AN: "I like the colour blue" = English
"(I like the colour blue)" = any other language i.e. French, Russian
Just putting this here for future reference.
London, United Kingdom
Evan stared at the massive factory looming over him.
The thing was an old munitions factory used during the Second World War, located on the outskirts of London. It was run down, whether that was from bombs dropped on it or age was beyond him. He could see that a part of the roof had caved in, and that the whole bloody building stood slightly crooked. It didn't look terribly safe, but he needed somewhere to sleep and out of the rain.
The Brit walked along the gravel path leading to the main entrance, listening to the familiar sound of rain and wind. Honestly, with how much it rain you would think it would be the UKs national anthem.
Once inside, Evan paced through the desolate halls of the factory until he entered a massive room, filled with conveyor belts, wooded crates, old tank shells and the like. Must be where they produced everything, he mused.
Sitting on an old wooden crate, he removed his soaked, red hoodie, revealing the white shirt underneath, and fixed his damp blonde hair. It was a bit daft of him to pick it for leaving home, but it was the first thing he picked up.
Now, Evan didn't 'run away' because his parents were abusive. God no, his mum and dad were good people, if a little miserable at times. He wasn't bullied at school, nobody was ripping the piss out of him. Frankly, he had no issues aside from a few arguments here and there with his girlfriend, Kelly.
But in his fifteen years of living, he's never had trouble like this. He had a... condition, and he just needed time to himself to understand it. Evan had no idea what it was or how to explain it without sounding dumb. The only person how knew was Kelly. The Brit grimaced as he recalled how that conversation went.
"What do you mean 'you can't explain it'?" Kelly demanded, her brown eyes glaring into his blue ones.
"I mean I can't because I'll sound absolutely mental," Evan replied, shrugging his shoulders.
"Evan, you're going to tell me what's up or I'm going to-"
"-smash me?" He finished for her, "you need to not hit like a kitten for that to work," Evan scoffed.
"Just tell me, will you?" She asked, nearly shouting. Fed up with her boyfriend's awkward answers.
"I honestly don't know what up with me," he replied, moving forward to embrace Kelly. She returned the hug, "but I need time to find out," his voice wavered a bit, the whole situation making him stressed.
"Alright," Kelly muttered, "just, come back safe." she continued, hugging him a little tighter, "Promise?"
"Promise." He replied.
Evan sighed. Christ, this was causing more trouble that what it was worth. Hopefully, he would make sense of it soon and-
"You're Evan Brown, correct?" A foreign voice sounded, cold and full of authority.
Evan froze up, had he stumbled into some junkie's territory? No, that wasn't right. The voice held an American accent. That, and it didn't hold that ' absolutely hammered' quality junkies normally had.
And how did he know his name? Was he being stalked by some creepy bastard?
The teen decided to play along, he swallowed the lump in his throat, "yes, can I help you?" he replied as he turned to face the voice.
The owner of the voice was a tall, well built man, with short black hair and a beard, his green eyes were filled with solemnity. He wore simple clothing: a white shirt, a pair of jeans, black boots, and an olive green jacket. He looked like someone you would pass by on the street.
The mysterious man said nothing, but instead walked closer to Evan, a serious expression on his face.
The teen's face paled as he noticed that the man's right hand had been replaced with a long, slender, shadowy blade.
The Brit's mind raced. If he didn't do something, he would be killed. He doubted running would do anything, the stalker could probably stretch that sword-thing of his. The only option was self defence. This bastard was just like him; dangerous.
His condition kicked in and as he balled his fists, they burst into flames. He swung wildly, hoping to land a lucky hit but his assailant dodged everything Evan did. The attacker grabbed his left arm, twisted it, and slammed down hard on the elbow with his palm, breaking the arm.
Evan cried out in pain and stumbled backwards, his back crashing into a conveyor belt. He looked around wildly for something to defend himself with, and spotted an old wooden leg of a table or a chair.
The teen grabbed it with his still ignited right hand. It began to burn almost spontaneously. He swung the object yet it hardly moved, Evan looked up and paled as he saw that several slender, shadow-like limbs had wrapped around it.
The young man looked back to his assailant and show that the phantom limbs were coming from his shadow, snaking across the ground. His attention was brought back to his arm, the black limbs were forcing his arm against his back in the same manner police would to apprehend a criminal.
Evan's arm was forced at an unnatural angle, leaving him in agony, before he felt his shoulder dislocate from his socket. "Ah, fucking Christ!" He growled through gritted teeth, before his legs were swept from underneath him, leaving the young Brit writhing on the cold, concrete floor.
The assailant loomed over him, his arm shaped into the slender blade it had been before. As the man raised the blade above his head, Evan screwed his eyes shut, his thoughts lying with the people he loved before the world went black.
Isaac pulled the phantom blade from the now deceased teen's body, the sword apparition dissipated as he did so. Truthfully, he wasn't too keen on killing a minor, but he thought about it as eliminating a target. It eased his mind somewhat.
His client had been very thorough on why he wanted this kid dead. Although, surely there were people more qualified for what he wanted. But he didn't really care, as long as his end of the deal was seen through.
But, that would come later. He had other targets to go after.
Paris, France
Lautrec looked out over Paris, the sunset making the already beautiful city look like painting you would see in an art gallery from his view on the Eiffel Tower. He had the whole platform to himself, mostly because nobody was permitted to be this high up.
He breathed in deeply, enjoying the fresh air. Something he appreciated more and more since his family moved Compiègne to the capital city when he was twelve.
The thought made him feel old, he was off to college next week after searching for a good one during his final year of high school. He found one though, after a year of looking.
I'll probably be one of the oldest, the Frenchman thought to himself, being nineteen instead of the common age of eighteen. But, they're would definitely be people older than him by a stretch.
He checked his phone for the time. It read 19:45, and after messing about on his phone for ten minutes, the young man decided to head home. He fixed the gray beanie that concealed his brown medium-length hair, plugged his earphones in, took a few steps back, and vaulted over the railing.
Too most, he just signed his death warrant. But, Lautrec was special, not in a "mentality slow" way. He could do things no one else could, like turn into living smoke. The young adult felt the familiar feeling of becoming light as a feather, followed by the scent of fire filling his nostrils and a feeling of warmth.
Soon, he was walking on the ground, away from the Eiffel Tower. Safe and Sound. Lautrec first found out about it when he was thirteen, it was pretty handy for making quick getaways, getting around faster, or taking a packet of crisps during the night. But, if he did it too often or over long distances it would exhaust him like he just ran three laps around Paris.
The young man walked along the pavement, the sounds of the bustling city drowning out his music. He soon came across an alleyway, it was sketchy looking, but he always taken it as a shortcut to get home to his family's apartment as it shortens a normally 45 minute walk to half an hour. He could 'teleport' there if he wanted too, but he liked walking from time to time.
"Lautrec Rousseau?" An American accented voice sounded behind him.
Lautrec froze, how the hell did that guy know his name. It would make sense if it was someone French, but they were speaking English, a language he understood, but he couldn't say a word of, thanks to his bilingual mother and that he learned how to speak it, but never used it. That, and he cringed as his surname got horribly mispronounced.
He turned to the voice and saw a man, well built, tall, black hair and beard. The Frenchman was intimidated slightly, the American could probably break him in two.
"(How exactly do you know my name? You been stalking me or something?)" Lautrec questioned wearily. Despite knowing there was a slim chance this guy could speak French, he had to ask. Mostly to report it the police.
The man didn't answer, he just walked forward. Lautrec got ready to run, but he couldn't move. He looked down and saw his legs were enveloped in pitch black tendrils, coming from the stranger's shadow. His heart skipped a beat, he looked up and see the stranger's arm had morphed into a large, shadowy sword.
Lautrec went into fight or flight mode, operating on the first thought that came to his mind. And it was to warp to his would-be murderer, punch him square in the face, and warp back home and phone the police.
The Frenchman warped, a cloud of smoke and embers rushing towards his target. But the assailant was ready, the moment he materialised in front of him, the stranger sidestepped his punch.
He was caught in a headlock. Lautrec struggled and flailed, hoping to loosen his attacker's grip and break free. A hand was placed on the underside of his jaw, and then yanked, breaking his neck like it was made of brittle twigs. The corpse of Lautrec fell without a sound.
Isaac watched the corpse intently, watching for any movement in the case he was still alive. Satisfied that another target had been taken care of, he walked off as if nothing had happened.
One more target.
Archangel, Russia
"(Ivan, do you have to leave so soon?)" His mother asked, the ice in her drink clinking against the glass.
"(Yes, mama, I have to wake up early tomorrow,)" Ivan replied as he put his coat on and fixing it so that sat comfortably.
"(Where are off to this time?)" she inquired.
"(The coast of China,)" he smiled.
He would love to spend more time with his mother and father, seeing as this was the last time he would see them in months. While he made both sincerely enjoyed and made good money working as an engineer on oil rigs, he felt awful leaving his parents, babushka, and the rest of his family for months on end.
"(I'm going to miss you, my little boy,)" his mother said as she hugged him tightly.
His mother, Anna, the woman who had raised him for twenty five years, was a petite forty seven year old woman, with blonde medium length hair and blue eyes. Ivan towered over her, he always had seeing as he took his height after his father, Sergei, who was standing in the hallway waiting for his wife to finish embracing their son.
Sergei was tall fifty year old man, taller than his son by a few inches. His graying dark brown hair was accompanied by a thick beard. Frankly, Ivan just looked like a younger copy of him. The only difference being he had a stubble instead of a beard, and his mother's eyes.
"(Goodbye, son.)" Sergei gruffly said, never being one for emotional farewells.
After bidding his parents goodbye, the Russian set off for home. The streets of Archangel were silent, maybe because it it was one in the morning or maybe because he lived by the coast, were there was no reason to be out this late.
Ivan soon found himself walking along a path by the coast, only wooden railings separating him from the cold sea below. The full moon shined on the waves, giving the affect of light dancing on the water.
He supposed he should enjoy it while he could, but he really needed sleep. The Russian didn't need to sleep in, that was just asking to get fired.
Ivan heard footsteps behind him, assuming it was some drunk or someone just out for a walk or head home like himself, so he ignored it.
"Are you Ivan Morozov?" A foreign male voice asked. he carried an American accent and spoke English, so he must be a tourist. But that didn't explain why he knew his name.
He put that aside for now, maybe the stranger had heard his parents use his name. "Yes, are you looking for your hotel?" Ivan responded in English, while his accent was thick it was still understandable.
The man was tall, yet still shorter than Ivan. He had black hair and a beard and eyes filled with seriousness.
The tourist didn't respond, but instead reeled his arm back as shadows enveloped it and twisted it into a blade and thrusted it towards his latest victim.
Ivan quickly stepped back and swung his arm, but he wasn't aiming to land a blow. Icicles rose out of the ground like a swarm of bullets, aimed for the attacker. But the attack was countered as the sword-shaped shadow destroyed most of the frozen spikes, yet two grazed his sides. The assailant grunted, both in pain and shock.
The Russian was a metahuman, someone who had abilities to do things that defied logic. He had these powers for years and has had a lot of time to practice and hone them. He knew he might die here, but he would go down fighting.
Black tendrils rose from the strangers shadow and darted towards Ivan but ice rose from the ground on his command and acted as a shield, but it shattered as the tendrils impaled themselves into his skin.
Ivan hissed through gritted teeth as he was then dragged forward and thrown like a child's toy onto the road. He stumbled to his feet, only for one of the shadowy limbs to impale him through the chest.
"(Fucking bastard.)" The Russian groaned as he collapsed to the cold ground.
Isaac beathed heavily and shakily, that was close. If those hadn't grazed him, he could have lost both his kidneys. He cringed that thought of the agonising pain that would force him through. Even still, the wounds he received needed to be dealt with soon.
But then remembered. Ivan Morozov was his last target. He didn't need to patch himself up. But, there was one lose end to tie up.
Himself.
Isaac watched as a part of his shadow morph and twisted into a slender, black blade aimed directly at his heart. He remained unsure if he had been pursuing a delusion, or if he had imagined his client and he had just traveled Europe and just murdered three random people, but the reward was too much too pass up and his names of his targets had been correct.
Surely he wasn't imagining this.
As he readied to plunged the blade into his chest, his client appeared on the wooden railing. A ghostly, large brown tabby cat decorated with scars, amber eyes like headlights. The cat hissed and spat at him, almost like he was telling to stop.
Isaac adorned his cold and professional demeanour once again, "Another?" He asked simply. The phantom nodded. He dug into his pockets and pulled out a small and worn map of the world and presented it to the client, "show me." Isaac ordered.
The tabby placed a paw on the United States of America, specifically on the state of Michigan. He followed the cat's eyes and noticed it's gaze fell on the southeast end of the state, where a infamous city was located.
"And the target's name?" Isaac questioned.
The ghastly cat began to dissipate as the name "David Falkirk" fell on the murderer's ears. He had a job to do.
Detroit, Michigan, USA
David tumbled to the ground, grunting as he landed on the hard concrete. He growled as he wiped the blood from his nose. He had been agitated before, but now he was pissed.
Both his assailants laughed mockingly. David had just been walking out the store, and two clowns, one built like a twig and the other ripped, had yelled insults at him, so he returned the favour. And before you know it, they're all fighting in some alley that reeked of garbage and piss.
"You're shoulda kept your mouth shut," the scrawny one taunted, pulling a knife from his pocket. David knew his type; they would wait until you were black and blue before they put their foot in your gut. Coward.
"Yeah?" He grunted as he got to his feet, electricity arced over his arms as energy pulsed through him, "You shoulda watched who you were messin' with," he hissed. The pair thugs froze for a second, fear quickly took over them as well familiarity.
David was a metahuman. The only reason he or anyone in Detroit even knew the proper term is because a gang leader had been one, and boy was Detroit a fun place to be during that crap.
David took his chance and fired electricity at the their feet, a warning shot. They jumped back as the bolt ripped through the air, leaving the air crackling and the ground it struck smouldering.
"Aw, shit! He's one of them freaks!" The other one cried as they both darted out of the alley.
David leaned against a dumpster, regaining his breath and trying to calm down. He took of his brown jacket off, revealing his blue hoodie underneath, and checked it, seeing if it was in good condition and saw that it was. The jacket was scruffy looking, and was a little big on him, but it meant a lot to the American.
It had been a hand-me-down from his older brother, Allen, before he moved to Lansing. His older bother was smart, really good at physics and maths, stuff David struggled with at a basic level. But that never bothered him; he never cared about school and his dyslexia played a factor in how difficult he found subjects like math and english; the important ones.
Anyway, Allen graduated and used saved up money from work and his inheritance money from their father and grandparents, and got the hell out of Detroit and was studying in college right now.
He wasn't surprised his sibling left the city they grew up in. They lived in one of the poorer parts of Detroit and it was a shithole growing up. They had fights every week with other kids, a few run-ins with police, and even had a gun pointed at them once by some drug addict.
That brings them full circle now, as he was leaving this crappy city. He'd get to Lansing, meet Allen, and live a better life. His mother had been very much against it, claiming "he was only seventeen and way too young to move out" and eventually their argument derailed into a shouting match, which ended with him storming out the house, cursing like a sailor all the while.
"David Falkirk, right?" The teen heard a gruff voice question behind him. He turned a met some built guy with a black hair and beard.
"Yeah, and what's it to you?" David replied, he wasn't surprised that he knew him. He had a bit of a reputation. The stranger didn't reply, instead his arm twisted into a black sword.
"So that's it, huh?" David asked, firing a bolt of electricity at the stranger. It hit square in the chest, causing him to grunt and stumble. The teen let loose a second bolt, but the stranger's shadow formed a shield on his free arm, and absorbed the blast. Yet, the electricity seemed to dissolve the part of the shield it struck.
David continued to send barrages of electricity, blue arcs of energy snaked over his arms. The air surrounding them crackled with power, every bolt that missed caused the improvised target to smoulder, melt, or conduct the very force that struck it.
Isaac attempted to evade the spears of energy, but it wasn't easy dodging something that traveled at the speed of light. He was struck countless times, his muscles spasmed as pain coursed through him as burns littered his skin. He decide enough was enough, and charged for the living battery.
David went to release another of the bolts, but was impaled by the shadow-like blade through the abdomen. He gasped in pain and surprise as he was hoisted into the air. Even in his pained state, he glared daggers at his murderer.
"I swear, if I see you again I'll kill you," David promised in his delirious state.
"Big words from a dead man." Isaac commented dryly, almost as if to mock the dying teen.
Suddenly, the target's hand pulsed with energy as he placed the on the instrument he was impaled on. The murderer's body tensed as electricity and pain raked his body, he cried through gritted teeth. Then, heat washed over him as he was flung back.
Isaac writhed weakly in agony, burns scorched his body, electricity forced his muscles to spasm, and a burnt stub was in place of his right arm. Blackness appeared in the corners of his vision and quickly began to expand. Before everything went black, he saw amber eyes stare into his soul and he heard purring fill his ears.