After becoming disillusioned with my previous story, I kinda left it and ran, but recently I've really been wanting to write, so here's a Yazoo one-off just for old time's sake, might do more chapters if people are interested :)

The winter had been harsh, and cold. All around him there was snow, snow and more snow, endless sheets of white blowing listlessly from one place to the next, carried by the wind, the omnipresent breeze that carried the snowy leaves from one tree to the next and with them the seeds that would become spring. All this was lost on Yazoo, as he quietly approached the small house amongst the snowy pines. He had left his motorbike a long way back, silence was of the essence, the thick snow underfoot muffled his movements as he flickered from one tree to the next. Flecks of white caressed his face as he moved forward, but he barely felt them, concentrating as he was on his prey.

A few days back, Loz and Kadaj had stumbled across plans for an ambush led by Vincent Valentine and his small party to try and force them off the road to Nibelheim. Well, amongst other things, they had discovered two potential hideouts where the group may or may not be planning their attack. Kadaj and Loz really were most persuasive when they chose to be, and at any rate, one of these potential hideouts was right along the main road and would require a full surprise raid to be of any effect. Yazoo had been far happier to take the isolated mountain shack, subtlety was more his strong point. And it was true, amongst the snow and the dying grey trees he was all but a shadow, indistinguishable from his sleek grey hair down to his black leather boots, but perhaps his most colourless feature was his startling grey eyes, seemingly incapable of showing emotion.

"Grey is the colour of mercenaries" he thought out loud, to nobody in particular. He had always spoken to himself, it was most efficient way of setting out his plans in his head, seeing every option and instinctively choosing the best without needing any outside counsel. His eyes narrowed as a bird fluttered in the distance, some animal growled, it was irrelevant. The house was now almost right in front of him, it appeared to have just the one entrance, a ramshackle wooden door that appeared to only just be holding against the howling wind that threatened to devour all. The was no sign of life, no smoke rising from the partially-collapsed chimney, no sounds or smells or anything of the sort. He crept up to the door, standing directly in front, thinking of the best way to scope out the house without knowing if there was anyone inside.

"Easy"

He unsheathed his Velvet Nightmare, taking aim at the small glass window to his left. Once again, the same bird fluttered from the chimney to a tree, and he waited it out. How these tiny animals survived the cold and the snow, that was a question that needed to be answered. He took aim, very carefully, fired and shattered the pane of glass furtherest from him. At once, he heard a leap and footsteps from inside, just one person, entering the front room. Instantaneously Yazoo shot the lock off the door and kicked it off its hinges, straight into the figure who had entered the room. He heard a muffled thud and a yelp of pain as he entered, a man seemed to have taken the blow of the door, and was now attempting to use it as a shield as he backed into the room behind. Quick as a flash, Yazoo fired, again and again and again through the warped old wood until the man fell, and the door with him. Then he stopped, suddenly, ears pricked up, searching for any hint of noise. But all was silent. The room he was on appeared to be more or less empty, a few old picture frames and an empty fireplace were the only things he took note of. Kicking aside the door, he stepped over the dead man, not even glancing at the former life he had taken. The next room appeared to be a living quarters, there was some rudimentary sleeping gear in the corner and an empty bowl and cutlery on the table. The man appeared to have left the fork slightly askew, and Yazoo straightened it instinctively as he stepped over the threshold. It didn't seem as if this had been a hideout for any potential threats. In the corner, there was a large wooden chest, at the end of what could only be called the bed. Yazoo stepped over to it, and upon closer inspection saw that it had an ornate, old-fashioned key lock keeping it shut. It seemed a shame to destroy such a fine work of craftsmanship, so Yazoo immediately began searching for the key. It followed logically that such a sturdy and intricate chest should contain something worth finding. He knelt down, next to the corpse and rolled it over. He looked fairly old, he had a thick black beard and wispy gray hairs playing around his forehead. Yazoo reached down into his left pocket and rummaged around. It was empty. It occurred to him that the pants seemed in good condition compared to the rest of the man. He shifted his hand into the right pocket and sure enough, pulled out a small, silver key. It was just as ornate as the lock which it fit, engraved around the handle with designs that seemed to twist and flow of their own accord. Yazoo took the key to the lock and twisted it carefully. He heard a click, and lifted the lid.

His eyes lit up as he saw his bounty. It was a Vins Mousseux vintage rifle, with a premium Vilare detachable scope that had been modified to allow for variable zoom. The rifle itself was a work of art, the butt hand-carved from magnificent wood, not a mark could be seen where it joined with the metal barrel and shaft. Yazoo took the scope and mounted it on the holder, looking through it and smiled to himself. It seemed almost clearer than real life, the polished glass gave a perfect view of anything he pointed it at, from the tiny insects on the uneven floorboards to the puffy white cloud he could see out the window, a hundred million miles away. He shouldered it with a smile of satisfaction, it was a work of art, just as he was, the ultimate tool for long-range killing. He looked back down, riffling through the chest for anything else of value, but found only damp books and papers, along with a curious felt music box, that played a slightly sad tone when opened*. He allowed himself a moment of reminiscence as the tune tinkled away. If that man had taken his rifle to the door there was a good chance he'd still be alive. Then the tune stopped, and the moment was over. He had done his part. He stood, smiling at the new weight on his shoulder, walking out the same way he had come as casually as if nothing at all had happened. Because nothing at all had happened.

His footsteps were gone almost before he took them. The snow had picked up again, and with it the wind, pummeling him with puny white flakes of ice. He didn't bother taking the same care he had taken getting there, he was confident there had been nobody to see him enter or leave the house, after all, he was in the middle of nowhere. Except of course, for that bird. The bird that was still fluttering around him as he walked, taking an amount of interest that made it much too obvious. Flying target practice. Yazoo smiled, stopping dead in his tracks and arming the Mousseux. He needed no scope to take out a tiny bird that couldn't be more than 10 paces away. He never looked around, ears pricked up again for that tiny beat of wings against the constant wind. It was behind him, to his left. He turned around, so slowly, and heard the wingbeats pick up again. It had fluttered further to his left, which was now his right, as he scanned the horizon for a hint of red against the snow. It was there, on a high branch, many trees away, still watching him curiously but with a little more caution. Yazoo pointed his rifle and aimed down the simple iron sight, and once again marveled at how straight the shaft was, how the solid features of the gun reassured him that he could not miss. He was Vilare himself, the greatest hunter, pioneer of the highest-quality scopes you could buy.

"No..."

He was not Vilare. Vilare needed a scope. He was Yazoo.

Almost as if it could tell it was being watched, the bird took flight again, weaving in and out behind the trees frantically. Yazoo watched, and waited, following its progress carefully with the Mousseux, never letting it escape his sight. And there, for a split second, the shot lined up. Between an infinitesimal number of branches, at least 40 paces away, the bird was right between his eyes. The hard wood kicked back into his arm a little as he fired, and watched the shot fly, time flowing like sand through an hourglass as the bird flew so, so slowly, then instantaneously exploded into a shower of red feathers. Yazoo smiled again. He was not Vilare.

He was Yazoo.

*.com/watch?v=-bV2IBFlWmo the song playing in the music box

Reviews are fun, they're what I go to to see if people want more ;D

.BlissKaZe 3