Numb.
The man lifted one hand out of the cloudy, red water, grabbing the cigarette balanced on the tub and bringing it to his lips. He breathed in, watching the remaining fumes drift over him in soft swirls.
The sirens could be heard blaring outside, announcing what they'd all been hoping was just anxiety for months now.
The radio in the hall was still playing. A soft, sweet melody by Tammy Hall, whose plummy voice drifted into the bathroom, offsetting the screeching cry of the alert.
He should have felt sick, but there was nothing. A numb feeling resided that not even the blistering heat of the water had pierced through. Just the distant recalling of the weeks occurrences running through his mind stayed. He supposed he should've been glad she was not here to see this.
Antonio, che cosa hai fatto! Dio sta guardando! Come hai potuto!
He grabbed his crucifix, staining the silver in his palm and watching the red droplets fall into the fog below. "Dio sta...guardando." The phrase was empty, devoid of any dread it should have caused him.
But that's all he ever did, wasn't it mother? Watch. Look on as we suffered. What good did praying ever do? But this...this was easy. So, so easy. I don't regret this, I enjoyed this. Thoroughly. You would be disappointed; I'm not.
He didn't know how long he stayed there but eventually found himself wandering into one of the vast, warm bedrooms, leaving bloody footsteps over the dark wood floor. He placed the pistol he'd taken before onto the dresser and began rummaging through the closet, looking for spare clothing. His fingers ran across a peculiar material and he pulled a three piece suit out, studying it in the light.
Beautiful.
It probably cost more than he could make in a year, or would ever hold in his hand.
A split second later he had laid it down on the bed, going back to hunt for a shirt, socks and shoes.
Everywhere he'd looked he saw luxury. King-size beds, expensive rugs and portraits, luxurious rooms, working heat, a stocked pantry and fridge... All stuffed in an extravagant house on an extravagant block in an extravagant part of town. This bastard owned it, owned so much. And still he took, and took, and took, destroying lives and being rewarded for it. Rewarded for the pain he caused. Rewarded...
He clumsily adjusted the expensive outfit, wincing as the fabric brushed against the open wound on his side. It didn't fit him perfectly but was strangely comfortable. The jacket came last, and he studied himself in the mirror as he pulled it on. His reflection didn't look like him.
This man looked refined. Secure. Cold.
He leaned in, trying to slick back his wet curls with just his fingers. Seeing the crucifix he made to slip it underneath; away from view.
This man was someone different, a stranger.
"Padre!" The scream had come from downstairs, right as the front door slammed open, intensifying the sound of the alarms outside. "Padre!"
He grabbed the pistol from the dresser, creeping along the wall to peek out from around it. The child had run upstairs, his frantic screaming growing louder as he got closer. He hid the gun behind his back as the boy stopped at the sight of him.
"C-chi sei tu?"
"...Tuo padre รจ in studio."
The child took one last unsure look at him, trying to form a response before rushing back down instead. He stared after, still waiting to feel something. Sympathy. Shame. Horror. Anything.
Was this what it felt like to die?
The front door was wide open when this stranger walked out, stepping into Armageddon as a chorus of wails inside sung his departure.
...
...
"Boss?"
Ahzrukhal started, having dozed off at some point that morning. He grabbed the damp rag over his face and lazily pulled it back to view his bouncer. The barkeep breathed deeply, trying to stave off a contented yawn.
"Shit, did I wake you?"
"Ever heard of knocking?" he asked groggily, clearing the mucus from his nose into the rag. "No matter, what is it Marcus?"
"Just getting close to opening time is all boss." The burly ghoul crossed his arms. Right. Marcus may be willing but he was complete shit when dealing with the patrons, couldn't butter them up properly if his life depended on it.
"I'll be down in a second," he muttered, standing up out of the steaming tub and stretching. He could still see his bouncer, staring at him from the other side of the pillars he used as a partition. Curious...
"What?" he began, keeping his voice low and inviting. "Is there something you want?"
Marcus' eyes widened and he quickly muttered an apology, excusing himself back downstairs.
Well, that'd set a flame under his ass. Ahzrukhal chuckled, grabbing a towel off the rack as he called after him. "Aw, I'm disappointed! We could always open up late!"
He finished drying and stepped out of the tub, walking over to the wardrobe and pulling it open, catching sight of himself from the mirror hanging on the door. If there was one bad thing about taking baths, it'd have to be the inevitable softening of ghoul skin. He was peeling all over now, the muscles underneath were a bright red from the heated blood, offsetting his jaundice-colored skin. And that annoying hole (that he could swear was growing with every passing year) over the right side of his pelvis was leaking again.
Ahzrukhal grinned. There was no uncertainty when he saw his reflection for what it was. There hadn't been for 200 years.
He looked like something straight out of hell.
Frighteningly accurate.
A/N: Is the Italian correct? I've double checked it but am still not sure. (And if it is, was the pause correct in its placement?)
This is just my own version of Azy's past. He's my favorite character from FO3 and it's funny how long it took to write something for him. I only wish it was longer, but there wasn't more I felt could be added without diluting the scene. Oh, and the room he has in this story may not exist in the game, but it exists in my mod '9th Circle Upgraded' at the Fallout3Nexus.