Angel of Death
Disclaimer - I do not own blahblah and etcetc yeah k.
A/N : Hey all, with the discontinuation of my rewrite of BBTM (well dunno yet, but I'm pretty sure chapter three will only ever stay in the development stages), I decided I'll update this story. Once. Because I most likely cba after this chapter and the next k ty.
BTW, for any who remember, I'm STILL bored.
*EDIT, bumping rating to mature for obvious reasons.
Chapter 1 // First Killing
The gleaming shuriken was poised, hanging ready in tense fingers. The white stripes on the sharpened edges of the black throwing-star flickered in the sparse light as the boy turned edgily. His eyes frequently shifted around him, attempting to take in everything. He was in obvious distress.
After a few more moments of billowing silence, the boy's cerulean eyes stilled for an instant from their frantic searching; he closed them and breathed heavily. Anyone could have seen the fatigue in his blood-shot eyes as he slowly opened them once more. They were sunken in his gaunt face.
His ragged clothes were spattered with grime and muck. They accented his clothing, making them appear to be a lot shabbier than they actually were. His loose trousers were frayed at the ends, with threads hanging over his decrepit shoes.
The boy was hiding in a diminutive, dirty room. He hadn't selected the best choice of hide-outs, seeing as there were three entrances. He leant against the wall beside one of the doors, facing the other two. His already tarnished garments were being rubbed raw from the harsh walls of the dilapidated shelter.
After a lengthy while, he sighed and sagged against the wall of the refuge, the pointed shuriken clattering onto the spotty floor from his exhausted hands. The echoing reverberations remained for a long time; rebounding against the plastic walls again and again to create an extensive chain of echoes. The boy let a frown etch his face and groaned softly.
As he had known, footsteps immediately sounded. Heading for him.
The boy glanced at the fallen weapon and, in a subdued manner, reached out for it with a weary hand. The tips of his finger brushed against the cold, harsh surface of the metallic weapon and stopped, wavering undecidedly.
The footsteps became louder.
He let a small, sad smile grace his face one last time. His hand returned empty.
After a sudden stop, the killer stepped into the room. The killer's bow focused itself on the boy's chest. The boy looked into the hard eyes of his definite executioner.
Then crimson exploded from his stomach, masking his face in gore. He stared at the glorious mass of writhing flesh and intestines erupting from his body. As the blood continued to drench him, he smiled once at the bloody jagged hole and looked back up to meet his assassin's merciless eyes.
But the last thing he ever saw was the steel head of an arrow.
A/N : Leave review please. Entertaining, if at all possible.