Education-
Some call me demon, some assassin and some even go so far to label me as a murderer. Those people, most likely akin to you, would be right.
I am a beast and a criminal.
However, the occasional breaking and entering or stealing of desirable objects does not satisfy me.
I take thrill in pulling a rusty blade over a man's throat.
Guns are pointless; they merely pierce through the flesh, cleaving a path of death. And if I could shoot someone a hundred times in one minute, it would completely take away the rush. Knives, blades and swords are the ultimate path to take.
Right here we have the perfect specimen to exemplify what I am trying to say.
See how he quivers as the edge nears his temple?
It is human nature really.
Now sir, do you think of this same apprehension when you bring cattle to the slaughter?
No you say?
There's no actual difference. A knife is a knife and a life is a life.
Are you a religious man- Dr. Hubert?
You are?
Well, that is positively excellent! You truly are the perfect example.
What's that?
Oh, your wife and child are waiting for you. Don't worry man; you'll get to them soon.
Have some backbone while I explain to this nice young student how the world works.
As I was saying, religion, does your humble god not teach you that it is wrong to kill?
It's different is it?
Ha ha ha!
Because you eat a cow?
Well, Dr. Hubert, if I was to turn cannibal and suck the meat off your very bones, would that not be what you just described?
You're right man, it is sick.
But that's life. And an educated person like yourself should know that already.
So sir, how much would you value your life at?
What's the matter now?
Don't you preachers usually spout off some garbage about life being invaluable and that one does not equal another?
Well, you are just a card!
Though, I must admit that your time has run out.
(Farewell.)
Ah, and to you, once you slit a man's throat, be aware of how the blood squirts.
(Like Dr. Hubert's did.)
The damn arteries are just so hard to control. Especially the huge section on the neck.
(A death valve.)
Sprays out harder than a garden hose on high water pressure.
(With no control.)
It was easy, was it not?
Just a simple flick of my wrist and someone dies.
(What power!)
I've heard of junkies using drugs to try and get on a high, however, I never really took to them.
(I prefer using death.)
It really is the ultimate thrill.
Hmm?
Don't be stupid, I'm not going to kill you.
And yes, you can go now and tell your little elementary friends what you learned today.
Nobody ever caught him, he was invincible.
This had been a part of his life for nearly six years. He loved every minute of it.
Kill a man; linger in the death, then leave.
Though he did resolve in his very early years to never kill a woman or child.
It was like an addiction, one that was horrible and unstoppable. Nicotine affected him enough, but this lingering urge to kill others and bathe in the scent of his victim's cooling blood… it could not be tamed.
He quit school for it, lost his job for it, and even lost the most important person in his world for it.
Not that it wasn't his fault. That was something he accepted years ago, and yet, he could never find the strength to stop himself.
Although, there was one who didn't know what he did on his evenings. That person was the only one his lived for, without them he would have died long ago from the guilt.
With that knowledge he was hired by various businessmen, contracted to kill as a hired assassin.
He did his job silently. No one caught him; no one knew he was the guilty party.
And they never would, for he was invincible.
The bar was quiet (for once) and held very few customers. A woman sang on top of a wooden table in the only presently crowded corner. Men cheered around her and he sneered at their animalistic desire. Lust was one thing. The sheer need of these white necked business owners, the kind whom he usually made contracts with, disgusted him.
Besides, the woman, dressed in a sleazy dress with her chest nearly spilling out, was lowering herself to the magnitude of a prostitute.
He almost felt some remorse for her situation.
But he was similar to her. People paid for his services, used him, and then threw him away. That made him highly inclined to tell her to get out of such a despicable position while she still had the chance. Because he sure as hell didn't.
Turning his attention away, he gazed through darkly colored sunglasses, in which his gaze was not even visible.
Rule number One: always dress in dark unnoticeable clothing.
Common sense to most, it was a harsh rule that left no room for bright, lively colors to illuminate one's life. Personally, he used to have a fascination with a particular one. Ironically, as he entered this line of business, he graciously got to see that same shade every single night. Disregarding holidays of course. Those days were saved and were nearly the only time he spent at home. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
Stumbling to him with a crooked leg was a porker of a man and a generous bulge in his pants.
He knew what was located there.
Other than zeal of lustful hormones for the dancing female he left, lurked many bills.
So, was this another customer?
Two in one night, apparently he was in for quite the cash load. All the better for him and his roommate.
If the money wasn't so profitable in what he did, he would have quit years ago. Really. He just needed the cash to support another. He put himself behind them all of the time.
His glance fell to the dancer as she accepted a fifty dollar bill for a few extra shakes.
Well, could he really blame her? They were in the exact same boat.
The man collapsed in the barstool next to him and ordered a scotch while elbowing him in the ribs.
"Say there, what do you do for a living?" The man, who looked to be near fifty, raised a sausage finger and flicked the end of the other's high ponytail. Golden locks, dulled by the neon lights above them swished before he turned away.
"I think you're mistaking me for someone else." He returned to fingering his switchblade with gloved fingers.
The man leaned closer to him. "No you don't understand. I want to get-" his mouth was an inch from the other's ear and whispered, "-rid of someone."
This caught his attention.
Perhaps his original thoughts on the intentions of this man were correct.
"What did you say your name was?"
The man resigned back onto his own stool and smugly replied, "Park Bendley" as if it meant something.
"Well, Mr. Bendley. I'm sure you know that I'll listen o what you have to say after I see some collateral to your word."
He nodded and revealed a stack filled with twenty dollar bills.
The other smiled politely, "Please continue."
After all, this was his life. And it wasn't getting any prettier, only easier.
This just kept getting more interesting.
Apparently, he was to kill a meaningless man that seemed to be no threat to his current employer, or to anyone for that matter. In fact, he was so unimportant; that Mr. Bendley saw no need to reveal the man's name.
He had a feeling there was something "Mr. Bendley" neglected to tell him.
However, the man did supply him with a rather… generous amount. Was he not obliged to carry out the mission regardless?
"Hell yeah, even if it is midnight." He grumbled while stepping over a sleeping alley cat.
His roommate had told him to promise he would be home before ten. And that would have been entirely possible, it that man had never showed up.
But, and extra eight hundred dollars riding in his pocket told him to shut his mouth.
"This bastard had better be worth my time."
He was a simple man. Paid his dues to society, fed his cat, kept to the regulations laid out and quite literally pissed on queue from his superiors.
But, he refused to dub himself a suck-up. Granted he did desire to rise to the top, change all things wrong with the system and fix what he saw.
Too bad he currently stood at the corner of 51st Ave in a security guard's outfit, patrolling the streets on a night shift. The money was decent, but he sure as hell would have preferred to be back at his own station.
He used to be an actual officer, worked for the police station and brought in a large check while acquiring the respect he earned.
So much for that.
Some said he made a mistake, and that was why he was demoted to such a high degree. Some said he killed a man.
He said he saved a boy's life.
But damn, he hadn't seen that kid for… close to six years.
"Well, he probably wouldn't be a kid now…" He whispered as he strolled along down a back alleyway.
And if it was for him he would gladly make the same mistake again and again and once again.
For some curious reason, back then, he felt a raw need to protect the boy, even though his efforts were usually cursed at.
After all, he was a bastard.
That desire hadn't gone away, even after all these years.
Imagine his surprise when a shadow crept up behind him and pressed a cool sharp edge to the front of his throat.
This guy was talented.
He tried to turn his head back to catch even a small glimpse of the one who likely held his life in his gloved hands. The blade rubbed the flesh harder and the skin lightly broke.
A smirk from the attacker glinted in the moonlight.
"None of that now. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."
His back stiffened at the light voice.
"I'm sure you know why you're here now. Someone wants you dead, and I'm the unlucky soul that has to kill you. Farewell, bastard."
The knife was knocked away by a smack of his arm. His elbow connected with the other in his nose and eyes, and he felt glass shatter onto his sleeve.
The other stumbled backwards, held his hands up, shakily ready to fight.
But as he turned back, he caught sight of broken sunglasses falling from the other's nose bridge and he nearly fainted.
He stepped forward and ignored the punch sent into his stomach. Instead, he focused on the gleaming golden eyes flashing violently at him.
"Edward?"
The other paused, then stared bewildered at his supposed victim's obsidian gaze.
"Mustang?"
Well, what a small world.
AN: So, it's a new idea I plan to fiddle with (if the intake on it is good.)
Comments would be liked, and I would especially like to know who guessed it was Edo speaking in the beginning.
This Disclaimer serves for all possible chapters that may be written: I do not own FMA.