Chapter 1: The Hunt

A.C.:198: Green eyes sweep the horizon like a broom over a dusty floor. The roofs of houses spread over the landscape, like stalagmites in the mouth of a cave. If you look up, you'll see roofs again, only in the shape of stalactites, their menacing sharpness daring any wandering nobody to pass by. That's how it is in the colonies; you don't go to a village and see houses far and wide. In the colonies, you see them far and up.
But despite all of this, these particular eyes aren't taking in their surroundings. They are seeing down in between the houses, where a little black dot can be seen only with the keenest of eyes. This little black dot, with its long, twisting braid, is a target; a target that these green cat-eyes have studied many times before; the kind of target they know very well.
These eyes know just how long that braid is; heck, they probably know exactly what color the hair band is! As a matter of fact, it's blue, sometimes purple or black; yes, the dot wears a lot of black ...and the is braid two, two and a half feet long, from the first twisted part at the top to the tail at the bottom. Right now, it's carrying a brown potato sack on its left shoulder, wearing a long, black cloak(which is almost four times longer than its braid, making the cloak a grand total of six feet long; two inches shorter than the black dot itself), and, to top it all off, a thin black scarf that reaches the dot's knees (when wrapped twice around its head) was blocking off a pointed nose and smiling mouth. "You've probably got a pair of wide, violet eyes, and an annoyingly loud voice to go with all of this,
don't you?" speaks the lips below the green eyes through a gossamer, blue scarf. See? I told you that they know their target well! The voice behind that scarf is soft, yet cold and hard at the same time; like mercury spilling over jagged ice. Trowa Barton slips half of a porcelain clown-mask over the left side of his face,
obsucring one cat-like green eye, letting his cinnamon-brown hair cover the rest.