The assassin walks in her black pumps, taking long, meaningful strides. Her tailored overcoat flaps haphazardly in the erratic wind, her blonde hair following suit. Behind her is a crowd of average, not-so-upstanding citizens. They circle like vultures around a mutilated corpse, which is missing most of its fingers. It's so, in fact, mutilated that if someone were to look for a cause of death they'd find many. Her indigo hues dart from left to right, checking to see if anyone is watching. Of course, everyone is too focused on the mass of flesh, bones, and muscle not twenty-five feet away from her shadow. Quickly, she steps into and alley, and then through a door, effectively disappearing from the bloody scene.


Hand shaking, a "lackey" to the great assassin organization delivers his boss the papers from his previously mentioned quivering hand into the massive paws of the silent, raging, black haired beast. Titian eyes scan the hastily written report, and before he can look up again the messenger flees the vicinity, (no doubt running to his own quarters).

"Trash," he snarls, dragging his eyes to the snowy shark, who had just sat down on a recently restored antique chair. The man just grunts, not bothering to look up, lest he gets a face full of shattered glass and wine. It doesn't matter that he doesn't look up, because he gets soaked anyway.

"Voooii! I was listening, you shitty boss!" he screams. The only reply he gets is papers shoved in his snarling face.

"Explain this," the black lion demanded. The growling silver haired swordsman scans the slightly crinkled papers and looks back up to his 'shitty' boss.

"It would appear," he pauses, "that someone is assassination our new targets."

"Shishishi, such intelligent words for a miniscule brained slab of sushi," teases a new voice. Out from the shadows comes the blonde haired brat, cheshire grin spreading across his pale complexion. Knives dance behind him, seemingly floating in the tense hair. Even further behind him and the knives is an apathetic looking boy, who, if you were to judge him by first glance, seems to have a wardrobe problem, if the balloon-like frog hat on his head is anything to go by.

Growling, but otherwise ignoring the taunting remark, the now damp shark turns back to the man looming over him.

"What the hell do you want me to do about this?" he asks. Well, really, it sounds more like he's demanding. This, of course, is a common trait among this particular group of lethal Neanderthals.

"Find the assassin, and kill him."

Such subtlety.


So everyone, this, is the prologue. I suppose feedback is nice, but honestly, I love suggestions instead. Helps me see what you guys want, and tests me to see if I can write it.

I'll try to update weekly!

- C