{Disclaimer: Led Zeppelin owns the title, Square owns most of the characters.}
Stairway to Heaven
Barry Greyhaim lived alone in a small, one-room home in suburban Deling City. Though most men of fifty-six would find the concept of living in a one-room home to be a bit behind the times, Barry found it quite appealing, mainly to his wallet. He lived in a bedroom above his place of work, which consisted of a single desk inside a single office with one window and a door, reading "Barry W. Greyhaim - Attorney at Law". Having no middle initial, he had simply decided that "W" was quite appropriate and dignified enough for a lawyer. He liked his housing arrangement because he paid rent only for a single building, and though it was a bit of a hassle to be forced to go down a flight of stairs to use a restroom, this mere fact hardly deterred Barry from living according to his bank account. Barry hated lawyers, and lawyers hated him. This was mainly because Barry didn't even have a license to practise it. The truth was that Barry had been a martial arts instructor for nearly thirty years before a small incident between President Vinzer Deling of Galbadia and Headmaster Victor Martine of Galbadia Garden concerning the assassination of another very prominent man whom both Martine and Deling wanted dead. Barry, by mere chance, came to know more than he should have known about the little altercation, and in turn, was shot and wounded by a man employed by Deling to do that very thing. When Martine found out that this had happened, and Deling found out that he had not been killed, both were immediately concerned for press leaks. Barry's left leg had to be amputated, thus eliminating his line of work, lifelong passion, and skill. He had already identified the gunman, and threatened to squeal on Deling and let the rest of the world in on what Martine and the President were fighting about as a little recompense for his misfortune. He was given a substantial monthly salary written off as an unemployment check in exchange for his silence. Knowing he had no choice but to accept the offer, Barry conceded. However, he wasn't keen on getting "something for nothing", so he set up a small hot dog stand on a prominent street corner as a cover for selling high-proof alcohol at an extremely low price. Barry had a lot of respect for beer.
On the evening of Tuesday, September twenty-ninth, Barry was returning from a late stay at the local bar. His massive affinity for Jack Daniels' was beginning to ensure seven hangovers a week; tonight, Barry had vehemently decided that he loved beer, but not enough to drink himself to near death the following morning. He was quite sober, in fact, when he unlocked the door to his office/home, and stepped inside, instinctively locking it behind him. The office looked as drab as always. The papers that Barry had artfully scattered about the desk were as they always had been: collecting a bit of dust, but still realistic enough, considering that he had no clients to speak of. He kicked off his shoes at the door and headed upstairs, hoping to catch a bit of sleep before being waked at five A.M. by the trains.
He reached the top step, and stopped. Something had apparently fallen out of his pocket, because he heard something hit the carpeted stair below him. He attempted to turn around, but was cut short by an arm wrapping itself tightly around his neck. He felt himself being thrown to the ground, at the mercy of two men, each gripping one of his shoulders uncomfortably. He struggled vainly, receiving naught but several punches to keep him subdued.
"This him?"
"Yeah, the leg's fake."
"Okay."
The left man leaned in quite close to Barry's face. "All right, old man. You probably wanna know who we are, and what we're doing here, and why we're doing this to you. Well, I'll answer the last two for you. Simply put, buddy, you just know too damned much. That wasn't a problem before. Your black ass stayed quiet, but now, things are getting a bit thicker. You're gonna die. It probably won't hurt too badly."
Barry sneered, though he was much more confused and afraid than he was amused. "Gonna kill me? Go right 'head. Nobody'll miss me, y'know. 'Cept maybe Louise, and I ain't talked to her about nothin'."
"Yeah, Louise. Don't worry, she's not involved, so it's no big deal. We'll kill her if we have to, but not unless she sticks her nose where it doesn't belong."
"I don' get it. Who you tryin' to get to, huh? I tell you what, though, I know you mus' be from the gov'ment. Damn, always messin' with people in the wrong place at the wrong time. I ain't broke my word, why you wanna break yours?"
He felt a gun pressed against the side of his head. "You seem a bit too convinced that you're not going to die. Take my word for it, Barry: you're a dead m-
Knock knock.
"Fuck. Hey," he waved his free hand at his companion, "go take care of that."
'Now's my shot. Gotta call Luke...'
Barry moved quickly to his right and connected with a right hook to the man's temple.
'Gotta get Luke...'
He hobbled toward the phone, half-hoping that his captor had been knocked unconscious.
'Call Luke...'
A stabbing pain seeped through his head like a white-hot dagger. He felt himself go weak at the knees, and for a moment, it seemed like the tail end of a dream. The dream ended quickly.
{28 hours later}
Lucas Greyhaim groped blindly in the darkness in an attempt to silence the squealing phone at his bedside. Dark eyes still closed, he grabbed it from its receiver and placed it to his ear without a word of greeting.
"Luke?"
His eyes opened. "Louise?"
"Hey, Luke... I'm real sorry to be callin' this late, but... I'm worried about Barry. He wasn't out at all today, and he's not answering his phone."
"Probably hung over or something. I wouldn't worry too much," Lucas replied, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the clock. Three thirty.
"I know Barry, so I wasn't too worried, but about two hours ago, a man parked out front of my house and hasn't moved since. I was scared to open my door, so I've just been watchin' out through the blinds. I called Barry again and he didn't answer. Something's goin' on, Lucas, I know it, and I'm scared about it. He always answers his phone, 'cause don't too many people call him."
"There's a man outside your house?"
"Yeah."
"What's he doing?"
"Nothing, just sittin' in his car, watchin'..."
Lucas stood up and stretched. "Okay, I'll be over there in a minute. Don't go outside; just stay where you are. It's probably nothing, but if he's been there for two hours, I'll tell him to get lost."
"It's not me I'm most worried about."
"I've got a key, I'll check on him."
"Thanks, Luke."
"No problem. See you in a minute, Louise."
A tall, solidly-built Omar Forne stood rigidly in front of the large windows of his office, the remnants of the city lights twinkling down below. He brushed a hand meaninglessly over his bald head, and straightened his tie. He wasn't pleased.
"Last night," he repeated to himself. "Last night. It was last night, and now it's being taken care of?"
"Yes. The information was a bit late in circulating as far as Tymorre, it seems."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Theirs, most likely."
"Two of them. Two of them, and they screwed up in more ways than I ever thought possible. The whole thing was a mess, and they failed in informing the correct people that the mess they made needed to be tidied up."
"Sloppy."
He shook his head. "Very sloppy. I can't believe I have people like that working under my jurisdiction."
"Technically, they're not under you. He pays them, after all."
"He pays me, too. And very well for this entire job. I want it done right, not fucked up at every corner."
"I understand."
"Did Simmons find anything?"
"That's what I was just coming to. Your op has a coincidental connection with your last target."
"And what's that?"
"Adoptive father-son relationship."
"Well, it shouldn't be a problem, really. We're not hiring his personal life."
"It could get in the way."
"We'll just deal with it if it does."
"All right. Anything else I should tell him, Omar?"
"Nothing I can think of. But I want this cleaned up, Vasher, and no leaks. I don't want him finding their muddy tracks all over my carpet."
"No problem."
"Is Kyam ready?"
"Yes. She made the call as we anticipated. He's on his way now."
Luke walked quietly down the empty street toward Louise's intersection, absently scratching his neck with one hand and securing the loaded M93R handgun into his belt with the other. He soon noticed that the reason for the irritation about his neck was that his shirt was on backwards, so he jerked it off and removed the tag, the source of the itch. Lucas was a tall, well-built, lean man of twenty-two, with jet-black hair that hung unchecked at his shoulders. His tanned skin seemed to go well with dark colours, so most everything he owned was either black, navy blue, or dark brown. He had eyes of a steel-like blue, and with his only other distinguishing features being facial scars and a large, black tattoo of three overlapping, foreign characters representing the phrase "Zan-Tetsu-Ken" tattooed downward from left to right over his back, most people thought he was a foul-tempered drug pusher of some sort. He did no drugs of any sort, though he did smoke occasionally during winter to get his mind off the cold.
He reached the street corner and peeked around to his right; Louise Jackson's small, delapidated brick house stood two similar homes away, and sure enough, a small blue car was parked out front, its engine silent. Luke had to admit she had a major point; even if she hadn't called and he had seen it on his own, he would've wondered what an expensive-looking car was doing in this part of town. He continued his walk down the battered footpath, occasionally checking his back out of anxiety and trying to appear inconspicuous. The driver did not move. Luke was quite close now, and moved from the footpath to the street so that he had access to the driver's side of the car. Still no movement from the car. He pulled the handgun from his belt and clicked off the safety. Angling his head to the left and raising the weapon out in front of him, he peered inside the car window from a perfect viewpoint: it was empty. Puzzled, he reached for the handle and pulled. It was unlocked. His steel blue eyes shifted down to a scrap piece of stationery on the seat, a bit of neatly-scribed writing visible on its surface. Luke picked it up and read:
'Surprise, Lucas.'
His head jerked up and connected with the top of the car, his brain now registering searing pain in the back of his head and his stomach falling down below his kneecaps. He left the car door open and sprinted up toward the front door, kicking it open violently and flicking on the light switch. The door had been locked, he noticed; his ill-balanced kick had both touched a large nerve in his leg and ripped the deadbolt lock completely out of the wall. The kitchen was exactly as he knew it; nothing had been touched. A few bottles of Jack Daniels' sat on the counter next to the refridgerator, likely for Barry's future consumption. A faint glow tickled the linoleum floor from the hall corridor, likely originating in the sitting room. Rooted to the spot, Luke forced himself onward, making as little sound as possible. He turned the corner quickly, and looked away as quickly as he had made the turn. His eyes burned with hot tears as he stood, clenching the weapon in his hand: this could not be real.
"You want me to come in, I'll come in. Just the coroner or somebody over there. I gave you the address, I assume you wrote it down. Put your goddamn doughnuts away and listen to me," Lucas barked, speeding down the road toward Barry's apartment.
"Yes, sir, I have it written down, and two units have been notified, as has the hospital," replied the female officer on the other end of the line. She had previously been rather short with him, likely because of her shift, but had mellowed out considerably when Lucas showed all the signs of being angrier than a maternal cobra whose eggs had been smashed.
"There's a difference between 'notified' and 'dispatched'," Lucas replied. "Send somebody to the Greyhaim address right now to meet me. I've got reason to believe something happened there, as well."
"Sir, at this hour-
"...most of the more violent crimes are being committed," Lucas replied through gritted teeth. "Get with the fucking program, dammit. I'm calling to report one, perhaps two homicides and you act like I've called the Sonic for a cheeseburger at four in the morning. You're supposed to be enforcing the law, not sitting your fat asses on top of the books."
"Sir, I understand that you're upset, and I assure you that we are moving as quickly as possible to meet your need."
"Yeah, whatever. Just make sure you get somebody there, or I'll make sure the lot of you have to find different jobs."
"Yes, sir."
Lucas hung up Louise's cell phone, cursing the woman's sarcasm to no end, and coming to a screeching halt in front of the "Barry W. Greyhaim" sign. He had already called Barry three or four times, and yelled out to him on the answering machine, but got no answer. He was almost certain of what he would find if he entered, but still disbelieving; there were two words on the note, and one of them was his name. He wracked his brain trying to come up with suspects, but couldn't think clearly at all, considering the circumstances.
Barry's door was unlocked. Luke entered quietly, closing it behind him on impulse, the handgun still clutched painfully tight in his right hand. He kept his eyes peeled as he walked up the stairwell, holding the weapon out in front of him. He entered the moonlit room to find Barry in the same state that Louise had been in: three bullets to the head at point-blank range. Dark, dried blood tainted his black skin and the carpeted floor; Luke could hardly take in the scene. He had seen things like this before, but none had been as close as immediate family... He forced himself to focus his eyes on something other than Barry's face. They came to rest on a standard size manila folder that Barry seemed to be holding, but on closer inspection, Luke noticed that someone had done a poor job of making him appear to be holding it, when in fact it had simply been forced into his limp hand. Though against his better judgement, he reached out and grabbed it, careful not to spill its contents onto the floor. It contained two documents: one being another note, the other a profile of a blond-haired man. Luke read the note with clenched teeth; the handwriting was the same as the one he had previously found. Ornate, loopy, and neat, as if forcing a smug, superior grin in the face of his grief.
'My condolences on your loss, Lucas. Believe it or not, your connection with Mr. Greyhaim here was purely coincidental, though as you can see, it worked out splendidly for our cause. I'll tell you more in person; be at the west end of the train station tomorrow afternoon around five. The photograph enclosed will be our next casualty if you choose not to show. Your connection to him is, unfortunately, intentional rather than coincidental. And please, don't bother showing any of this to the authorities. I assure you that our hands are much faster than theirs.'
Luke scanned the photograph numbly. The man appeared to be around eighteen or nineteen: green eyes, sharp facial features, hardened expression... Luke's attention was suddenly grabbed by the resemblance he and the photographed man held; they looked more than somewhat alike. His eyes flicked down to the name.
Almasy, Seifer Allan
He sunk down against the wall, hardly able to believe it. Keeping his wits about him, he discarded the folder and stuffed the note into his pocket, his eyes still watching the photograph with rapt attention. He sat for what seemed like an eternity, just staring from the picture, to the name, and back again... Sirens finally sounded outside the building. Luke didn't move at all, nor could have even if he had so desired. Keeping the information from the cops was no problem, as he was already frustrated enough with them to beat them all to a pulp with a baseball bat. Five o'clock tomorrow. He would be there. He couldn't afford to not be present; he wasn't about to lose his only living relative again, after he had spent most of his life thinking Seifer was dead. But there was no mistaking it. Even if the name weren't enough, the picture was: Luke was undoubtedly staring into the still face of his younger brother.
Stairway to Heaven
Barry Greyhaim lived alone in a small, one-room home in suburban Deling City. Though most men of fifty-six would find the concept of living in a one-room home to be a bit behind the times, Barry found it quite appealing, mainly to his wallet. He lived in a bedroom above his place of work, which consisted of a single desk inside a single office with one window and a door, reading "Barry W. Greyhaim - Attorney at Law". Having no middle initial, he had simply decided that "W" was quite appropriate and dignified enough for a lawyer. He liked his housing arrangement because he paid rent only for a single building, and though it was a bit of a hassle to be forced to go down a flight of stairs to use a restroom, this mere fact hardly deterred Barry from living according to his bank account. Barry hated lawyers, and lawyers hated him. This was mainly because Barry didn't even have a license to practise it. The truth was that Barry had been a martial arts instructor for nearly thirty years before a small incident between President Vinzer Deling of Galbadia and Headmaster Victor Martine of Galbadia Garden concerning the assassination of another very prominent man whom both Martine and Deling wanted dead. Barry, by mere chance, came to know more than he should have known about the little altercation, and in turn, was shot and wounded by a man employed by Deling to do that very thing. When Martine found out that this had happened, and Deling found out that he had not been killed, both were immediately concerned for press leaks. Barry's left leg had to be amputated, thus eliminating his line of work, lifelong passion, and skill. He had already identified the gunman, and threatened to squeal on Deling and let the rest of the world in on what Martine and the President were fighting about as a little recompense for his misfortune. He was given a substantial monthly salary written off as an unemployment check in exchange for his silence. Knowing he had no choice but to accept the offer, Barry conceded. However, he wasn't keen on getting "something for nothing", so he set up a small hot dog stand on a prominent street corner as a cover for selling high-proof alcohol at an extremely low price. Barry had a lot of respect for beer.
On the evening of Tuesday, September twenty-ninth, Barry was returning from a late stay at the local bar. His massive affinity for Jack Daniels' was beginning to ensure seven hangovers a week; tonight, Barry had vehemently decided that he loved beer, but not enough to drink himself to near death the following morning. He was quite sober, in fact, when he unlocked the door to his office/home, and stepped inside, instinctively locking it behind him. The office looked as drab as always. The papers that Barry had artfully scattered about the desk were as they always had been: collecting a bit of dust, but still realistic enough, considering that he had no clients to speak of. He kicked off his shoes at the door and headed upstairs, hoping to catch a bit of sleep before being waked at five A.M. by the trains.
He reached the top step, and stopped. Something had apparently fallen out of his pocket, because he heard something hit the carpeted stair below him. He attempted to turn around, but was cut short by an arm wrapping itself tightly around his neck. He felt himself being thrown to the ground, at the mercy of two men, each gripping one of his shoulders uncomfortably. He struggled vainly, receiving naught but several punches to keep him subdued.
"This him?"
"Yeah, the leg's fake."
"Okay."
The left man leaned in quite close to Barry's face. "All right, old man. You probably wanna know who we are, and what we're doing here, and why we're doing this to you. Well, I'll answer the last two for you. Simply put, buddy, you just know too damned much. That wasn't a problem before. Your black ass stayed quiet, but now, things are getting a bit thicker. You're gonna die. It probably won't hurt too badly."
Barry sneered, though he was much more confused and afraid than he was amused. "Gonna kill me? Go right 'head. Nobody'll miss me, y'know. 'Cept maybe Louise, and I ain't talked to her about nothin'."
"Yeah, Louise. Don't worry, she's not involved, so it's no big deal. We'll kill her if we have to, but not unless she sticks her nose where it doesn't belong."
"I don' get it. Who you tryin' to get to, huh? I tell you what, though, I know you mus' be from the gov'ment. Damn, always messin' with people in the wrong place at the wrong time. I ain't broke my word, why you wanna break yours?"
He felt a gun pressed against the side of his head. "You seem a bit too convinced that you're not going to die. Take my word for it, Barry: you're a dead m-
Knock knock.
"Fuck. Hey," he waved his free hand at his companion, "go take care of that."
'Now's my shot. Gotta call Luke...'
Barry moved quickly to his right and connected with a right hook to the man's temple.
'Gotta get Luke...'
He hobbled toward the phone, half-hoping that his captor had been knocked unconscious.
'Call Luke...'
A stabbing pain seeped through his head like a white-hot dagger. He felt himself go weak at the knees, and for a moment, it seemed like the tail end of a dream. The dream ended quickly.
{28 hours later}
Lucas Greyhaim groped blindly in the darkness in an attempt to silence the squealing phone at his bedside. Dark eyes still closed, he grabbed it from its receiver and placed it to his ear without a word of greeting.
"Luke?"
His eyes opened. "Louise?"
"Hey, Luke... I'm real sorry to be callin' this late, but... I'm worried about Barry. He wasn't out at all today, and he's not answering his phone."
"Probably hung over or something. I wouldn't worry too much," Lucas replied, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the clock. Three thirty.
"I know Barry, so I wasn't too worried, but about two hours ago, a man parked out front of my house and hasn't moved since. I was scared to open my door, so I've just been watchin' out through the blinds. I called Barry again and he didn't answer. Something's goin' on, Lucas, I know it, and I'm scared about it. He always answers his phone, 'cause don't too many people call him."
"There's a man outside your house?"
"Yeah."
"What's he doing?"
"Nothing, just sittin' in his car, watchin'..."
Lucas stood up and stretched. "Okay, I'll be over there in a minute. Don't go outside; just stay where you are. It's probably nothing, but if he's been there for two hours, I'll tell him to get lost."
"It's not me I'm most worried about."
"I've got a key, I'll check on him."
"Thanks, Luke."
"No problem. See you in a minute, Louise."
A tall, solidly-built Omar Forne stood rigidly in front of the large windows of his office, the remnants of the city lights twinkling down below. He brushed a hand meaninglessly over his bald head, and straightened his tie. He wasn't pleased.
"Last night," he repeated to himself. "Last night. It was last night, and now it's being taken care of?"
"Yes. The information was a bit late in circulating as far as Tymorre, it seems."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Theirs, most likely."
"Two of them. Two of them, and they screwed up in more ways than I ever thought possible. The whole thing was a mess, and they failed in informing the correct people that the mess they made needed to be tidied up."
"Sloppy."
He shook his head. "Very sloppy. I can't believe I have people like that working under my jurisdiction."
"Technically, they're not under you. He pays them, after all."
"He pays me, too. And very well for this entire job. I want it done right, not fucked up at every corner."
"I understand."
"Did Simmons find anything?"
"That's what I was just coming to. Your op has a coincidental connection with your last target."
"And what's that?"
"Adoptive father-son relationship."
"Well, it shouldn't be a problem, really. We're not hiring his personal life."
"It could get in the way."
"We'll just deal with it if it does."
"All right. Anything else I should tell him, Omar?"
"Nothing I can think of. But I want this cleaned up, Vasher, and no leaks. I don't want him finding their muddy tracks all over my carpet."
"No problem."
"Is Kyam ready?"
"Yes. She made the call as we anticipated. He's on his way now."
Luke walked quietly down the empty street toward Louise's intersection, absently scratching his neck with one hand and securing the loaded M93R handgun into his belt with the other. He soon noticed that the reason for the irritation about his neck was that his shirt was on backwards, so he jerked it off and removed the tag, the source of the itch. Lucas was a tall, well-built, lean man of twenty-two, with jet-black hair that hung unchecked at his shoulders. His tanned skin seemed to go well with dark colours, so most everything he owned was either black, navy blue, or dark brown. He had eyes of a steel-like blue, and with his only other distinguishing features being facial scars and a large, black tattoo of three overlapping, foreign characters representing the phrase "Zan-Tetsu-Ken" tattooed downward from left to right over his back, most people thought he was a foul-tempered drug pusher of some sort. He did no drugs of any sort, though he did smoke occasionally during winter to get his mind off the cold.
He reached the street corner and peeked around to his right; Louise Jackson's small, delapidated brick house stood two similar homes away, and sure enough, a small blue car was parked out front, its engine silent. Luke had to admit she had a major point; even if she hadn't called and he had seen it on his own, he would've wondered what an expensive-looking car was doing in this part of town. He continued his walk down the battered footpath, occasionally checking his back out of anxiety and trying to appear inconspicuous. The driver did not move. Luke was quite close now, and moved from the footpath to the street so that he had access to the driver's side of the car. Still no movement from the car. He pulled the handgun from his belt and clicked off the safety. Angling his head to the left and raising the weapon out in front of him, he peered inside the car window from a perfect viewpoint: it was empty. Puzzled, he reached for the handle and pulled. It was unlocked. His steel blue eyes shifted down to a scrap piece of stationery on the seat, a bit of neatly-scribed writing visible on its surface. Luke picked it up and read:
'Surprise, Lucas.'
His head jerked up and connected with the top of the car, his brain now registering searing pain in the back of his head and his stomach falling down below his kneecaps. He left the car door open and sprinted up toward the front door, kicking it open violently and flicking on the light switch. The door had been locked, he noticed; his ill-balanced kick had both touched a large nerve in his leg and ripped the deadbolt lock completely out of the wall. The kitchen was exactly as he knew it; nothing had been touched. A few bottles of Jack Daniels' sat on the counter next to the refridgerator, likely for Barry's future consumption. A faint glow tickled the linoleum floor from the hall corridor, likely originating in the sitting room. Rooted to the spot, Luke forced himself onward, making as little sound as possible. He turned the corner quickly, and looked away as quickly as he had made the turn. His eyes burned with hot tears as he stood, clenching the weapon in his hand: this could not be real.
"You want me to come in, I'll come in. Just the coroner or somebody over there. I gave you the address, I assume you wrote it down. Put your goddamn doughnuts away and listen to me," Lucas barked, speeding down the road toward Barry's apartment.
"Yes, sir, I have it written down, and two units have been notified, as has the hospital," replied the female officer on the other end of the line. She had previously been rather short with him, likely because of her shift, but had mellowed out considerably when Lucas showed all the signs of being angrier than a maternal cobra whose eggs had been smashed.
"There's a difference between 'notified' and 'dispatched'," Lucas replied. "Send somebody to the Greyhaim address right now to meet me. I've got reason to believe something happened there, as well."
"Sir, at this hour-
"...most of the more violent crimes are being committed," Lucas replied through gritted teeth. "Get with the fucking program, dammit. I'm calling to report one, perhaps two homicides and you act like I've called the Sonic for a cheeseburger at four in the morning. You're supposed to be enforcing the law, not sitting your fat asses on top of the books."
"Sir, I understand that you're upset, and I assure you that we are moving as quickly as possible to meet your need."
"Yeah, whatever. Just make sure you get somebody there, or I'll make sure the lot of you have to find different jobs."
"Yes, sir."
Lucas hung up Louise's cell phone, cursing the woman's sarcasm to no end, and coming to a screeching halt in front of the "Barry W. Greyhaim" sign. He had already called Barry three or four times, and yelled out to him on the answering machine, but got no answer. He was almost certain of what he would find if he entered, but still disbelieving; there were two words on the note, and one of them was his name. He wracked his brain trying to come up with suspects, but couldn't think clearly at all, considering the circumstances.
Barry's door was unlocked. Luke entered quietly, closing it behind him on impulse, the handgun still clutched painfully tight in his right hand. He kept his eyes peeled as he walked up the stairwell, holding the weapon out in front of him. He entered the moonlit room to find Barry in the same state that Louise had been in: three bullets to the head at point-blank range. Dark, dried blood tainted his black skin and the carpeted floor; Luke could hardly take in the scene. He had seen things like this before, but none had been as close as immediate family... He forced himself to focus his eyes on something other than Barry's face. They came to rest on a standard size manila folder that Barry seemed to be holding, but on closer inspection, Luke noticed that someone had done a poor job of making him appear to be holding it, when in fact it had simply been forced into his limp hand. Though against his better judgement, he reached out and grabbed it, careful not to spill its contents onto the floor. It contained two documents: one being another note, the other a profile of a blond-haired man. Luke read the note with clenched teeth; the handwriting was the same as the one he had previously found. Ornate, loopy, and neat, as if forcing a smug, superior grin in the face of his grief.
'My condolences on your loss, Lucas. Believe it or not, your connection with Mr. Greyhaim here was purely coincidental, though as you can see, it worked out splendidly for our cause. I'll tell you more in person; be at the west end of the train station tomorrow afternoon around five. The photograph enclosed will be our next casualty if you choose not to show. Your connection to him is, unfortunately, intentional rather than coincidental. And please, don't bother showing any of this to the authorities. I assure you that our hands are much faster than theirs.'
Luke scanned the photograph numbly. The man appeared to be around eighteen or nineteen: green eyes, sharp facial features, hardened expression... Luke's attention was suddenly grabbed by the resemblance he and the photographed man held; they looked more than somewhat alike. His eyes flicked down to the name.
Almasy, Seifer Allan
He sunk down against the wall, hardly able to believe it. Keeping his wits about him, he discarded the folder and stuffed the note into his pocket, his eyes still watching the photograph with rapt attention. He sat for what seemed like an eternity, just staring from the picture, to the name, and back again... Sirens finally sounded outside the building. Luke didn't move at all, nor could have even if he had so desired. Keeping the information from the cops was no problem, as he was already frustrated enough with them to beat them all to a pulp with a baseball bat. Five o'clock tomorrow. He would be there. He couldn't afford to not be present; he wasn't about to lose his only living relative again, after he had spent most of his life thinking Seifer was dead. But there was no mistaking it. Even if the name weren't enough, the picture was: Luke was undoubtedly staring into the still face of his younger brother.