Warnings: Some gory if abstract imagery. Death fic (sort of)
Author Notes: Here is my first attempt at the Music Drabble Meme. This was written to the music "Down from Above" by Moxy Fruvous.

So as not to infirnge on ff . nets's somewhat inconsistent posting rules, I will not post the lyrics of the song I based this off. If you're interested, you can find them with my story, in my livejournal (link supplied on my profile page)
Enjoy.

Certain Aim

A pattern of red on white, the true detail lost in the lack of light.

Or maybe there was no red, and he was imagining it all.

And maybe he was a Saint.

With a grunt, a curse and a body that screamed with pain, he pushed himself off the wall that had been his support, pausing for the room to stop swaying.

A thing that never occurred, the hallway assuming a tilt that wanted to flip him from his feet. But his sword a crutch…

blasphemy

…and a hand against the wall to steady his being as he reeled.. A battle to stay on his feet let alone move. But he did, each step progress forward, towards a haven that was more illusion than reality.

Stumbling on outstretched fingers, the arm missing the attachment body. There is a morbid thought if there ever was a body.

Aya tries to place his steps more carefully, but it is hard in a hallway of bodies, blood pooling to slip his feet from beneath him.

He stumbles down the hallway, driven forward by his force of will, however, even that can't keep him steady, the trip a course from wall to wall.

And the bodies are his obstacles, blocking his path

He should step over them. Should honour their death as he couldn't in life.

But his legs are unsteady, and beneath his feet silk shirts feel no different from wool carpet.

And forwards is the only direction he knows.

Sacrilege for those men's families. Yet there is no one else but him there right now, and he's long given up the belief that salvation awaits.

They should forgive his desecration. After all a dead man walks among them.

Aya looked at the last body, a body of black on a smudgy grey carpet. Could believe there was nothing wrong, just waiting for those fingers to reach for the cigarettes that were never far from his person, ashes falling as the smoke swirled.

Yet the fingers don't twitch, the obvious reason right in front of his eyes.

Bullet to the head…

Unexpected.

The perfect shot.

Sightless eyes and a pool of blood.

And there was nothing. No sadness. No spiralling pain that bore Aya further within his psyche. Not even a twitch of guilt.

Shouldn't he feel guilty?

Just numb.

But then why would he feel something. They weren't friends. Didn't even like each other most of the time. This was what he'd trained to be.

Emotionless.

Murderer.

But for a moment he wanted that pain. Wanted the realisation he'd lost something important to him. Wanted the release of emotion for a face that would be forgotten in days.

Crazy, all of them.

But maybe that came from being dead.

Aya stepped towards the door, bloody footsteps away from a scene that in a few hours will never have existed.

White Hunters of the Night…

Death stalks the streets.

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Reviews appreciated. Criticisms considered. Flames ignored.