"It is not the oath that makes us believe the man, but the oath the man" - Aeschylus
A rapid flurry of gunshots immediately resonated and rung out in the thick frosted air. Nine-millimeter brass shells dimly glimmered as they were vomited out from their chamber and disappeared in the sea of snow. The beast flung its entire body to the left, in a vain attempt to evade the oncoming fire. But the bullets had pierced through the air too quickly and ripped through its body sharply.
The very same sickening black shade took on new forms as ooze and puss, not blood. The concoction of the two fluids began to spill out from the beast's torso ever so slowly. It let out an audible hiss and clenched its fangs, or whatever remained of the shattered pieces.
The deafening, almost therapeutic sound of gunfire had ceased, signaled by a faint click. Panting from the adrenaline rush, the beast began to take a series of deep breaths in an attempt to calm itself. Its vision was slightly hazy from both the adrenaline and pain, but could turn a blur into a physical shape.
A barrel. But not a wooden one that men used to store their wine, oil, or dust shards. No, it was the barrel of a gun.
Where flesh and bone would be or even hollowed plastic, there now was a barrel and a body of a gun. Cold steel masked in a bright shade of silver glimmered with the white purity of the snow. The Sadslinger stared blankly at the beast, noticing the black ooze paint over the fur on the beast's body. How sickening the color was to him. But if he had to fill the pale winter abyss with its sickness, then so be it.
"Fifty rounds per magazine. Seven hundred and fifty rounds per minute. Approximately two and a half seconds to reload," the Sadslinger thought carefully to himself.
"Two and a half seconds..." He found his mind snag onto the last phrase—no, fact—that he mentally mentioned to himself. He subconsciously let his mouth fall open slightly as he ran the very same words in his head one last time. Afterward feeling his mind drag out the "s", he closed his eyes and lightly sighed. But slowly, a small and quite grim smile began to curl onto his face.
"Guess I've slowed down a bit," he thought bitterly to himself.
"Indeed you have. Oh, I'm sorry. Did you say 'bit'? Now that would be an understatement."
The Masionette wasn't wrong. His voice alone was enough to annoy the Sadslinger. However, it was far more agitating to him because he knew the Masionette wasn't wrong.
In his younger days, the Sadslinger was able to reload at blinding speeds, whether it be reloading individual brass-cased bullets into a clip or jamming an entire magazine into a rifle. Though, he was never one to brag upon it or show it off carelessly. He showed no pride in his gunmanship; in fact, it had been a while since he ever had felt such a childish emotion.
Whenever he would reload at such absurd speeds, he would feel a brief but intense stinging at his skin, as if it was set ablaze. After finishing the ritualistic cycle of cramming bullets into a chamber, there would be blisters and burn marks that tainted his fingertips.
Despite the stinging and burning sensation that would occupy his fingers for weeks, he still would have preferred it over his now sluggish and trembling dominant hand.
Gods, when did he become so careless and clumsy? Two and a half seconds. Would it be fast enough? Sure, to the Sadslinger it felt like an eternity in his aging hands, but would the beast think it to be slow as well?
Another gamble then. He had no other choice.
A plan for close quarters combat barely crossed his mind. He already knew it wasn't a viable strategy. The beast may have had over a dozen bullets lodged in its torso (twenty-three, from what the Sadslinger could count), but it was still standing on its hind legs. There was no way of predicting the true capabilities of his opponent. Its twisted and malnourished looking body was a mere facade, and "sizing it up" would be meaningless.
Experience would be the only way to learn of the beast's true capabilities.
"Let's cast the die and see if lady luck favors you yet again," the Masionette quipped while clicking his tongue to resemble the sound of dice rolling.
The Sadslinger inhaled sharply and threw the bottom half of his grey cloak behind his body. He kept his eyes fixated on the beast, with both caution and murderous intent. It still hadn't processed what the Sadslinger was doing. Nonetheless, it would be foolishly naive to avert his eyes. He felt his fingers brush against a worn but usable magazine. Immediately, he wrapped his fingers around the plastic rectangle.
One second.
The beast was still attempting to overcome the pain and stop the overflow of adrenaline. Its ears had a deafening ring inside them; fiery pain engulfed most of its torso; it began to taste the black ooze flood its mouth. This taste. How sugary and sweet it was in its mouth. Was this the taste of mortality?
No. Oh no.
No—!
All of the nine circles in Hell would freeze over before it would die to this quarry. None had survived its animalistic and untamed wrath. What made this one so different from the rest?!
Oh, how soon it would taste the man's own mortality in its mouth. It snarled and revealed its fang underneath its mask, almost as if it was sadistically smiling.
Two seconds.
A rush of breath escaped the lips of the Sadslinger. Both coincidentally and cruelly, another thing had escaped his grasp: the magazine. He was forced to discard it for the bayonet tucked in a sheath on the left side of his ribs. He clutched and yanked the hilt away from his body, not caring whether or not the blade unsheathed itself or not.
It all happened far too quickly.
Don't blink; didn't blink. Regardless, it didn't matter. The beast leapt toward the Sadslinger and aimed directly for his fake arm. He managed to get his hand and knife away from the left side of his body, just in time before the beast sank its fangs into his arm.
The beast heard metallic crunching and heard wires ripping. It tasted nothing but cold metal within its mouth. No blood, none! No matter. The tongue of the beast may have not been covered in blood, but its claws were drowning themselves in the fresh, crimson fluid.
The Sadslinger felt small spurts of blood erupt from his gut and fill his mouth. He began to cough out fair bits of blood.
It all happened far too quickly.
Upon drawing his blade, he had incidentally rendered his body completely open and vulnerable. The momentum had carried his right arm and blade away from his body altogether. Gods dammit.
The claws of the beast had dug themselves deep into his gut. Their twisted and hooked features clasped every inch of the Sadslinger's innards. His once starved and empty stomach were now filled with the beast's claws. But he did not dare to pry himself away. He no longer craved distance.
Gods, it hurt so much. But he had no other choice. If he dared to pull away, he would surely die of blood loss. At least keeping the claws in his gut would stall the inevitable.
"Well, have any other tricks up your sleeves? Oh, my bad. I meant sleeve. Your left side really doesn't a sleeve anymore," the Masionette said while chuckling at his counterpart's condition.
Normally, the Sadslinger would have found the Masionette's voice to be irritating, but he found himself grinning maniacally; then violently convulse in fits of chuckles.
"Oh... just one."
Using his fingers, the Sadslinger flipped the hilt of the bayonet so that the blade faced him and raised it over his head. Purely filled by adrenaline, will-power, and hysteria, he drove the edge of the blade through the beast's skeleton mask and into its right eye.
"Your pain, my pleasure," the Sadslinger thought wickedly.
Immediately, the beast howled in pain as the Sadslinger ripped out the blade from its fleshy crevice, black liquid squirting onto the sharp metal. The beast's fangs let go of the fake arm as it stumbled backward, writhing and wallowing in pain. But the Sadslinger was doing the same as well.
As soon as he drove the knife into the eye, the beast unsheathed its claws from his gut and used them to cover its eye. The Sadslinger collapsed to the ground, the force shifting the organs in his body to spill right onto the snow.
The cold of the snow. It stiffened the pain, but only by a marginal amount. The Sadslinger looked up and saw the beast still careening and thrashing in agony. It wasn't dead yet, and the Sadslinger was running out of time. He needed to land a killing blow.
He flexed his fingers and felt the sandalwood still within the grasp of his hand. Miraculously, he had gripped the bayonet with all his strength, while his own life was seemingly slipping away.
"You know, you're such a bad liar," the Masionette said with disappoint lacing every word. "You said you only had one more trick up your sleeve."
The Sadslinger grinned once again. This time, he did not reply to the Masionette. Instead, he narrowed his indigo eyes on the beast. It was swerving its head side to side in an erratic pattern. But somehow, the Sadslinger's eyes zeroed in on the beast's other eye. Left, down, up, down, right, left, right. The Sadslinger stared intently at the sickening remaining black orb that occupied the beast's eye socket. He predicted where the beast's eye would be, no matter how aggressively it shook its head.
One last trick.
Right as the beast veered its face to the left, the Sadslinger deviated all his remaining strength to his right arm. His eyes flared sapphire one last time, as he pathetically pushed his body off from the ground and threw the bayonet. The blade pierced through the air sharply and impaled its intended target. The beast's arms fell to its sides as it surrendered the last of its life away. It began to limp forward, its hind legs buckling underneath its undead weight. Finally, it collapsed forward, landing right next to the Sadslinger.
The beast's tongue slacked out of its mouth in defeat. The black ooze that once filled its body began to spill out and inch ever-so-closer to the Sadslinger. He didn't even have enough energy to react, whether it would have been a pitiful chuckle or a scoff of disgust. He laid in the snow, apathetic to his so-called "victory". His breathing had become ragged and he finally closed his eyes, the sa(fire) that once dwelled within them had finally been snuffed out.
The Masionette suddenly began to clap at the Sadslinger's performance. "Full of cliches, but still entertaining nonetheless."
The Sadslinger responded by rolling onto his back, exposing his eviscerated guts to the winter front.
"Hehe, oh dear oh dear. How will you continue to chase me in that condition?"
"I swear, I'll hunt you down. I'll find you and end it all."
"How many times have you died saying those very same words?"
How many times? The Sadslinger had no clue. He had stopped counting. Maybe if he did so, the outcome would change.
"Oh well. Another bites the dust, or is it snow?"
"It doesn't matter if this part of me is lost forever. I will kill you, Cain..."
"Oh... you finally called me by that name."
For once, it genuinely sounded as if the Masionette was offended. Deep breaths rung in the Sadslinger's ears as the Masionette began to calm himself.
Clearing his throat, he spoke a little quieter.
"I guess I can give you a bit of a bone, little doggie."
Suddenly, the black fluid latched into the Sadslinger's open stomach and inundated it. Soon, it began burrowing through his body and flooded into his very soul. He began to convulse violently, but his voice was drowned and silenced.
"Think of it as... a little gift. Just to spice things up a bit. Who knows? Maybe something will change."
The Masionette laughed vigorously, gasping for air between each little "hic" of laughter.
"Well, be seeing you soon, in another life, of course. It's been fun my dear, younger brother, Abel."
With that, the Masionette's voice began to fade back into Abel's mind as his eyes were filled with the sickening black, forever becoming the depiction of the abyssal winter front. Finally, he ceased and his body became forsaken and forgotten in the snowy void.