Back in Black - Paul
Disclaimer: I do not own the game, except a copy. Paul is by no means mine.
The halls were deathly quiet, far too quiet to be a real military installation. Only the steady patter of technical babble was heard through the stony corridors. A set of soldier's boots echoed the first noise down this branch for the past hour. They made their way, two of them, down the hall, weapons drawn. They were bored, and spoke to each other.
"Can't believe we have dawn patrol. There is nothing down there, except computer rooms and routing stations. Why the heck should we bother with this place?"
"Because Page is paying us to. You don't want to piss that woman off. And… well, this is the only area that matters."
"What ever… Let's just hurry with these halls."
The two continued on, not even noticing the blue eyes hiding inside a dark room. The eyes blinked, and then moved out, staying low and silent. There was a slight movement, and the two eyes became six as silver joined the light cast. The two guards never even noticed the person.
"I'll get you a coffee when we get back to the break room?"
"All right, all right. Coffee."
The eyes rose, still nothing more than a breath of air behind the two soldiers. The silver came up as well, positioning to strike the un-aware guards. The blades pivoted, and the eyes became slivers as the person got into position. The sharp intake of breath alerted the guards, and they spun around just in time to meet the dual blades face to silver face. They fell without a sound and the attacker grinned. He took their access cards, and moved on down the hall way. The blades dripped crimson as he moved on.
The dark coat with the silver bar along the bottom and on the sleeves moved through the hall with nothing more than a whisper, dark shoes tapping lightly on the metallic tiles. Glowing blue eyes flickered down each and every hallway they came across. The black and slightly gray goatee framed a stern mouth on a chiseled face. Black-brown hair was slicked back, a few strands out of place and sticking at odd angles. The form was sleek and muscular, accented by black and silver clothing. The swords hanging in hand were silver bladed, the hilts wrapped in black leather.
The person, a nano-augmented agent, moved deftly through the halls, seeking out his next target. It wasn't long before he came upon the break room that the other two guards had spoken of. He used his access card and opened the door.
A large number of guards looked up, seeing him. They were all on their feet in the next moment, guns drawn. The agent vanished when they started opening fire, dodging and weaving around them. The blades moved swiftly, blood spraying from each and every victim. It a matter of moments, every single person was dead, and the agents de-cloaked. He almost didn't need to, because he was covered from head to foot in blood. It dripped off his face and coat, pooling on the floor at his feet.
He spun around and ran from the room. Leaving a trail of blood, it wouldn't be hard to follow him.
The small patrols he came across were easily felled. They never even heard him coming.
Paul Denton kept low and silent, slinking through the halls with deadly grace and speed.
The explosion that rocked through the installation was only survived by one person, who walked calmly from the building, blood stained on his clothing, skin and hair. He never looked back, but still held a self-satisfied smile on his smooth face. He walked into the desert, the night wind that came just before dawn cold against his face and hands. He didn't care, though, and just kept walking. The facts of his actions would not hit him until he was confronted by someone that he was covered in blood, and that there had been an explosion in the desert. Even then he would be cold, emotionless, not caring what anyone said. He would ask where the bathroom was, and clean up, washing the blood down the sink. He would never look at himself in the mirror, knowing he wore an accusatory face that screamed murderer.
He would never ask how he did it; never relive the memories of that night in the pre-dawn of the world. The lives taken… so many that he couldn't count. He was never one to kill, but here he was, washing blood from his face, seeing it drip off and join the water, run down the sink and out of sight. Time to move on.
Leave the dinner outside a small town; he walked once again into the desert as the sun lifted from the horizon. With the sun at his back, he headed west, not knowing what he would find beyond the sand dunes on the horizon. Part of him hoped for death, another for salvation. He wanted retribution for what he did, for everything he had put others through on his account. He wanted to apologize to them, mainly to his brother, who took the brunt of everything that circled him. He should have never put JC on the front line like he did that first night. It may have been a test, but it was needless. Having JC head into the fray with hardly any equipment was a bad use of judgment, and should have been avoided.
The sand crunched underfoot, and the wind picked up, sweeping away his trail. No one would ever find him, and maybe his death would be enough. Would leave them all wondering, but it would be right. He killed too many people, ended their lives needlessly, his would be adequate payment.
How long he walked, he had no idea. His systems shut down, leaving him a normal man, lost in a sea of sand and misery. The sun was high before he collapsed, face first on the dry ground. He passed out with out a second thought, except willing the vultures overhead to pick him clean.
A/N: Will continue if there is enough support.