A mustachioed man's heavy, wearied breath could be heard, as he raised his left hand to the foyer, his right hand grasping firmly, yet, weakly, on his pistol. His index finger had grown numb, from the constant repetitive action of pulling the lever that created chaos.
His comrades stood above the silence around them. Flies had started to settle, homing in on the bodies of those who time had passed. Around them, on the floor, the golden seal of a serpent, emboldened in crimson, was tarnished by the scarlet liquid that flowed in its members.
The man with the moustache had never seen this much in a while. A few days ago, six elders wept red tears and saw no more, and a vulture with white hair, bearing a terrible fury, took their place. Now, no less than a week since that happened, they received another attack, from another renegade force, but one who went over to the other side.
The smoke continued to pervade, as the wearied breaths of the men remained, their firearms ready to strike, and waiting for the perpetrator responsible for this mess.
The elevator arrived, and the door opened. The guilty man walked out, his eyes judged by the jury of terrified and aware men, their arms holding their tools of destruction. He kept a smug smile, his hair ruffled, sweat dripping, his once handsome face bruised, and his suit, usually washed clean, now stained by th very same liquid that tarnished the dragon.
The sting of his archnemesis remained with him, as he limped to the ground, his eyes brimming with the tears of memory......
"It's....so ...... painful."
A boy whose years passed by him in the matter of seconds looked up, his silver instrument of music falling.
"...and yet.... I feel so at ease.
Do you understand ?"
The same man, who had shot the boy, kept a solemn smile. I don't like this one bit, thought he.
"I feel.... "
Cold.
Yes, it was cold. But he remembered the boy. He remembered his friends, that old musty policeman, that bitch of a tomboy, that insane little kid, and that damn dirty dog. They got on his nerves, but he loved them. Just as he loved the black infinity that he travelled around in, the gargantuan globes he reached, the life of action, and perhaps most importantly.... her.
Yes. The blonde hair that fell in the gaze of the cold wind, as she fell.
"This is just a dream", that's what he felt.
And here he was.
As those memories starting fade him by, his eyesight failing, the sword wound clearly piercing through his body and rendering him an incurable numbness, one last memory pervaded in his mind.
The silver harmonica, belonging to a body who lost his eternal youth, rose up to the sky, as the man lifted up his hand, slowly, moved back three of his fingers to the palm of his hand, his index finger and thumb forming a right angle with the index finger pointing vulgarly forward, and mimicked the sound that the instrument his own hand made emitted, as the harmonica reached the apex of it's jump.
Bang.
And he breathed his last.
Elsewhere, on the ship he once called home, that same tomboy was crying, the tears falling over the man who shot that very same harmonica. The policeman could only comfort her, as his metal arm patted her sobbing back.
SIX YEARS LATER
A figure walks in the rain, accompanied by an escort, a big hulk of a man. As the two start to reach their destination, amidst the midst of the rain, it soon becomes apparent that the figure is feminine. Her head is veiled in a scarf, her whole body wrapped up by a raincoat, as a pair of shades, mask the grieving eyes of both hers and the hulk's. The hulk wears a white Steston hat, and a white suit, and he too is cloaked in a black raincoat.
Memories of lives, once lived, start to pass by. As they continue to walk, towards a tall building, just recently refurbished, the memories started pouring back.
The fall of a man from a cathedral, one step taken, the figure of a woman immersed in a cooling liquid that puts her in a sleep of lost memories, another step taken, the hum of the blonde in contrast to the hum of a brunette, another step taken, the watery roar of a merlion, and it's fallen head, yet another step, a red jet that fought against hordes of enemies, one more step, and finally, the figure of the man, his gun aimed, at a white haired counterpart with a wicked sword.
The final step had brought them in the interior of a building, as the lone figure of a puzzled man, in service of the manager of the hotel, stared at the duo.
A rose fell to the centre of the lobby.
"Goodybe, Spike."
Valentine said those words, as she and Jet walked off.