE. Favorite music artist of this century?

FOUR. Favorite classical composer, artist, and erotic writer?

FIVE. You can choose one date for the prom; Hild Schwartz, Reila Tsukino, Yuuko of Aerugo, Gavin Etheridge, or an Ishvallan supermodel with a Lokhyn father and excrutiatingly bad body odor. You ARE allowed to kill your date, but only after spending quality time in the bedroom.

SIX. Would you rather jump from a 747 onto the flagpole at Fort Briggs, kidney first, or fight a clone of yourself, after having all of your limbs chopped off and mailed to your grandmother?

SEVEN. Finish this sentence; Justin Beiber should be...?

EIGHT. If you were plotting my death right now, which you may or may not be doing, how would you go about it?

NINE. What brand of dental floss do you use?

TEN. What is your favorite model of Gelemortian pistol? Rifle? SMG? Aircraft?

ELEVEN. If you could kill any one person in the world right now, who'dja kill?

TWELVE. Are you SICK and TIRED of these ANNOYING questions yet?

THIRTEEN. If you answered yes to Twelve, skip this one. If you answer no, then whyyyyyyyy not?

FOURTEEN. Favorite childhood memory?

FIFTEEN. How well do you like green pigs and cardboard structures?

SIXTEEN. Favorite genre of movie, and favorite cultural music?

SEVENTEEN. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could Chuck Norris?

EIGHTEEN. How do you plan to die?

NINETEEN. If you answered no to eighteen, explain why you are immortal, otherwise, go straight to twenty.

TWENTY. If you are ready for the next section of madness, please pass Go, and do not collect 200 dollars." Giving Ayden ample time to answer each question before asking the next, he proceeded down this long list. "Not too painful, aye?"

"A'ight, so. Sit rep; The first Trial is one of questions. Easy. As for the others? Once youse begin, ta turn back would force my hand to have you yourself blacklisted. So do understand, no matter how mad or asinine them trials may seems, they all got a purpose, an' they serve that purpose." Ayden shrugged inconsequentially. Questions. He was good at them. Especially if it let his... more peculiar tastes shine through. His more... decadent tastes. If things advanced well enough, then he'd be more than happy to play Wolfgang's games. But the moment he got the inkling the man was fucking with him, he was done - blacklist be damned.

His silence paved the way for Wolfgang to continue. "So let's begin!" A gentle nod, and Ayden retorted in kind, ready too to continue. "Let's..." A smirk, and the questions began as the wind whistled through the canopies of the rich Gelemortian trees dotting the fairway.

"ONE. Why did you choose your alchemical specialty?" He scratched the makings of bristles on his chin, the small, clean-cut hairs he'd trimmed with the straight razor. Not a single scratch was borne atop his perfect, pale pallor, and the tiny follicles pushed forth only hair stubs no longer than a millimetre - there hadn't even been enough time for stubble to form in between his shaving and their current moment. "I like killing people. It's designed for killing people." Ayden spoke bluntly. Didn't get much simpler than that.

The set of questions very much quickly became call-and-response, answer and retort. "TWO. Have you ever been on drugs of any form, and if so, did you engage in the method of 'puff puff pass'?" A smile as he fondly remembered oh-so-many conquests, oh-so-many assassinations. He knew the answer to the question before Wolfgang had even finished speaking to it. "The only substance I partake in is the blood of my targets, which stimulates more euphoria from my system than any synthetic ever could,"

"THREE. Favorite music artist of this century?" Ayden arched an eyebrow. Surely... surely that question was rhetorical!? Pah. The 21st century thus far bore no great composers, no nouveau Mozarts, no Beethovens, no Bachs, no Tchaikovskys; the current state of the music industry was dire indeed, and did Ayden know it. But... his answer... "Myself. I compose my own symphonies in the blood and entrails of my enemies."

"FOUR. Favorite classical composer, artist, and erotic writer?" Now that was far more his preference. Excellent. Simple enough - Wolfgang had glossed onto a subject that he actually enjoyed, no longer on the dreary topic of 21st century 'music'. "Beethoven, Matisse, and Shakespeare, respectively," He smirked. Shakespeare's works were considered controversial and highly sexualised and erotic in the Renaissance period.

"FIVE. You can choose one date for the prom; Hild Schwartz, Reila Tsukino, Yuuko of Aerugo, Gavin Etheridge, or an Ishvallan supermodel with a Lokhyn father and excrutiatingly bad body odor. You ARE allowed to kill your date, but only after spending quality time in the bedroom." He thought quickly back to his times with Reila; though he was as of yet engaged, something sparkled in his eyes. And it wasn't even speaking of infidelity - 'quality time' was vague enough, and for all he knew, their quality time would include blood, stabbing, and copious amounts of murder. His answer now was simple. "Reila."

"SIX. Would you rather jump from a 747 onto the flagpole at Fort Briggs, kidney first, or fight a clone of yourself, after having all of your limbs chopped off and mailed to your grandmother?" He smirked. Did Lukas have grandparents he didn't know about? Infernos twinkled in his eyes; if he did, she should be just as punished for bringing such a disgusting creature worthy only of loathing into the world. "The latter. As a signal that I'm coming." He was dead serious.

"SEVEN. Finish this sentence; Justin Beiber should be...?" Ayden snarled, unfortunately knowing of the boy and his reputation as 'a number one hottie' or 'such a great musician'. The tween girls didn't know the fucking meaning of musician. "Hung, drawn, quartered, skinned, and then have his face made into a mask so I can wear it and scare away his fans."

"EIGHT. If you were plotting my death right now, which you may or may not be doing, how would you go about it?" Now this was getting interesting. Hmm... discretion, of course... but then there was his nature, his flamboyance... his need to put his works on display. "Two in the chest, one in the head." Simple enough. Ayden made the gesture of a gun with his fingers before giggling madly. "HAHAHA!" He made a momentary addendum. "Then, of course, I'd cut your head off, put it on a pike, and go and sit on your throne. Just for good measure."

"NINE. What brand of dental floss do you use?" Now they were just getting asinine and stupid. Well... the monarch had warned him. Ayden scowled and the makings of a low growl thrummed in his throat, but he grudgingly continued. "I make my own from human intestine." He answered simply, flashing a false smile.

"TEN. What is your favorite model of Gelemortian pistol? Rifle? SMG? Aircraft?" For a moment, he erupted into a low chortle. Then a chuckle. Then a giggle. Before long, he was clutching his chest and wheezing in between bouts of mad cackling. "GYAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Another pause, wheezing included. "GYAHAHAAA!" After some time, he settled down into silence, still panting heavily, before shaking his hand. "None... for... all of them," He sighed, trying to regain his breath. "Your people... weren't meant... to be craftsmen..."

Ayden caught his breath. "ELEVEN. If you could kill any one person in the world right now, who'dja kill?" He snarled at Wolfgang, half-way between ecstasy and fury. Part of him wanted to murder the monarch for these increasingly boring questions. The other part wanted to laugh in his face... and then murder him. "You, if these questions don't finish soon," He glowered at the man.

"TWELVE. Are you SICK and TIRED of these ANNOYING questions yet?" Ayden blinked, then shook his head, seemingly gaining the mantle of a normal person momentarily. Sarcasm hung under his voice like a deep weight on his words. "No, of course not, they're just fine and fucking dandy..." He murmured through gritted teeth, flashing a fake white grin, the strain on his face visible.

"THIRTEEN. If you answered yes to Twelve, skip this one. If you answer no, then whyyyyyyyy not?" Ayden smacked his palm into his face with considerable force. This man was such a moron that it was beginning to give him a headache. "I WAS JOKING!" He screamed, cradling his head in his arms and hoping the contagious idiocy virus that seemed to be going around didn't infect him, too.

"FOURTEEN. Favorite childhood memory?" Wildfire and distance flickered in his eyes. Ayden faded away into another land and his hands fell limp. Favourite... favourite childhood memory? Did he ever have one? Did he ever want to have one? He hadn't considered it. There were a few... from his time learning under Heart... but with his parents? No.

Once more, images frozen in the storybook of the assassin's mind flickered past his eyes as his pupils dilated and he flew away to somewhere secret, somewhere safe, within his mind's eye. "I..." He began, before snapping back into reality, his face contorted in an irritated scowl, before finally calming, and settling back into his usual complexion, anxious to remain professional and not concede any ground to Wolfgang, or let him see any weakness, just in case. "That's staying off-limits." He spoke, adamant.

"FIFTEEN. How well do you like green pigs and cardboard structures?" Ayden, not a big indie game enthusiast, was entirely bemused by this one, arching both eyebrows and shrugging as if the question was of no consequence, simply dismissing it to the man's insanity. "I... am indifferent, I suppose?"

"SIXTEEN. Favorite genre of movie, and favorite cultural music?" He scratched his head. He'd heard a lot of Xingese music from his time spent with Jeu-Hee; but the movies were a little more... complex. He smiled, as the realisation struck him; Hannibal Lecter, Tyler Durden... "Xingese music, and... psychological thrillers..." The sentence drifted off into an abyss.

Wolfgang picked back up. "SEVENTEEN. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could Chuck Norris?" Ayden pretended to think long and hard about this question, crossing his arms and stroking his chin enthusiastically, before raising his finger as if he'd just 'discovered' the answer. "Forty-two."

"EIGHTEEN. How do you plan to die?" A smile, and Ayden cocked his head, before shrugging enthusiastically. Wolfgang certainly liked his sentiment. Now was the time for a laconic phrase; something quotable, something vivid that would go down in history. "I don't."

"NINETEEN. If you answered no to eighteen, explain why you are immortal, otherwise, go straight to twenty." Heh. It seemed Wolfgang had pre-empted him; Ayden wondered if he was making them up straight off the bat. "I'm not immortal." He said, quickly, before carrying on. "My legacy is. It precedes me. It precedes my nature. Even if I die, rumours of the ghost, the assassin, the silver-haired killer will be whispered upon the wind..." He stepped forwards, and aligned his head with Wolfgang's, whispering as quietly as he could. "...Ayden Derocha..."

"TWENTY. If you are ready for the next section of madness, please pass Go, and do not collect 200 dollars." He was silent in his approval, allowing Wolfgang to continue as he lowered the tablet, finished. Finally. "Not too painful, aye?" Ayden smirked, and shrugged, trying to get the idiocy out of his system.

"If you don't consider mind-numbing pointlessness painful, then, I guess so."

Ah, what a lovely time. As he asked each question, he took every answer into account, into his own personal dossier labelled "Ayden Derocha." Thus far, these were the results of the seemingly asinine questions;

1) Mr. Derocha seemed to like killing people, and therefore developed his alchemy for this purpose, quite simply.
2) It would not be wise to offer him a draw of his crack pipe, or direct him to one Bronze Degan for some funny substances. ALSO. He seemed to get a thrill from the kill.
3) ...More killing people...
4) Ah, and he liked Beethoven, Matisse, and Shakespeare! Mind you, Wolfy was more of a Mozart kind of guy, that being his namesake after all, but Beethoven was alright too. So... Guy had varied interests!
5) Reila, hm? THE GUY LIKED RED-HEADS! That, or he wasn't thinking much of that nature, rather, more killing.
6) Rather creepy, but intriguing. He'd keep this in mind.
7) YEEEEEEEEEEES!! SANITY! SWEET, GLORIOUS SANITY!!
Oh-ho-ho... WOlfy liked this answer, oddly enough. He'd actually smiled and nodded his approval as Ayden answered, noting silently that were he to die by Ayden's hands, that'd be a pretty dignified way to go. Hopefully, though, he wouldn't die by Ayden's hands at all.
9) Well, Wolfy was more the type to use generic brand, but if Ayden liked using human intestines, so be it.
10) Rude... But hey, the test was scripted in the event of a Gelemortian applicant, so it was fair to assume not too many Amestrians used Gelemortian weapons too often.
11) Haha!... He liked this answer too.
12) Masochistic, maybe? Tsk tsk tsk...
13) Oh... NOT masochistic, just being sarcastic. Makes more sense.
14) N/A
15) Ah, lovely. That should give GREAT results on the last Trial!
16) Neat. Wolfy knew what to buy Ayden for Christmas! 8D
17) So he's knowledgable... GOOD FOR THE NEXT TRIAL!
18) I don't... Wolfy certainly gained a bit of respect for him at that...
19) If "I don't." wasn't epic enough...
20) Sense of humor. Haha!

So Wolfy grinned at Ayden, having gone through considerably the most dull round of eight trials. "I liked your answers fer eight, eighteen and nineteen. A'ight, movin' on, movin' on, this'll be a quick round. You MUST pass this'un to go on. (~(Pssssst... There are no right or wrong answers. 8D)~) "But, if'n you bear with me, I think Trial Three's right up your alley. More artistic, Three is... Anywho, finish the song lyrics;"

"Well the first thing I do is TALK TO CORPORATE, (LIKE A BOSS), APPROVE MEMOS, (LIKE A BOSS), LEAD A WORKSHOP, ____ _ ____!

Ever since I was a young boy, I've played the silver ball! From Soho down to Brighton, I must'a played them all! But I ain't seen nothin' like'im in any amusement hall! THAT DEAF DUMB AND BLIND KID, ____ ______ _ ____ _______!

I don't know why but today seems like it's gonna be a great day!
There's something in the air that makes me ____ ____ _____ __ ______ __ _ _____ ___!

Pokémon! Dump it in the river! Our rental car! Dump it in the river! This old guy! ____ __ __ ___ _____!

I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes! I have to _____ __ ____ _____ __ ________ _____!"

Indeed, only five this time, rather than last time's twenty. And, unlike what one would ASSUME, these were open to interpretation, so the correct lyrics weren't ACTUALLY the only possible answers. Indeed, Wolfy had actually been curious to see what Ayden's answers were to have been....

"But, if'n you bear with me, I think Trial Three's right up your alley. More artistic, Three is... Anywho, finish the song lyrics;" Ayden stared in utter disbelief. Really. Really!? After finishing a bout of twenty-questions with Moron Monarch Supreme, he was now going to be forced into a glorified round of 'Don't Forget The Lyrics'. With a sigh, he pressed his hand once more firmly against his forehead and exhaled as strongly as he could, before nodding, and bracing himself. Trial Three was apparently better, though Ayden wasn't sure if Wolfgang was going to survive until then.

Finally, drearily, he spoke, inclining his head begrudgingly. "We may as well get this over with..." The undercurrent of intolerance in his voice was very much present. Ayden was bored, and rather irritated, considering he was hoping to have killed at least three people by now.

"Well the first thing I do is TALK TO CORPORATE, (LIKE A BOSS), APPROVE MEMOS, (LIKE A BOSS), LEAD A WORKSHOP, ____ _ ____!" Considering all modern music flew straight over his head, Ayden was going to have to get... inventive, and hope Wolfgang simply enjoyed his 'substitutions'. After all, the past bout of questioning had really had no wrong answers. He could have placed the Gelemortian facade, on, but, somehow, he figured the monarch would... just... put up with him.

However, Ayden could follow patterns. "Akin to a managerial figure of repute," That was at least simple enough. He smirked; the smartass route had thus far won him at least a few points with Wolfgang, and he definitely wasn't conceding any ground to a man whom was either a deceptively intelligent monarch, or a moron with enormous quantities of good luck and the ability to bullshit his way to high heaven at back.

"Ever since I was a young boy, I've played the silver ball! From Soho down to Brighton, I must'a played them all! But I ain't seen nothin' like'im in any amusement hall! THAT DEAF DUMB AND BLIND KID, ____ ______ _ ____ _______!" This, however, entirely passed Ayden by. He stared, bemused, for a moment, at Wolfgang. Jesus, why couldn't the man just ask him to hum the end of one of Mozart's rhapsodies, or some such? That would be far more straightforward, and a better test of intelligence than simple imprinting and memory tricks.

"Will probably trip over something if he isn't guided out of said arcade appropriately," Ayden nodded glumly, feigning sympathy for the unfortunate and disabled boy Wolfgang spoke of in his incessant lyrical ramblings. God, this was starting to really gnaw at him. The man could almost feel his hands began to quiver in sheer irritation. He needed to kill someone, quickly.

"I don't know why but today seems like it's gonna be a great day!
There's something in the air that makes me ____ ____ _____ __ ______ __ _ _____ ___!" A sigh, and, once more, Ayden brought trembling hands to his face. Yes, that quivering had long since begun. And, yes, he wanted to rip Wolfgang's throat out with an icepick.

"Want to murder a certain purple-suited monarch?" He suggested innocently, throwing on the sweetest smile he could, the honey simply emanating from his grin as he batted his eyelids and interlocked his fingers behind his back. Beneath it all, something radical and dangerous flickered in his eyes.

"Pokémon! Dump it in the river! Our rental car! Dump it in the river! This old guy! ____ __ __ ___ _____!" As per usual, Ayden stared in total confusion for a moment, then realised that this made even less sense than usual, despite any pretense of the term 'sense' having long since been discarded from the window of the Murinyo royal limousine.

"Let me pause you there, sire," Ayden spoke in tones of false politeness, clearly attempting to avoid the questioning. "Did you know that studies have proved that a large percentage of the Gelemortian population can hold their breath underwater for over a staggering half an hour!?" His brow rose in false excitement, before gesturing to a nearby pool, placed for the purpose of the course. "Why don't you go and try it in that pool? As in, right of this current moment?" His fake exhilaration quickly faded, and his face returned to its creased look of sheer boredom as Wolfgang continued. Unfortunately.

"I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes! I have to _____ __ ____ _____ __ ________ _____!" Ayden pondered this one in a mood of false philosophy, looking momentarily as if he would very much answer it legitimately. He even gave the whole look a real sparkle there for a moment, and if not for the blazes of irritation going strong in those azure eyes of his, he would have almost pulled it off, tapping his chin idly and all.

"Remind myself that I'm engaged, and kill them anyway, for good measure," He concluded, before beaming up at Wolfgang for a split-second. Even if he was deranged, he was still a loyal fiancé. Once the monarch turned away, his expression fell. Ayden still realised that he had numerous more trials to undertake. This made him wish for the stochastic boredom of his State Alchemist trial with good old General Stuka once more. At least the point had there been apparent.

"I am going to murder you," Ayden stated flatly and plainly. Never before had someone aggravated him as much as Wolfgang Murinyo did right now.

Wolfy listened as much as he did talk, leading the trial. And yeah, it really WAS dreary and dull, usually, but Ayden was a cool dude. The first answer was creative. Awesome, one may venture to say. The second was hilariously sarcastic, laden with false sympathy and such. The third, Wolfy laughed when answered. He really was ticking Derocha off, it seemed. By the fourth, Ayden didn't answer at all, rather, he suggested that Wolfy drown himself in the pool. Wolfy had to crack a grin with a chuckle. "Well, if'n they can, 's cool'n all, but I'm 'fraid I'm half Cerisian, half 'Mestrian, rather'n Gelemortian by bloodiness." The fifth one, Wolfy noted that the guy was engaged. Didn't seem like much of a family man, actually, but hey, maybe, just maybe, he was.

Wolfy smiled. "Good job, ya finished the first two trials! An' boy'm I glad, you'll like Three a lot more, I'm sure. As it is, generally I wouldn't do this, rather I'd give you basic crap ta work with, but due to the nature've your talents, I've called in a special favor from one'a me Dragonriders. SO! While we wait for'er tah get here," remembering Ayden's enjoyment of classical music, he flipped a switch and the limo began to play his mix CD of the various works of dead and rotting composers, as he began speaking again, "we kin enjoy some good music 'til then, eh?"

The music played for a good bit, and soon, very soon, the wait proved worthwhile; a black biplane soared overhead, circled twice, and landed on the landing strip near the golf course. A woman stepped out, donning shades, and led four prisoners, two of which being Esparian in appearance, the other being Cerisian, and the last being of ambiguous race, as the woman flashed Wolfy a lazy salute and took off again.

"M'kay, Ayden, this'll be your favorite trial. Creative applications of yer alchemy. And four executions I don't have to do meself!" Noting that the course was fenced in, and they were a fair distance in, even at hole one, Wolfy felt it'd be a good idea to unbind, ungag, and unblindfold the prisoners, letting them get a brief headstart on Ayden, as Wolfy grinned almost psychopathically;

"GO CRAZY!!~"

"Well, if'n they can, 's cool'n all, but I'm 'fraid I'm half Cerisian, half 'Mestrian, rather'n Gelemortian by bloodiness." Ayden arched an eyebrow. Great, so, not only was this man his contractor, but his kinsman. This certainly boded well for all parties involved.

"Good job, ya finished the first two trials! An' boy'm I glad, you'll like Three a lot more, I'm sure. As it is, generally I wouldn't do this, rather I'd give you basic crap ta work with, but due to the nature've your talents, I've called in a special favor from one'a me Dragonriders. SO! While we wait for'er tah get here, we kin enjoy some good music 'til then, eh?" Ayden nodded briefly, and sidled into the limousine alongside Wolfgang. The assassin considered himself a tolerant man... but, really, not much seemed to be going on in the monarch's brain. However, this aside, he moved silently for now, waiting obediently until his next trial came upon him. He agreed to this, and if Ayden Derocha was anything, he was consistent.

"Tchaikovsky," Ayden remarked, nodding slowly. If for being a moron, Wolfgang did have exceptional taste in centuries-old Drachman composers. "Not a bad call, if I say so myself," He muttered. Eventually, the limousine ground to a halt, and above, a biplane circled, and a woman stepped out, leading four prisoners onto the strip, and dropping them onto their knees. All four were male. The two, more slender men on the left were obviously Esparian, with the lightly-tanned skin of the Latino; the Cerisian beside them was pale, and had a black beard beneath sparkling blue eyes, and the final one appeared to be nothing in particular, with no telltale signs of race. Ayden wagered Cretan.

The pair stepped out slowly, and Ayden stretched his shoulders, gyrating them vigorously with a light sigh. "M'kay, Ayden, this'll be your favorite trial. Creative applications of yer alchemy. And four executions I don't have to do meself! Go crazy!" Two birds with one stone. Ayden smirked. This was a useful way of getting acolytes to do dirty work, and... well... he looked down to his gloved hands, and slowly pulled the black leather from the left, then the right. Pale fingers accommodated inked transmutation circles, tendrils of black swirling up every inch of his skin they could. A devotion to his art, an engraving upon his very form as a telltale sign of his commitment to this alchemy.

"With pleasure..." He muttered. Wolfgang froze behind him, and Ayden tucked the gloves into his pockets. The assassin let his hands hang a foot or so from his side, letting the prisoners watch as he advanced. All were cuffed, both hands, and legs. All had their mouths bound with thick burlap. And all began to perspire heavily and bear a look of wide-eyed devastation Ayden couldn't see paralleled in any eyes but those of a man who knew that he was about to die.

He drew closer, first to the left-most Esparian, stretching his fingers and sliding his neck from right to left with a sick grin, depravity flashing wickedly in his eyes. Muffled cries escaped the man's mouth; the makings of gang tattoos twisted on a bulging neck, the tanned skin slicked with a coat of sweat. "It's your unlucky day, friend." The cerulean-eyed murderer grasped the man by the chin with thumb and forefinger, before slapping him on the cheek.

The body is comprised, seventy percent, of water. A large amount of this water is in the form of blood. And water, in its essence, contains hydrogen, a natural fuel, highly combustible. Not only this, but the eyes contain some of the most liquid on the body, even though only parts of it contain blood vessels. With a smile, Ayden rose trembling, ecstatic fingers to the man's eyes, and, with the pads of either palms pressed against the bone of his eye sockets, fingers outstretched and brushing his temples, there was a light crackle of blue alchemical discharge, which quickly fizzled out.


Remarkably, Ayden simply stepped back, after that. There was silence. He blew upon his hands the way a marksman would with a rifle, and shook them in the air as if they were hot. But, after a split-second, the first Esparian began showing signs of distress. His muffled cries became louder, and, thus, the other three pivoted their heads to bear witness as he slumped down to the floor, and began to bash the side of his head vigorously against the hard tarmac of the airstrip. The Esparian's eyes reddened with every waking second as, within, minor hydrogen atoms burst blood vessels, one by one, and flooded the liquid of his cornea with crimson. A thick, red veil of blindness was descending upon his vision; but the magnum opus of this process had not yet hit. "You scream, I scream..." Ayden muttered, watching with demented intent, before, finally...

Two simultaneous pop noises, and the blood burst forth from the man's eyes in spectacular jets, the geysers of red gushing out as his flailings finally finished, the last tendrils of nervous electricity sweeping through his body as the reaper took him. Whilst blood vessels in the man's eyes had been systematically popping and filling his eyes with the liquid until they burst, the alchemy also worked its way backwards, through the eye sockets, and into the brain. If the pain alone wasn't enough to kill, before long, the lower ends of the frontal lobes burst within the man's skull, and he was dead. Though, the fizzling and the impending feeling a slow, acidic burning sweeping his eyes couldn't have been too nice a lead-up, either. "...we all scream, for eye scream."

For the next, Ayden considered a change of pace. He sidled along the line, perusing his victims as he tapped his chin, all watching and squirming against their binds with increased vigour. It was like he was choosing a cattle at market to take his steak from, the grin stretching ever further. Not only that, but which of his many techniques would he next use!? Oh, the suspense was positively dreadful. With a smile, he extended his hand towards the would-be Cretan, who began to squirm even more, and began his movement towards him. The last had been more-than-productive. Hopefully this would be, too.

Shedding his jacket, and tossing it back to the bonnet of the limousine, Ayden revealed not only his veritable arsenal of weapons hanging alongside a simple, plate of a ceramic combat vest, but also an expansion to his alchemy, with twirling alkahestrical arrays working themselves up both of his forearms, each limb a mirror-image of itself. He stretched his fingers in pattern and snarled at the man, who strained even harder, but to no avail. Gelemorté certainly took good care of their prisoners.

A flash of blue lightning once more, with Ayden's hands placed against the man's cheeks, and the arrays themselves began to glow a heated, luminescent azure. After a full five seconds of contact, he removed his hands, and leapt back, watching his handiwork. It happened almost immediately, as opposed to the eye-based application of his hydrogen isolation, or 'Bloodbomb' alchemy; the skin around the man's face began to blacken, bruise, and shrivel, like ruined fruit. He screamed and moaned in pain for another ten seconds as the others too turned and pivoted in horror, only able to fall backwards. The sounds of rattling shackles filled the air, and the blackening of the man's face spreaded quickly to the rest of his body.

Before long, the skin and muscle atrophied and swiftly began to rot with an unnatural green tinge. It looked just like decaying flesh; because, simply, it was. Ayden was only speeding up nature's natural process, whistling a Creig jig and smiling happily, watching with half-engrossed intent and widened eyes at his handiwork. The man's face was soon turned to nothing but a blackened mess of what was once skin, hanging off of bone. His eyes had been reduced to mulch, and, had his tongue still been present within his mouth, he would have been screaming. Not to mention his inevitably shredded larynx. This was a far more potent, form, of course; and good for executions. Hair had shrivelled into nothing but wispy, white, grainy locks which looked as if they'd been deprived of sunlight for years.

The scourge continued to ripple through the man's body, but, soon, he fell flat down on his face, evident that the plague had reached his brain, and that he had succumbed. With that, Ayden smiled wickedly, and turned to the other two, squealing and almost weeping behind their binds, open eyes and all. "Eenie-meenie..." He began, before pausing, mid-point. "Oh, who am I kidding?!" His hands fell back down to his side, and he laughed giddily. "I'm going to kill you both, anyway!"

Next came the second Esparian. Ayden wasn't quite so meticulous in his use of finesse. First, he lunged forwards, and grasped the man by his throat. His muscles began to strain visibly, veins bulging, as he rose the man to his feet and reddened with a snarl; the thug was heavy, probably from countless hours whittled away on ensuring he could try and scare poor punks away from his territory. It mattered not, any more. Now, here, he was a wreck. A sobbing, finished, wreck.

Accumulating a globule of spit, Ayden quickly expelled it, landing the liquid in the man's eye as he flinched, and groaned beneath his binds even more. "YOU'RE NOT FIT..." He began to growl; his body was straining, and so was his tolerance. "...TO SPIT-SHINE MY FUCKING BOOTS!" His fingers buckled outwards, and the pads of his forefingers crackled momentarily, before Ayden let the kid fall back to the floor, sobbing.

However, his sobs quickly became desperate, and he bucked upright, confused, initially. The air, to him was getting thinner. Ayden's contorted anger stretched back into a grin, and he regained full control; the beast, in his lack of being sated for vengeance, was getting... hungry. This... this was a good refresher. Wolfgang had truly outdone himself. Simply put, the unfortunate Esparian was choking, as carbon molecules synthesised them to the oxygen in his blood, and he begun to retch and splutter through the cloth binds of his mouth.

But... Ayden had other plans. Raising his left hand well to the extent of his armspan, he watched with eager anticipation. This would hopefully be something Wolfgang could appreciate. "I've been working on my slapping technique for quite a while now..." A low, buzzing growl escaped his throat. "I reckon this one will really make your cheeks go red,"

The Bloodbomb Alchemy was crackling now at its height, and Ayden knew this; with a single, fluid motion, he brought his hand across and swiped the man's bare cheek with it. Almost in the instant that it connected, the circle's blue, opalescent glow faded, and the alchemy lanced through the man's cheek, through his jaw, flesh, and mouth, and into the other side of his face. Whereupon, in doing so, it collected all the blood it could find, and promptly, all the hydrogen. And without a moment's notice, from within his cheek, Ayden throwing up a hand to dampen the makeshift bomb's effects, the hydrogen detonated, throwing a rain of flesh, skull, grey matter, and shards of otherwise assorted bone into the air with a spectacular thunderclap of an explosion, leaving naught but a geyser of blood erupting forth from the scorched stump of the dead man's neck. His head had quite literally exploded.

Ayden began to massage his wrist, putting on a sore face, as a pitter-patter of blood droplets trickled down his hair and began to streak his face. "I probably should have gone for the jugular," He concluded, in hindsight. "Note to self; cheek is... perhaps a little messy," However, he turned back to the corpse, and immediately broke into gutwrenching laughter, turning from Wolfy, to the headless body, and then back to Wolfy, mouthing 'DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT?!'

After the laughter had subsided, he sighed, and turned back to the final prisoner, mulling over the Cerisian's fate for a moment. The Cerisians did, after all, make the finest cuisine, the finest art, the finest music... perhaps their alcohol wasn't as fine as the Amestrians or the Creig people, but they were still a race of high repute, unlike the Esparian slum-dwellers. This man could have happened into the wrong place at the wrong time... and it didn't make an ounce of difference.

Drawing a Talon from the bandolier of the throwing knives on his chest, Ayden crouched by the final man sitting, and ran the blade of it gently along the cloth wrap's length. He'd have to make this fast, or Wolfgang would doubt his legitimacy. Grasping the primitive gag, he pulled it away from the man's mouth, and tossed it aside, stepping back just in time to avoid a spray of vomit. "Please, l-let me g-go, I... I w-won't come back, and I-I'll... I-I swear! I'll... t-tell the Don!" Ayden placed a bare finger to his own lip, and made a slow, hissing, noise.

"Shhh," The man suddenly quietened, his face sullen and racked with the impending horror of indecision, not knowing if this man would kill or spare him. He crouched back down, meticulously stepping OVER the vomit, and spun the knife in his hand with a smile. Then, he rose it to his chest, and brought it down over-dramatically, jamming it straight into the flesh beneath his collar-bone.

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" The screams of pain were fairly obvious, but not enough to describe fully what was happening. To begin with, the pain from a stab at such a juncture was bad enough; but the engraving upon the simple black composite knife was still crackling with blue electric discharge. Tendrils of bioelectricity were lancing through the poor Cerisian's nervous system, and sheer agony was racking his system, as he collapsed quickly to the floor, an apparent gibbering wreck, half-way between screaming and scratching. It begun as it always did; a simple itching which rose, and became a full-body inferno, nothing but pain, in a matter of moments. "GAAH! GAAAAAAH!" The shouts didn't exactly cease, and the pain, whilst, effective, wasn't killing him too quickly. Blood trickled from the shoulder wound, and Ayden made a momentary noise of indecision.

Then, however, he did something he hadn't ever done before. He shed the ceramic plate. He shed his weaponry, setting them down meticulously, and undressing entirely until he was left with only his bare chest and back; to reveal the newest of his arrays, the pinnacle of his creations: his masterpiece. The Toxic Laughter Transmutation Circle.

It was scrawled across his back amidst lancing, silvery scars, and, jerking a thumb towards it, and looking over his shoulder at Murinyo, as his slender, pale frame contorted, every muscle moving in unison, every muscle exactly as the job description required it to be, he smiled, and made a harrowing announcement as the gabbling wreck continued to shriek in the background. "You're the first to bear witness to this, monarch," He spat. "Consider yourself a lucky observer,"

A snap of his fingers; a clap of his hands. The blue light illuminated his entire body, and caused his silvery hair to ripple. Slowly, rung-by-rung, arc-by-arc, symbol-by-symbol, the full-back transmutation circle, painted entirely perfectly within the bounds of Ayden's physical figure by an artist from Xing, it knotted itself together and became perfect; absolute. Complete. A cerulean glow rippled through him, and, topless, torso riddled with a criss-cross of old war wounds from sparring and jobs alike, he stepped back towards the Cerisian man, and positioned his hands in front of his mouth, taking a deep breath within.

The air hissed, but not noticeably beneath the crackle of electricity. A few moments, and the blue faded from his back, and Ayden returned. An equilibrium struck the downed man as he retrieved his weapons and body armour, for a moment, as he appeared to be frozen in limbo. Then, as he clutched for his body, trying to swat the pain out of every inch imaginable it had crept into, the giddy effects of nitrous oxide, a euphoria-inducing chemical that Ayden could create from the elements in air, subdued the usual screams, and filled it instead with a different scream entirely; shrieking laughter. It was harrowing, and almost mind-numbing, Ayden remarked, slipping his jacket back on, that he could destroy and rebuild a man in a matter of moments. "GAHAHA! GAHA! AHAHA! AHAHAAHAA!"

The laughter rippled through the course and airstrip far louder than any scream ever could. It became progressively worse with each aching moment, and, from looking at the man's physical form, he was a pale, shivering, bleeding, vomiting wreck. Stepping around, Ayden finally drew the blade from the wound, prompting an even louder burst of giddy chortles, whipping it clean of the blood and slipping it back into the bandolier. It was entirely unnatural; from the man's appearance, he was clearly in pain, 'pain that needed to be sated', any philanthropist or caring human would have said. But as all who encountered the assassin knew, he was neither one of those two things, and filled no criteria to be considered 'caring'; not in a million years. He was remorseless; he epitomised remorseless.

But despite the pain, he laughed on. It was shocking; and very much psychologically tormenting, to watch the man, writing in simultaneous laughter and agonising pain. In many ways, he mirrored Ayden, disguising the inner conflicts and turmoil within with laughter stemming from simple murder and slaughter. However... whilst both were triggered by the assassin, one was forced upon them by a separate entity. One... was simply a product of the man himself. "The laughter will subside, eventually," He murmured, feeling clinical. "The euphoria will fade, the pain, return, and the nitrous oxide levels in his blood will soon reach that which his body cannot hope with," A dangerous smirk hit his face. "He'll die in a limbo between shrieks of laughter and shrieks of pain," Ayden remarked, fairly pleased with himself, before turning back to Wolfgang and adjusting his collar, cocking his head as if nothing had happened. Business as usual.

"Next?"

Ah, so kind of Tsuritsa to do that little favor for him... Much as he was loathe to the thought of mindless slaughter, he had here a good assortment of death row members, people who'd have died anyways, and honestly, they would have likely died more painfully, or so Wolfy had thought. The Cerisian was a captured Falzone, and was due to have been drawn-and-wuartered, a practice still in use in Gelemort, albeit not for public executions, rather, private ones. Both Esparians were escaped POWs from a former Gelemort-Esparia conflict, who'd gone on a rampage and killed seven people, wounding eleven more. They were to have been buried alive, strapped to explosives, and blown to bits ten minutes into their suffocation. And the other man was a spy for RIOTE, who'd been discovered, and was due to have been executed by the petty chief master executioner of Gelemort, that nice fellow with the triangular hat.

So instead, Wolfy put them to better use, allowing Ayden total creative freedom with them. And boy was it worth it. He didn't like slaughter, aye, but gruesome deaths and mutilations, thankfully, didn't bother him.

The first one, Wolfy noted, was the smaller of the Esparians. Wolfy watched as Ayden placed a hand to either of the man's widened eyes, and stepped back. He was now slightly perplexed though; did his alchemy fail? Was it some ritualistic thing? What was he doin- oh... Oh ho ho... OH HO HO! Wolfy cracked a grin at this, not in some sadistic manner, rather, just out of sheer appreciation for his style. Clever... He watched in increasing interest as the man's eyes reddened, and reddened, and reddened, until finally- SQUICK. His eyes exploded into streaks of gory red, blasted from his eye sockets outward by the sheer pressure of the assault. And he dropped, blinded, as Wolfy assumed part of his brain burst as well. Hmmm... Compared to being buried alive and blown up, the whole eye scream trick was far more brutal. Good thing the Humanitarian Society for Victims of Prisoner Brutality (HSVPB for short) wasn't here to see this! They'd be waving his head on a pike!~

Next was the ambiguous RIOTE spy. Wolfy was on the edge of his metaphorical seat, as he was standing, in anticipation. And this time, there was less tension, less of a wait; Ayden touched the man, stepped back, and Wolfy, again, marvelled at the sight. The man's face blackened, drooped, rotting, as his hair greyed, then whitened, shrunk back in his head, grew out where he wasn't balding, as the rest of his body fell to the decay process. Soon, he had no eyes, no tongue, barely any lips, barely any skin, it was decaying so fast. By the time he finished decaying into a decrepit pile of corpse, he was already just that. A corpse.

Next was the heavier-set Esparian. With less grace, Ayden jerked towards him, grasping his throat, and pretty soon, as Wolfy watched, silently spectating, the time came hat Ayden slapped his cheek, and then, to Wolfy's delighted cackling, the Esparian's head exploded. Not like a perfect headshot from a Colt 1911. Not the red-faced-ness of a very angry man about to scream, no. Exploded. EXPLODED. Blood BURST from his neck, and Wolfy watched, laughing not at the gore, but at Ayden's variety of attacks, the very diversity of te plethora of tricks up his figuritive sleeves, given that he was now short one shirt.

The last man. The mobster, it was, and Ayden approached him quietly, removing his gag and stepping back as vomit erupted from his mouth. A few words were exchanged, and then- STAB. Ayden had almost LITERALLY stabbed him in the back after giving him hopes of being spared! Not just this. The man began writhing in anguish, tortured by that glorious flash of blue. But then Ayden looked wickedly to Wolfy, and mentioned that he would have the privelage to see this first use of this alchemical trick, at the least to be the first other than Ayden to witness it, if not the first use of it at all. Splendid. Ayden then leaned closer to the man, after snapping and clapping and such, and then...

Laughter. And screams. At the same time, the man was laughing and screaming his life away, and Wolfy instantly knew what Ayden had done; the poor man was going to die with the most joyous of grins on his face, and the most horrified, despairing, pleading eyes in the world. Wolfy couldn't bring himself to laugh at the man's expense, nor marvel at Ayden's skill. Indeed, he merely stood silently, watching, with a new respect for the man. In fact, he was tempted to say scew it and have Ayden clean out all his prisons instead of the next few tests, but rules were rules, and even he had to follow the rules set by his superior, the late Darky Invidia III; that being, he cannot mess with the trials of the alchemistic branch of the military, even though he can change them once he becomes ruler, which he did. As the man died, Wolfy smiled at Ayden. "Splendid show, splendid show, splen-did show! Makes me hate that I gotta follow protocols an' crap, or I'd take you 'round Gele, cleaning out the prisons, maybe even head to Drachma, score you a man-to-man fight with Aurelius Scwartz, just soes I could see you'n action s'more. Alas, gotta do th'next trial." Woefully, Wolfy obliged his rules and retrieved for Ayden a special treat; four eighteen kilogram cinderblocks. "So, here's hopin' yer phys'cally's powerful's ya are skilled at'cher alch'my!~ Ta put't a it more'n terms ta simplificate it, drop'n give me fifty. Push-ups that is, I don't really need your cash."

"So, here's hopin' yer phys'cally's powerful's ya are skilled at'cher alch'my!~ Ta put't a it more'n terms ta simplificate it, drop'n give me fifty. Push-ups that is, I don't really need your cash." Ayden nodded at the first comment; then rose an eyebrow at the second. Hang on... was he... oh, right! That was a joke! Ayden's laughter began to emerge as a slow giggle, before ascending upwards to a chuckle, then a chortle.

Before long, he was slapping his knee and howling with laughter until he was almost blue in the face. "BYAHAHA!" This continued for a good few minutes. "OH! YOU... YOU WANT ME TO... ZAHAHAA!" It was fairly predictable, and not entirely funny, but Ayden soon stood upright, and took a large, sharp intake of breath, allowing what little colour that his face held to return. Then; he realised, from Wolfgang's expression... he... wasn't joking.

The smile on his face contorted and rapidly twisted from giddy into murderous as he regarded the cinderblocks with a growl. "You're... you're actually serious?!" His surprise was just as evident as his being rather disgruntled. The echoes of his shrieking laughs faded into nothing; an offhanded, bitter smile, and he began to speak, the ice in his voice just as present as that which gathered in the skies above. "Well," He commented with a short sigh.

There's a lot you can tell of a person from the way they sigh. You have happy sighs, sighs of relief, angry sighs, irritated sighs, sighs of regret; each has a different length and weight to it. It's strange, almost, that such a simple expression, such a simple exhalation of air can convey so much and be the trigger to so much, the spark to a powder keg; to begin an argument, to end one, or, even, to irritate a certain purple-suited monarch.

"Murinyo," Ayden's tones were flat, blunt, and aggressive. "To put it frankly... I'm not subjecting myself to your moronic physical humiliation," His tones were still calm and collected, though, within, the monster rattled, trying to melt the cage's lock with his infernal touch. "It's ridiculous that you expect me to do this. Was my last display not enough!? Enough for you to know of my skill, of my excellence, OF MY INCREDIBLE CREATIVITY?!" Anger was welling up within; normally, his professionalism would have been key, but Heart's death had evoked something within the man.

"Yes. I can do fifty fucking press-ups," He noted through gritted teeth, bitterly. "But I'm not going to bow to you, you exasperating idiot," The man had good music taste. He was still stupid. Ayden ran a hand through seat-laden hair with a long, drawn-out, jagged sigh - one more that spoke volumes of his predicament and his temperament towards it. "If you want to see just how far my physical limits stretch, get my profile from the Chancellor of Amestris. I'm Major General for a reason," Ayden snarled. "I've not only completed military basic, but military intermediate and advanced physical training with scores befitting that of a special operations candidate," The snarl turned to a sneer and the hot shades of gentle red began to fade. "I was evaluated by Stuka, for God's sake."

And then, something odd happened. The growls faded to a chuckle. The snarls, to a chortle. The sneering to dull, thrumming, deeply unsettling laughter. "Behehe..." Laughter typical of the manic-depressive silver-haired assassin standing before Wolfgang. He was volatile and unpredictable; it was impossible to tell whether he was angered or ecstatic from one moment to the next. But that didn't matter: Ayden still regarded Wolfgang as somewhat idiotic, and his face, if not showing anything permanent, still showed the same stubborn defiance in a refusal to bow down and begin that humiliating physical torture.

With a face of stone, the Gelemortian sovereign held his face as he, quite seriously, requested Ayden do the push-ups. Only to recieve wild laughter. As Ayden laughed, he held his face the same. "Oi, I'm not kiddin' yah." At about that moment, Ayden realized he really WASN'T kidding, and Wolfy braced himself for the impact. He'd dealt with Vasco before; he could handle a somewhat full-of-himself, high-and-mighty, assassin. In fact, there was a sole reason he was such a fine ruler; he could talk charismatically, with his own rugged charm, yes, but more importantly, he knew how to properly bullcrap his way through and out of anything. "Yah, yeah I AM for reals serious. Serious as a dead baby joke. Which's purdy serious, if'n you'd heard some'a th'ones I heard 'afores."

He listened calmly to Ayden's words, responding to every statement in perhaps his calmest, most easy monotone. Not quite the talking-down-to of speaking with small children, but not the patience of a loyal assistance. The contemplative musings, however, of a powerful king- nay, a deity, a king of all men uon a throne of massive marble and pearl, a bowl of the gods' ambrosia in hand, a sceptor in the other- listening to the pleas and requests of his puny, pathetic subjects. Generally, Wolfgang didn't consider his people weak and worthless, nor himself akin to a god, but to be honest, he was feeling that way now, if only because the thought made it eaier to speak to this man who could kill him right then, if he so chose to. Well, actually, he could try. But even Ayden Derocha, potentially the ancient Xerxian god of murder, if they'd had such a deity, in reincarnated form, could fall. And Wolfy wasn't too shy about slaying a god of war, nor were the four barrels of his Babies.

"Derocha, I'm following tradition here. Y'ain't special, you know that, don't'cha? ou ain't special, you ain't no better'n any other man in the godforesaken trash heap we calls Earth. Youse might can kill better, might be smarter, better, faster, stronger, but you bleed the same as me, and this test has RULES that I'd have to do meself if I were taking the test. I didn't make the rules, I jus' picked out me exams when I stepped inta power. And they been purdy successful soes far. Wanna know WHY my people will follow me to the abyss and back, should I request it? 'Cus I'll tell you why;Loyalty. Respect. Humility. And y'know, I hadn't seen none of them in you so far, and I could honestly care less." And then again, and again. God, the man was a broken record. A welling anger revealed itself on the well-aged features of Wolfgang. "Look."

He threw the cinderblocks against a large stone jutting out of the ground, and as they struck it, one shattered intolarge shards, as another cracked and chipped a bit, leaving the other two fairly fine, if not a bit beaten on. "You're boring me, Derocha! I don't CARE about your CREDENTIALS! If I wanted you for your STUPID records, I'd've hired you on the spot! Credentials don't mean a DAMN thing to me! I DON'T CARE! If you don't get that, you're worthless trash ta me anyways,a fool in a fool's world, and I'm all the more foolish for thinking you were a good man for what purpose you serve! Tell you what." He grasped the bridge of his nose, face contorted to a look of sheer agonizing frustration, pent up rage. Calming down, he threw his hands into the air, turned tail and walked a few slow steps away from Ayden, laughing lightly, annoyedly. "Screw it. Screw it, screw it, SCREW IT. You want to play hardball, eh? Fine. Fine, fine, fine, you can have the jobs, if you still want them. If you don't, I might as well do my own work, eh? Figured someone of yer calibre'd be interested. So yeah. Y'know what, screw the tests. Bad chice of testin' fer someone of your military status." A slight growl to his voice, he had to sort of purr out the word "your", as if mocking Ayden. Military status proved nothing. He was king, for God's sake, just because he'd enlisted at a good time. Meant nothing. Chance and happenstance, that's it.

"The Bloodluster. Or is that too far beneath youse? Are you too good for that offer, Derocha?"

"Yah, yeah I AM for reals serious. Serious as a dead baby joke. Which's purdy serious, if'n you'd heard some'a th'ones I heard 'afores." All of this left Ayden thinking. How had this utter moron managed to take the Gelemortian throne for his own? He'd need people to think for himself or a brain that chose sporadically to work only when the country needed it. He was surprised the entire nation wasn't bankrupt with this utter idiot in charge. He wasn't a dictator, but still won the Academy Award for Worst Leader over Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Mugabe, and Kony all rolled into one. "Derocha, I'm following tradition here. Y'ain't special, you know that, don't'cha? ou ain't special, you ain't no better'n any other man in the godforesaken trash heap we calls Earth."

Ayden interjected immediately. "Do you think I honestly care about your pitiful, fabricated traditions made only for the purpose of giving yourself infantile amusement?!" The assassin howled laughter up towards the skies. "And for your information, I'll think you'll find I am special. I'm an anomaly. A man who stands out from the rest. I'm a ghost, a phantom, and someone who'll die leaving a legacy of shadows behind him." Ayden pushed himself closer to Wolfgang. "That's more than you can say for yourself, Murinyo," All pretense of formality had long been abandoned. Ayden was spitting words through gritted teeth now.

"Youse might can kill better, might be smarter, better, faster, stronger, but you bleed the same as me, and this test has RULES that I'd have to do meself if I were taking the test." Had Ayden been calm, he would have perhaps respected the man's solidarity, but even that wasn't enough to trump his sheer idiocy. With a simple movement, as the monarch continued to speak, the General rolled up his sleeves. "Wanna know WHY my people will follow me to the abyss and back, should I request it? 'Cus I'll tell you why; Loyalty. Respect. Humility. And y'know, I hadn't seen none of them in you so far, and I could honestly care less."

"These tests were never about loyalty, respect, or humility. They were about proof of skill as a prerequisite for jobs. I deal in blood. I deal in money. I deal in customer satisfaction." He brushed as close to Wolfgang as he could. "I don't deal in trust and pissing contests." A leap backwards, and he extended bare wrists, inky tendrils of necrotic arrays snaking down both arms. "And maybe I do bleed the same as you, but maybe I don't. The question is... are you willing enough to find out?!" An open invitation to cut the man. That was, if the moron could even land a single blow.

The cinderblock shattered with a single, sound noise. Ayden left his arms extended, pale and pulsing with warm blood coursing through, listening, dumbfounded, to the idiot's spiel. "You're boring me, Derocha! I don't CARE about your CREDENTIALS! If I wanted you for your STUPID records, I'd've hired you on the spot! Credentials don't mean a DAMN thing to me! I DON'T CARE! If you don't get that, you're worthless trash ta me anyways, a fool in a fool's world, and I'm all the more foolish for thinking you were a good man for what purpose you serve!"

The assassin was quaking now. Eyes widened around cerulean oases of eyeballs and his thin, pale lips were trembling, pursed into a wicked curvature. Beneath, glimmers and slivers of pearlescent white escaped through into the Gelemortian sunlight. "You wanted proof," His voice cracked. Holding it all together was becoming harder by the moment. He felt that prickly cold surging back upwards and those walls of suppressed inferno beneath. He felt the weight of every singular weapon on him and the target ease of Wolfgang's big, grapefruit-like head. "I executed four people for free," White-hot flames burned within him. The beast was coming out. The ravenous pit within had only been momentarily sated by bouts of revenge and serial killing. "You've seen my skill," Wolfgang was pushing him close to the edge. "And now... to offer me further trials..." Ayden stepped closer one final time. "You're just mocking me."

Wolfgang turned away and left Ayden seething and stewing in true fury. A cold breeze washed over the man's form. Then the sweetest tones he'd ever heard rang true to his ears. The moron's voice once more. "Screw it. Screw it, screw it, SCREW IT. You want to play hardball, eh? Fine. Fine, fine, fine, you can have the jobs, if you still want them. If you don't, I might as well do my own work, eh? Figured someone of yer calibre'd be interested. So yeah. Y'know what, screw the tests. Bad chice of testin' fer someone of your military status." The silver-haired assassin blinked. Apparently, he'd finally gotten past the idiotic exterior and broken through to something of a professional centre. Professional enough.

The murderer shrunk back down to his normal stature. What little colour his pallor normally possessed flushed back inwards like an injection. A slow, steady, deep-drawn breath in the back of his throat, coming back out moments later in a funnel of heated, moist exhalation. "Good," Came a smooth, silken Amestrian word, only the one, moments later. A false smile. Everything had been brushed back over with a triple-layer coating of bullshit: the universal problem-solver. He lowered his hands, a burst of relief coming quick; he was happy that he didn't have to kill the monarch. Too much paperwork, too many variables unaccounted for... even position wouldn't keep him from those repercussions. But, on the other hand, he didn't want the idiot to think he could get away with murder. After all... only Ayden could do that.

"The Bloodluster. Or is that too far beneath youse? Are you too good for that offer, Derocha?" The initial thought process was that for reputation's sake he'd have to decline; taking any job from this moron was asking for a kick in the head. Out of sheer, rock-headed defiance, he would have to leave the dossier behind and be on the next express flight back to Central. But...

A job from the monarch himself, even if it was going to be painstaking and nail-biting, would bring him an influx of new business; and from looking at that glarish, tacky burgundy-gold suit... the assassin knew he was going to be paid well. How to do it... how to do it... "A job's a job," The silver-haired assailant shrugged and turned on his heel. "You have my contact information. Send me the dossier and funds." And with that, Ayden Derocha turned on his heel and left, becoming naught but a whisper beyond the wind, returning whence back to the airstrip he'd landed upon, to take a private jet of Wolfgang's influence with a pilot and crew who didn't ask questions back to his homeland. Glorious Amestris.