Vengeance, Second Chord: Slaughterhouse

The plane had long-since touched down on the asphalt. It was later than he'd intended for this little bout of revenge to come about; vivid memories of the last target, spattered in filth and blood, one leg broken and the other cleaved apart with a shotgun blast, left to bleed out in a sewer pit like the animal he was. But the assassin had been busy; with his capture in Drachma, military affairs with the Chancellor and the wedding slowly closing in, there wasn't much time to really focus on avenging Heart, but all the time, it had remained a priority at the top of the assassin's mind.

Aerugo wasn't somewhere he frequented a lot, but it was certainly a nice place. He'd looked over the dossiers whilst on the plane. Joan Leblanc. Gelemortian child born in Esparia from refugee parents, and an Inquisitor specialising in anti-alchemy combat who had defected three years ago and started freelance. A list of known associates that the assassin frankly didn't have time to go through; so he went straight to the source.

It had taken him long enough to get his hands on the documents; Ms. Leblanc was a difficult person to find, and many fingers in many pies had only yielded silence for a good couple of weeks until finally her name cropped up, and another two or three before Ayden found a perfect opportunity. Even in vengeance, the man here was meticulous; whilst the rage welled and swirled within him like an inescapable vortex of true, perfect fury, he knew that he'd only have one shot and one shot alone, otherwise the whole grandiose mirage swiftly fell to pieces. Leblanc would go into hiding. Without her, he didn't have the other members of his time. So he'd sat quietly and waited. Joan Leblanc loved to dance. And so the assassin had found himself a perfect opportunity. A black-tie ball on the east side of Edo.

Now pleasantly refreshed and a desire in the front of his mind longing to continue this vengeful spree, the assassin cast the flyer aside and looked up upon the ballroom. It was grand, to be sure; in a high-class part of town. The moon was silently dawning upon the night sky, intermittently lit with a sprinkling of stars. No clouds. Totally clear. A single white orb, circular and full, sitting as the murky black backdrop's idyllic centrepiece. A good night for a drink. A great night for a dance. A perfect night for a kill.

Ayden bore his typical garb, black leather longcoat and ceramic vest within. The overpiece of his assassin's uniform was drawn over the bottom, and a pair of thick-tinted sunglasses sat comfortably upon his brow. His collar flicked up, the familiar and usual weight of the Children at his ankles was satisfying enough; Asmodeus and Astaroth had been separated by that damnable chimera, memories flickering back in front of the assassin's eyes... but he was more than prepared, now. Twin bandoliers lined his torso beneath the coat and over the vest; the canine siblings holstered on the inside of the killer's shoulders. A sling over each arm; for the left, the Hunter, his harpoon pistol, and for the right, Void's Touch, his crossbow. A few pouches of ammunition spread sparingly about his coat, his suppressed pistol holstered at the small of his back... and the pièce de résistance hanging from his hand like a perfect extension, swaying to and fro in gentle arcs, tightened glove-clad grip held fast around the handle. Andromeda, the one true love of his own when it came to automatic weaponry, sat held in place within, suppressor mounted, safety off, and a fresh clip snapped in. Primed, locked, loaded, and ready to fire.

A single cord linked to a black circular ring looped around the assassin's ringer intricately lead down through the carry case to the Amestrian Heckler and Koch MP5K's trigger, with a tiny dark slot opened in the case's side for the tip of the barrel to just protrude through. A concealed weapon if the assassin had ever saw one. The murderer began to make his way swiftly towards the doors; soft classical tones resounded from within. It was clear the night's festivities had long-since started.

Twin bulky doorman bearing full suits, thick necks, black tattoos, and holstered nine-millimetre pistols at their waist held their hands behind their back, slowly scanning the Major General as he approached, smirking, guarding the closed doors from a queue that had long-since been diminished to a total of zero. Ayden was the first entrant they'd had in hours; it was nearing midnight, and the soirée had begun long before the night had truly been bathed in darkness, the guests within exhausted, fuelled only on a combination of sake and the touch of their trophy wives and cheap dates. The first went to hold up his hand, motioning for the assassin to stop, and began to open his mouth.

He never got a chance to turn Ayden away. Chk-chk-chk. The first burst of suppressed fire hissed out with no muzzle flash, no noise... nothing. Crimson stains welled on the white of the man's shirt and he dropped to the floor. Spinning his hand to the other before he could even understand what was going on, the assassin smirked and tugged on the small loop once more. Chk-chk-chk-chk. The second fount of shots struck the felled doorman's partner to the ground with no resistance. "Too easy." The murderer muttered, shook his head, and stepped inwards, pushing open the door himself. "Security service these days..." He muttered, briskly making his way through the corridor and simply searching for the source of all the noise.

It wasn't long before he found the ballroom, a giant subterranean pit that the sprawling foyer stemming from the entrance overlooked. A grand sight, to be sure; elements of Renaissance Cerisian and Rouenian architecture lined the walls, ornate dragon statues gazing down upon the party's patrons. A harpist sat in the corner, eagerly and busily strumming at strings. An Aerugese man in a traditional classical musician's jacket sat at a titanic white-ivory grand piano, fluently and fluidly tapping away at keys, Bach's first Concerto in D Minor resonating through the room, a tune the assassin only knew too well.

It was almost a shame he'd have to spoil the night. The look of true satisfaction and appreciation along the man's face was swiftly dulled by one of determination; he didn't have long before further security personnel realised the fact that two of their number had just been felled, and whilst his entrance had been subtle enough, there were well over a thousand people in the ballroom below. He descended the stairs and pushed his way past political figures, high-ranking gang members, bankers, CEOs, fraudsters, technological prodigies... and before long, found himself in the centre of it all.

Relinquishing his carry case to the floor and kicking it beneath a nearby banquet table before finally marking the spot out to ensure he'd remember it for his inevitable later return, immediately, the assassin dove into the crowd, eyes tightened and narrowed like. Needle in a haystack was something of an exaggeration; ninety-nine percent of the patrons themselves were Aerugese, and looking for the pale, slender facial structure of a Gelemortian ballroom enthusiast was not of a degree of massive difficulty; it simply required time, a commodity that Ayden had in limited amounts. Very limited amounts.

But patience was indeed a virtue in this instance, and it wasn't long before the assassin happened upon his target, almost comically donning the signature black mask of a masquerade, and a sprawling ballroom dress. Even to the murderer, she stood out when his eyes fell upon her section of the room; she commanded attention, she commanded stares, she commanded just about everything. An aura surrounded her, one that made heads turn and jaws drop as she did something as menial as brush her long, straight, flowing locks of black hair. She was beautiful. Even Ayden, a taken man with a fiancé lesser men could only wish for, knew that it was a shame to ruin such beautiful form; for the human body was the artwork of life, the Major General Derocha was nothing if not an artist.

A smile upon his face, the assassin stepped forth, pushing through the dumbstruck masses, jaws agape and exhausted gazes focused upon here. The crowds were dwindling; for it was getting late... but Joan Leblanc showed no intention of stopping her grand waltz any time soon. Ayden Derocha extended his hand and smiled, diving in immediately with Rouenian. Bonus points for the right call. "You are beautiful," He said simply. "Is there a chance I could dance with you for but a moment... Miss...?"

Ayden almost cursed himself for underdressing; but perhaps his attire would appeal to her, interest her, and cause her to simply hear him out. So close; for the ex-Inquisitor had but to accept his request for a dance... and from there, it was only moments before the real waltz of the night would begin. The true chase. The hunt. This woman, beautiful as she was, had still held a rifle up towards his father, his mentor... his friend... and for that, she would die. She would die, slowly, and painfully. It was non-negotiable.

But the assassin would be damned if he didn't have a touch of fun with her before it was her time to... dance her last.

Joan Leblanc, a silver-tongued, elegant, beautiful, but, above all else, murderous woman, had stolen the light at yet another ball on this night. She always made time in her schedule to attend a dance, and tonight was a special one for her. The anniversary of her first kill, the first life taken by her own hands. Most assassins would not remember such trivial things, but Joan was not most assassins. She held each moment of her job in a very dark place in her heart.

She kept her mind blank, moving to the music with the grace of a dove, the tenacity of a wolf, and the fluid movements of a snake. The crowd around her was awestruck by her performance, all eyes laid upon her on this night. Even as the masses began to dwindle she continued to dance. She continued to live.

---

On the other end of the building the palace's guards had received word of a disturbance at the front gates. At first they assumed it just to be another drunken bystander trying to make their way in to get only more drunk, but once the man they sent came running back, they knew otherwise. Two of their men who had been stationed to guard the entrance had been killed. This night was becoming something else entirely.

Their commander, a blonde man, dressed in a fine tuxedo, held up his hand in objection to his men and their yells. He arose from his seat, cigar held firmly in his teeth, and removed his jacket. Daniel Ivansted was a very large man, trained in the mountains by his father, who was trained by his own father there before. His was a family of defenders, the firstborn son put through rigorous training and then sent out to guard the most exquisite of places in the world. No man was going to make a fool of Daniel or his family.

"Gentlemen, the time has come that we must test our might, we must show whoever has come in here uninvited that no one... NO ONE messes with an Ivansted's men."

---

"You are beautiful," A man spoke out to Joan, and she turned to him, stopping her dance. This white haired man reminded her of someone, she couldn't quite place why or who though. She smiled at him as he asked her for a dance. No one had asked her the entire night, the men here had no guts. This man, however...

"My name is Joan," She said, taking his hand, and spinning in, bringing herself to the stranger's chest. "Joan Leblanc." She then spun back out, still holding to his hand firmly. "And I would love to take your dance, sir."

There was something in this man's azure eyes, something which had a spark of brilliance. However, there was something deeper... Something the woman hoped to soon see brought out on this night.

"And I would love to take your dance, sir." Excellent. Ayden flashed that perfect smile, and, slowly, she stepped down towards him. He wreathed his hand around her back and gently pulled her into a waltz. Humming and stepping in time to the music, it wasn't long before the pair were truly dancing upon the floor of the baroque soirée hall, her hand pressing into his shoulder and his into her back as the fingers of the other interlocked.


"Joan Leblanc." He mused in Rouenian. "Forgive me... I can't think but wonder if I've perhaps heard that name before..." A smile stretched onto his face, still tender, the weight of his weaponry heavy upon the assassin's musculature and frame. "I'm sorry. How rude. Allow me to introduce myself," The chatter of bustling footsteps. The idle commentary in the room ground to a sombre halt. The slow, gentle, music stopped sharply with an off-note as the piano player threw himself to the floor. The synchronised symphony of rifles being cocked from above. Click. Click. Click, click. Click.

"Would the man in the black leather coat please slowly lower to the ground." The message came clear in Cretan. "I repeat, the man in the black leather coat, slowly lower to the ground." The pleasant smile upon his face contorted into a twisted imitation of a grin. His hand tightened like a vice around the Gelemortian ballroom dancer's arm, her muscles, though slender, very much evident. "Comply within the next five minutes, or we will open fire." Screaming politicians had quickly left the room as quickly as wasps did a nest set aflame. Before long, only Joan and Ayden were left on the floor, the eyes and sights of the six-man rifle team aimed firmly upon him.

"Well, I guess that's my cue," He hissed bitterly. "My name is Ayden Derocha, Miss Leblanc. And by the end of tonight, I'm going to kill you." Slowly, fingers moved, one-by-one, from her arm. Ayden let his hands settle at his sides, and whether she responded or not, cackled in her direction, and uttered one last phrase in Cerisian, whether she knew it, or not. "Goodbye." Arrivederci.

Black flew into the air in a spectacular display, and as if by magic, for a split-second, the assassin vanished into thin air. The loud crackling of rifle fire focused immediately on what the security teams above presumed to be the maniac. "Ayden" was pierced from every direction and shredded with Avtomat Kalashnikov rounds, the abstract, flailing black shape targeted and almost entirely eviscerated. There was no way the target could have survived that, they thought, as they pulled away their empty clips in perfect synchronicity, white gunsmoke trailing from six AK-47 barrels.

They would have been right... if their target was ever Ayden in the first place.

As the swirling black shape launched into the air, the assassin spun around and made his draw, having launched his coat upwards and thrown himself behind a nearby table in the simplest and most classic manoeuvre in the book - and now he had the upper hand in a one-on-six battle. Not only was he still breathing, as they curiously scratched their heads and fumbled for fresh clips, wondering why the deep black leather clump wasn't oozing with blood, but the element of surprise was very enough on his side.

And as with anything, as with everything, as with all things that came or would come to pass... the key was timing.

In a crossdraw, both of the Twins were drawn. Major in his right, Minor in his left. And for a split-second, the room was ablaze with the mechanical crackle of two full clips of 9x19mm Parabellum ammunition, extended specifically for holdout scenarios like this. Aiming was simple; the hollow points he used tore through just about anything, ripping through plinths and balconies, chipping stone, shearing through wood, and making the vantage point the half-dozen men held become awash with clouds of white grit and sawdust.

Slowly their bodies became riddled with rounds as the two hands swept from the side and drew thin lines of bullets across each. More than a dozen sounds of shredded flesh or spurting blood rang and echoed out amidst the chaos and crossfire. It was over as soon as it had come to pass, with each and every one careening back as the guns clicked empty and met in the middle, each having an assigned three targets, and each having very much done their job.

Slowly, gunsmoke from twin pistol barrels and the white clouds of dust that the assassin himself had forged from his surroundings cleared. Red on white leaked down the walls in trickling imitations of a horror movie backdrop, an absolutely beautiful scene. Cartridge casings held in the strongest current of all, the current of wasted life evaporating into the atmosphere as the intermingling crimson lifeblood of six men dribbled through the holes in the balcony and trailed down the walls in a half-dozen separate streams.

Echoes faded. Absolute silence. No grunts. No groans. No hastened click of a rifle. That was as much confirmation as he'd get. Ivansted's finest, indeed.

Pivoting on his heel, Ayden snarled gutturally in the most primitive of manners. In shedding his coat, he had too shed his first level of restraint; the urges for vengeance had been contained only momentarily. And the confused commando was probably either running for her life or weapon just about now - regardless, the assassin knew his task. Pale arms went to a satchel at his side and drew two fresh thirty-two round clips, emptying the Twins' last and sliding new ones in alternatively before holstering them, the stench of smoky cordite filling the room as the last of cartridge casings ground to a halt beside the man's feet.

He looked to the exit the Gelemortian had taken. An arrow above indicated that it lead to the main body of the expansive public function hall. Beautiful. So she wanted to lead a chase, like a good little mouse, deeper into the labyrinthine, ancient, well-kept structure? Ayden giggled to himself. "Well, why not do a little sight-seeing, too? Take in beautiful, ancient Aerugese-Cerisian architecture, enjoy some of the finest and most high-class atmospheres in all the world..." A manic cackle lowered to a demented snarl. "...and slit the throat of the conniving whore who killed my father." That sounded about right.

With vengeance in his eyes, the assassin unsheathed twin knives from the bandolier born freely over his chest. All inclinations of stealth had been well and truly disposed of. An aura of inferno raged about the silver-haired madman as he dove straight down the path the woman had taken. Perhaps this would be simple. Perhaps she would submit. Or perhaps resistance would come twofold, in the form of hers and that of Daniel Ivansted's men. For now, it did not matter. Only one thing did.

The hunt had begun.