Chapter 5
The Hunt
The mist and fog settled its blanket in the corridor street, then parted as a cloaked figure appeared and ran with all his speed toward another goal.
(This is not a team effort)
The man in the black coat emitted something, a small object, possibly a hilt, from within his cloak, and white smoke flowed from it as an extended scimitar/Murasame hybrid sword grew out of the white, miraculously attached to that hilt.
(It is a bending of your trust...)
The one called Slate finally found where he was running and swung his sword up to reflect a short-range laser blast.
(...in each other)
Arsen continued firing on both cylinders, but Slate being profusely annoyed by the attack, slashed up with his massive blade and cut one barrel in two. Arsen retreated, still firing as he backed off into the opening of the maze of winding corridors and rooftops. Slate reflected only one shot before flipping up and out of the range of two other slashes from a smaller sword.
Lathe drew his other blade and continued to duel with Slate's longsword with one, and reflect Arsen's countless point blank blasts with the other.
The major crosshair found its home upon them.
Hammer, the colossal gun's owner, was by far the oldest of the group, at 38 years, and Arsen by least the youngest at 17 years. He speculated that Slate was somewhere in the middle. That thought being wasted, he pulled the trigger.
Lathe sensed it first and leapt high and fast, legs straight and together, while each sword arm was stiff and out on either side for perfect balance as he executed two consecutive back flips out of the radius of the blast. Slate and Arsen sprang in opposite directions.
There was a pause in the action: anticipation. Then they heard it.
Fsfsfssffsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfs! It sang with death and spun with fury. Hammer sensed it coming, nearly hoisting his leg out of the way as it cut the roof from under him, causing him to cascade to the grass. The others also took evasive maneuvers: Arsen fell to his knees and arched his back to the ground; Lathe flattened on the grass; Slate ducked, but his four-meter-long sword didn't quite make it and sparks flew as the two blades skidded across each other.
A fast arm caught the spinning scythe and its owner spun into view, brandishing it as an electrical current surged and circulated into the blade, making its tribal markings glow. When the rest noticed that Scythe had joined the fight, he was ready for all hell.
Scythe was dressed similar to Slate, except his cloak was short and hung longer over his shoulders, and his undercoat had a blue/black tint. He tore into the fray, first piking Arsen down with boot, then charging into his lifelong rival. Lathe positioned himself behind Scythe, trying to get in a hit.
While dealing with Slate from the front, he maneuvered the butt end to knock away both of Lathe's short swords and punt him in the chin, while blocking blows from Slate, then all his focus went to his rival. He blocked following this pattern, then struck: left, top, right, bottom, left, right, left, right, top, whirl and then strike. Slate dodged just in time, a clean tear down his cloak.
Lathe appeared from nowhere to the left, and began swinging furiously, ceasing Slate's assault momentarily. His opponent dodged each swing as if he anticipated it.
Scythe swung the scythe up, blade first for weight, and let it fly like a vertical Frisbee. The end cut into shoulder and the butt followed through to knock Lathe down. Much like spinning a hool-o-hoop, it returned to its owner, who spun around to receive Slate's colossal blade crashing down upon the shaft middle of his weapon.
The young assassin slid the scythe down one way, so his curved blade caught the scimitar and dragged it down to one side while he lifted his left leg and punted Slate to the ground. Unhooking his weapon from the scimitar, he sprinted toward the nearest brick wall. Arsen fired to his back.
Scythe zigzagged away from four shots, then reached the wall, and twirled his scythe around and up so the blade covered his head, reflecting a fifth shot. Piking the end into the ground, he jumped up, and turned, making himself completely upside down and pushed up, vaulting himself over the wall and onto the roof.
He landed with his shaft behind him and extensive alertness in his stance. His eyes found the figure on the other end.
The figure was male, and dressed in a buttonless suit with a tight collar, more similar to a voodoo priest gone techno. He showed his hands spread, palms to him, and within seconds, various knives and daggers "grew" from between the fingers. He clenched his hands to grasp them all, and worked one between his index finger and thumb, poised to throw.
Slate repositioned his sword. Lathe reconfigured his bloodied shoulder, picking up his second sword. The two duelists began to circle.
Hammer and Arsen dueled with each other as well. Hammer fired a few shots, while Arsen dashed forward away from one, skidded, then flipped backward away from another, returning fire in the air.
Slate and Lathe clashed furiously as if they were about cut out each other's throats.
Ace let his first dagger fly. Scythe blocked it with the shaft, then rotated it a few more degrees to block fours more twirling spikes. Ace grinned as more daggers filled the spaces he had left. Now we get serious. Scythe was ready, and tore forward before Ace had anticipated, twirling his weapon faster than the eye could follow. Ace tried to make up for his lack of awareness with a flurry of knives, but they bounced off the spinning shield. Before he knew it, Scythe was up to him, and altered the direction of his blade to knock Ace's final dagger from his palm, then finish his turn with a striking from the butt end to the chest.
Ace flew a good four feet out before plummeting to the ground on the other side of the wall. Scythe turned his sights on the rest of the battlefield.
Slate screamed and swung the great sword, knocking both of Lathe's sabers to the grass and booting him down as well.
As Hammer took final aim, the familiar sound came... fsfsfsfsfsfsfsf! Shink! The spinning scythe massacred his cannon. Scythe raced over the plain, soared high, and landed both feet onto Arsen's gut. One left. His scythe gone, the young assassin yanked out his small but forceful blaster, turned and fired.
The beam punched Slate square in the back and sent him sprawling. The test was over.
Their master had watched the battle from start to finish. His name was Hunter, the greatest known bounty hunter in the underground. He was approximately five-foot, possibly a bit over, and was completely metal-clad, wearing a large helmet complimenting the look of a Sphinx's, with red eyes. His arms were encased in a black under-armor and his hands in sharp gloves, making them skeletal.
The Assassins gathered in their war room, its blue and black pillars giving it proper darkness.
"I have someone for you to meet." Hunter motioned to the corridor. A large, bulk of a man, with gargantuan shoulder add-ons that seemed to have two separate sections resting as a sort of armor perhaps. The remainder of his wardrobe consisted of army sweats and a tank top. "As I understand it, one of your targets is packing a good deal of fire-power. Of course, we pack a good amount as well, but Tanker here," he motioned to bulky warrior, "has enough to cover your backs so your objective is not interrupted."
"How's that 'sposed to happen?" Arsen piped up, waving his guns at Tanker, "He doesn't even have a gun."
"Indeed, I don't." Tanker said subtly, and cocked his shoulders back once, starting a mechanism. The uppermost sections of his shoulder "armor" detached from their companions and scrolled over them to lay and stop at Tanker's knuckles. They latched back into the lower sections, forming long shafts down each arm, and extended small levers to rest under the palm, closest to the fingers; a trigger. Tanker's arms had become massive custom Force cannons. "I wonder what these are." The assassin's voice was very deep, but intelligent.
Hammer stepped forward first, and anxiously shook Tanker's hand, welcoming him to the team. Scythe stepped up next, graciously. Then Arsen, then Ace, each exiting after their welcome. But Slate looked Tanker up and down with disdain, and walked out with a grunt, head high. Lathe looked from Tanker to Slate, then back to Tanker, and lightly shook hands and left.
Tanker looked after them.
On his daily patrol, Kane noticed he had a shadow. Or, in other words, he was being followed. The pursuer was not being secretive, so he probably wasn't hostile. Kane slowed his pace enough for his shadow to catch up. It was Darin, the lowly Direct officer he had humiliated not a month before.
"Hey, uh, how ya doin'?" Darin was about medium height, probably around 5'5'', and had poofy black hair, and with his attempt to comb it, made him look strikingly like a young Elvis. Kane only looked on, but stopped to listen. "Well, uh, I was just, uh, trying to make sure everything's straight between us."
"Say again?" Kane didn't even look at him.
"Uh, well, I know that you're an Enforcer and I'm a Direct Officer, but what happened in that bar, well, it's just behind us right?"
"What do you care?" Kane walked on.
"You're not the social type are you?"
"Not paid to be." He sped up his walking a bit.
"That might hurt you in the future." Darin called.
Kane stopped, turned, and asked coldly, "What the hell do you mean by that."
"If you're social, you have friends. Those friends help you when you need someone the most. Even in battle."
Kane turned back, no comeback in mind, and hastened his pace.
Tren slapped the envelope onto the table, the top torn off to show he had already thoroughly read the contents. He brought his fingers together and leaned back in his chair, forever shadowed by the lack of light on his side of the room. On the other side stood Vor behind a seated individual. The individual had poignant red hair and blue eyes, somewhere around 5'5'' in height and normally built. He was looking rather anxious, but still remaining, much to his own effort, very composed.
"So, Steven Galad is it?" he pronounced the "G" with a hard sound.
"No, Galad. Just pronounce the G as if it were a J. "I think it's French." Steven answered with experience.
"Well, Steven, you've passed everything we can throw at you other than a field exam." Tren focused more on him, "I do know that you're not that fond of battle."
"Well, I think I can get over it if you actually set me somewhere for the test." Steven nodded.
"Well," Tren leaned back again, "that's just it. We're a little under budget right now.
See, none of the other Factions know that the Elite Squadron even exists. And-
Something odd happened. Tren's sensory mind twitched ever so slightly. Negative forces churned somewhere. He stopped speaking and focused his thoughts. The powers were a little rusty from lack of use, but he had found at least a vicinity of whereabouts in a few seconds. Then he remembered the histories...
"Gentlemen," Tren stood straight, pushing off his chair, "I believe I have found the event we need for a field test. Vor."
"Sir." Vor straightened.
"Take Steven here with you to 125 Hellen Street to investigate an assassination organization." He stared at him at the sudden order, wondering where it came from.
Steven was already standing but turned to Tren, "Hellen Street, that's abandoned!"
"I'm glad you know your geography, now move!" Tren barked, and the Elite and trainee bolted.
"Damn." Tren whispered when they were gone, "There will be death tonight."
The Assassins had gathered on the hilly outskirts, knowing Kane was near, just over the next hill. Their group, however, was not as tight as Hunter had felt. Arsen was facing south, passing the time by twirling his many pistols in and out of their holsters like a quick-draw shooter. Ace was placing his knives in different places and carving in the dirt, forming ugly and grotesque images of death with the points.
"So we're just going after him now, right?" Ace asked, now finishing a large stick man with head cut off.
"Yes, the Enforcer first, then the kid." Lathe reminded him, annoyed, then went back to sharpening one of his swords.
"I wonder how much of a fight he'll put up." Arsen wondered, just finishing spinning his pistol four times in the air.
"Do not become too arrogant, little boys." Hammer said with profound wisdom.
"Like he said, we don't know exactly how tough this guy is." Tanker paced around them, "If this guy could take on and put up a good fight against Cinder, he should be pretty tough." Tanker and Hammer had become linked in the effect of them having similar weaponry and experience, making them both seem somewhat aged compared to the others.
Tanker made his way over to Slate, who was silently watching the moon become a little more profound in the sky. "So," he began, "what's your assumption?"
"I have nothing to say." Slate replied, still watching the sky, his sword in its sheathe facing down.
"Ya' know, I should tell you my policy." He felt like he was talking to a brick wall, but he knew he could hear him. "I only aid my friends in battle, and out of this whole thing, with all your training, you still can't accept that the only reason I'm here is to save your butt."
Slate lifted off from his sword with a sigh through his nose and turned slowly to face Tanker, "I don't need to say anything to you, because you're hired to do this. And you're hired to watch my back, so you will no matter my attitude."
"Indeed." Tanker returned under his breath.
Scythe had been kneeling, arms crossed and resting on the butt of his personal scythe. He was watching the sun set, apart from the angry and curious minds of his fellow, independent assassins. He was his own, all he had to be. But the sun had made it halfway into the hill. Time. "To your places."
They were gone from the hill in less than a second.
Kane sensed something on the horizon. The Great Hill marking the end of the outskirts and the beginning of the outer desert. Upon the hill stood a figure, a dark figure. As Kane watched, the figure brought up a long shaft. The Enforcer quickly realized it was a weapon, as the figure unsheathed it slowly. As fine steel replaced black, Kane's instincts took over, and he checked his surroundings.
They had sprung out of nowhere; six all together that he could see. He noticed two with very large guns, flanking him. Another with two smaller blades behind him. A knife thrower on one roof to his diagonal right, and another gunslinger on the roof to his left. But his eyes reverted back to the lone swordsman at the hill. "Assassins", his mind murmured.
Taking out his blaster, Vor fired once to melt away the lock. However, when he pushed on one side, it didn't budge, even with all his weight against it. He looked it up and down and discovered a massive lead mound welded into it on the other side. "Oh well, I guess we'll get out of here then." Steve said and began to step back.
Vor only contorted his face slightly further with anger, holstered his gun, and, after a moment's pause, straightened his arms as claws shot out, two from each hand from modules on the backhands. Steve's eyes bulged with fear and wonder at the sight. The Russian latched his claws into the fence's tines, parallel to each other and diagonal, then turned them quickly counter clockwise. Then, with his arms still crossed, he rammed his shoulder into it, rolling through over the lead hill and landing to hunch down, arms straight on either side, ready for combat. They retracted and he stood.
The night sky seemed to emit past the dark building, as if its presence stood alone in an abyss of time. "Aren't you coming?" Vor asked without turning.
Steve shook his gaze from the monolith building and stuttered out the excuse, "I don't have anything to fight with."
Vor reached behind him and pulled out yet another shaft from its slot in his back, and tossed it to Steve, who nearly dropped it. "What the hell is this?"
"Quiet! It's a cutlass, use it. Now C'mon." Vor strode right up to the door. After a second's pause, his claws came out again.
The door stood. Suddenly, it was crisscrossed and cut through, but still stood... Until a foot and leg fired through, the figure landing and going into a roll, simultaneously unlatching his shaft plasma cannon in his right hand, and his original blaster in his left. Upon his crouching landing, his eyes darted back and forth with his crosshairs, scanning the area. Nothing.
He leapt/rolled to the center of the room, and scanned again, then sighed and stood. "Damn it." Vor murmured.
Steve had just come in and said something to the effect of, "What happened?" Vor simply responded with a grunt and growl.
"If you're looking for the assassins, they're in the Valley Junkyard!"
Both Elite whirled toward the voice. A lone figure stood on the catwalk above them. She was wearing a long, red trench coat. Long, wavy goldenish white dreadlocks and streams of hair complimented her slender body and face. Her eyes were a cross between emerald green and silver, an odd but beautiful mix. But there were tears streaming from her eyes.
"I'll go, you stay." Vor said shortly and sped out the door.
"Fine by me." Steve breathed. His eyes went to the woman. He stepped forward hesitantly and asked with growing concern, "Why are you crying?"
The woman put her weight on the handlebars and choked out, "I've just betrayed my loyalty."
And outside, up and over the lead and oil columns, Vor ran, making every leg length count for distance.
The Hunt
The mist and fog settled its blanket in the corridor street, then parted as a cloaked figure appeared and ran with all his speed toward another goal.
(This is not a team effort)
The man in the black coat emitted something, a small object, possibly a hilt, from within his cloak, and white smoke flowed from it as an extended scimitar/Murasame hybrid sword grew out of the white, miraculously attached to that hilt.
(It is a bending of your trust...)
The one called Slate finally found where he was running and swung his sword up to reflect a short-range laser blast.
(...in each other)
Arsen continued firing on both cylinders, but Slate being profusely annoyed by the attack, slashed up with his massive blade and cut one barrel in two. Arsen retreated, still firing as he backed off into the opening of the maze of winding corridors and rooftops. Slate reflected only one shot before flipping up and out of the range of two other slashes from a smaller sword.
Lathe drew his other blade and continued to duel with Slate's longsword with one, and reflect Arsen's countless point blank blasts with the other.
The major crosshair found its home upon them.
Hammer, the colossal gun's owner, was by far the oldest of the group, at 38 years, and Arsen by least the youngest at 17 years. He speculated that Slate was somewhere in the middle. That thought being wasted, he pulled the trigger.
Lathe sensed it first and leapt high and fast, legs straight and together, while each sword arm was stiff and out on either side for perfect balance as he executed two consecutive back flips out of the radius of the blast. Slate and Arsen sprang in opposite directions.
There was a pause in the action: anticipation. Then they heard it.
Fsfsfssffsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfs! It sang with death and spun with fury. Hammer sensed it coming, nearly hoisting his leg out of the way as it cut the roof from under him, causing him to cascade to the grass. The others also took evasive maneuvers: Arsen fell to his knees and arched his back to the ground; Lathe flattened on the grass; Slate ducked, but his four-meter-long sword didn't quite make it and sparks flew as the two blades skidded across each other.
A fast arm caught the spinning scythe and its owner spun into view, brandishing it as an electrical current surged and circulated into the blade, making its tribal markings glow. When the rest noticed that Scythe had joined the fight, he was ready for all hell.
Scythe was dressed similar to Slate, except his cloak was short and hung longer over his shoulders, and his undercoat had a blue/black tint. He tore into the fray, first piking Arsen down with boot, then charging into his lifelong rival. Lathe positioned himself behind Scythe, trying to get in a hit.
While dealing with Slate from the front, he maneuvered the butt end to knock away both of Lathe's short swords and punt him in the chin, while blocking blows from Slate, then all his focus went to his rival. He blocked following this pattern, then struck: left, top, right, bottom, left, right, left, right, top, whirl and then strike. Slate dodged just in time, a clean tear down his cloak.
Lathe appeared from nowhere to the left, and began swinging furiously, ceasing Slate's assault momentarily. His opponent dodged each swing as if he anticipated it.
Scythe swung the scythe up, blade first for weight, and let it fly like a vertical Frisbee. The end cut into shoulder and the butt followed through to knock Lathe down. Much like spinning a hool-o-hoop, it returned to its owner, who spun around to receive Slate's colossal blade crashing down upon the shaft middle of his weapon.
The young assassin slid the scythe down one way, so his curved blade caught the scimitar and dragged it down to one side while he lifted his left leg and punted Slate to the ground. Unhooking his weapon from the scimitar, he sprinted toward the nearest brick wall. Arsen fired to his back.
Scythe zigzagged away from four shots, then reached the wall, and twirled his scythe around and up so the blade covered his head, reflecting a fifth shot. Piking the end into the ground, he jumped up, and turned, making himself completely upside down and pushed up, vaulting himself over the wall and onto the roof.
He landed with his shaft behind him and extensive alertness in his stance. His eyes found the figure on the other end.
The figure was male, and dressed in a buttonless suit with a tight collar, more similar to a voodoo priest gone techno. He showed his hands spread, palms to him, and within seconds, various knives and daggers "grew" from between the fingers. He clenched his hands to grasp them all, and worked one between his index finger and thumb, poised to throw.
Slate repositioned his sword. Lathe reconfigured his bloodied shoulder, picking up his second sword. The two duelists began to circle.
Hammer and Arsen dueled with each other as well. Hammer fired a few shots, while Arsen dashed forward away from one, skidded, then flipped backward away from another, returning fire in the air.
Slate and Lathe clashed furiously as if they were about cut out each other's throats.
Ace let his first dagger fly. Scythe blocked it with the shaft, then rotated it a few more degrees to block fours more twirling spikes. Ace grinned as more daggers filled the spaces he had left. Now we get serious. Scythe was ready, and tore forward before Ace had anticipated, twirling his weapon faster than the eye could follow. Ace tried to make up for his lack of awareness with a flurry of knives, but they bounced off the spinning shield. Before he knew it, Scythe was up to him, and altered the direction of his blade to knock Ace's final dagger from his palm, then finish his turn with a striking from the butt end to the chest.
Ace flew a good four feet out before plummeting to the ground on the other side of the wall. Scythe turned his sights on the rest of the battlefield.
Slate screamed and swung the great sword, knocking both of Lathe's sabers to the grass and booting him down as well.
As Hammer took final aim, the familiar sound came... fsfsfsfsfsfsfsf! Shink! The spinning scythe massacred his cannon. Scythe raced over the plain, soared high, and landed both feet onto Arsen's gut. One left. His scythe gone, the young assassin yanked out his small but forceful blaster, turned and fired.
The beam punched Slate square in the back and sent him sprawling. The test was over.
Their master had watched the battle from start to finish. His name was Hunter, the greatest known bounty hunter in the underground. He was approximately five-foot, possibly a bit over, and was completely metal-clad, wearing a large helmet complimenting the look of a Sphinx's, with red eyes. His arms were encased in a black under-armor and his hands in sharp gloves, making them skeletal.
The Assassins gathered in their war room, its blue and black pillars giving it proper darkness.
"I have someone for you to meet." Hunter motioned to the corridor. A large, bulk of a man, with gargantuan shoulder add-ons that seemed to have two separate sections resting as a sort of armor perhaps. The remainder of his wardrobe consisted of army sweats and a tank top. "As I understand it, one of your targets is packing a good deal of fire-power. Of course, we pack a good amount as well, but Tanker here," he motioned to bulky warrior, "has enough to cover your backs so your objective is not interrupted."
"How's that 'sposed to happen?" Arsen piped up, waving his guns at Tanker, "He doesn't even have a gun."
"Indeed, I don't." Tanker said subtly, and cocked his shoulders back once, starting a mechanism. The uppermost sections of his shoulder "armor" detached from their companions and scrolled over them to lay and stop at Tanker's knuckles. They latched back into the lower sections, forming long shafts down each arm, and extended small levers to rest under the palm, closest to the fingers; a trigger. Tanker's arms had become massive custom Force cannons. "I wonder what these are." The assassin's voice was very deep, but intelligent.
Hammer stepped forward first, and anxiously shook Tanker's hand, welcoming him to the team. Scythe stepped up next, graciously. Then Arsen, then Ace, each exiting after their welcome. But Slate looked Tanker up and down with disdain, and walked out with a grunt, head high. Lathe looked from Tanker to Slate, then back to Tanker, and lightly shook hands and left.
Tanker looked after them.
On his daily patrol, Kane noticed he had a shadow. Or, in other words, he was being followed. The pursuer was not being secretive, so he probably wasn't hostile. Kane slowed his pace enough for his shadow to catch up. It was Darin, the lowly Direct officer he had humiliated not a month before.
"Hey, uh, how ya doin'?" Darin was about medium height, probably around 5'5'', and had poofy black hair, and with his attempt to comb it, made him look strikingly like a young Elvis. Kane only looked on, but stopped to listen. "Well, uh, I was just, uh, trying to make sure everything's straight between us."
"Say again?" Kane didn't even look at him.
"Uh, well, I know that you're an Enforcer and I'm a Direct Officer, but what happened in that bar, well, it's just behind us right?"
"What do you care?" Kane walked on.
"You're not the social type are you?"
"Not paid to be." He sped up his walking a bit.
"That might hurt you in the future." Darin called.
Kane stopped, turned, and asked coldly, "What the hell do you mean by that."
"If you're social, you have friends. Those friends help you when you need someone the most. Even in battle."
Kane turned back, no comeback in mind, and hastened his pace.
Tren slapped the envelope onto the table, the top torn off to show he had already thoroughly read the contents. He brought his fingers together and leaned back in his chair, forever shadowed by the lack of light on his side of the room. On the other side stood Vor behind a seated individual. The individual had poignant red hair and blue eyes, somewhere around 5'5'' in height and normally built. He was looking rather anxious, but still remaining, much to his own effort, very composed.
"So, Steven Galad is it?" he pronounced the "G" with a hard sound.
"No, Galad. Just pronounce the G as if it were a J. "I think it's French." Steven answered with experience.
"Well, Steven, you've passed everything we can throw at you other than a field exam." Tren focused more on him, "I do know that you're not that fond of battle."
"Well, I think I can get over it if you actually set me somewhere for the test." Steven nodded.
"Well," Tren leaned back again, "that's just it. We're a little under budget right now.
See, none of the other Factions know that the Elite Squadron even exists. And-
Something odd happened. Tren's sensory mind twitched ever so slightly. Negative forces churned somewhere. He stopped speaking and focused his thoughts. The powers were a little rusty from lack of use, but he had found at least a vicinity of whereabouts in a few seconds. Then he remembered the histories...
"Gentlemen," Tren stood straight, pushing off his chair, "I believe I have found the event we need for a field test. Vor."
"Sir." Vor straightened.
"Take Steven here with you to 125 Hellen Street to investigate an assassination organization." He stared at him at the sudden order, wondering where it came from.
Steven was already standing but turned to Tren, "Hellen Street, that's abandoned!"
"I'm glad you know your geography, now move!" Tren barked, and the Elite and trainee bolted.
"Damn." Tren whispered when they were gone, "There will be death tonight."
The Assassins had gathered on the hilly outskirts, knowing Kane was near, just over the next hill. Their group, however, was not as tight as Hunter had felt. Arsen was facing south, passing the time by twirling his many pistols in and out of their holsters like a quick-draw shooter. Ace was placing his knives in different places and carving in the dirt, forming ugly and grotesque images of death with the points.
"So we're just going after him now, right?" Ace asked, now finishing a large stick man with head cut off.
"Yes, the Enforcer first, then the kid." Lathe reminded him, annoyed, then went back to sharpening one of his swords.
"I wonder how much of a fight he'll put up." Arsen wondered, just finishing spinning his pistol four times in the air.
"Do not become too arrogant, little boys." Hammer said with profound wisdom.
"Like he said, we don't know exactly how tough this guy is." Tanker paced around them, "If this guy could take on and put up a good fight against Cinder, he should be pretty tough." Tanker and Hammer had become linked in the effect of them having similar weaponry and experience, making them both seem somewhat aged compared to the others.
Tanker made his way over to Slate, who was silently watching the moon become a little more profound in the sky. "So," he began, "what's your assumption?"
"I have nothing to say." Slate replied, still watching the sky, his sword in its sheathe facing down.
"Ya' know, I should tell you my policy." He felt like he was talking to a brick wall, but he knew he could hear him. "I only aid my friends in battle, and out of this whole thing, with all your training, you still can't accept that the only reason I'm here is to save your butt."
Slate lifted off from his sword with a sigh through his nose and turned slowly to face Tanker, "I don't need to say anything to you, because you're hired to do this. And you're hired to watch my back, so you will no matter my attitude."
"Indeed." Tanker returned under his breath.
Scythe had been kneeling, arms crossed and resting on the butt of his personal scythe. He was watching the sun set, apart from the angry and curious minds of his fellow, independent assassins. He was his own, all he had to be. But the sun had made it halfway into the hill. Time. "To your places."
They were gone from the hill in less than a second.
Kane sensed something on the horizon. The Great Hill marking the end of the outskirts and the beginning of the outer desert. Upon the hill stood a figure, a dark figure. As Kane watched, the figure brought up a long shaft. The Enforcer quickly realized it was a weapon, as the figure unsheathed it slowly. As fine steel replaced black, Kane's instincts took over, and he checked his surroundings.
They had sprung out of nowhere; six all together that he could see. He noticed two with very large guns, flanking him. Another with two smaller blades behind him. A knife thrower on one roof to his diagonal right, and another gunslinger on the roof to his left. But his eyes reverted back to the lone swordsman at the hill. "Assassins", his mind murmured.
Taking out his blaster, Vor fired once to melt away the lock. However, when he pushed on one side, it didn't budge, even with all his weight against it. He looked it up and down and discovered a massive lead mound welded into it on the other side. "Oh well, I guess we'll get out of here then." Steve said and began to step back.
Vor only contorted his face slightly further with anger, holstered his gun, and, after a moment's pause, straightened his arms as claws shot out, two from each hand from modules on the backhands. Steve's eyes bulged with fear and wonder at the sight. The Russian latched his claws into the fence's tines, parallel to each other and diagonal, then turned them quickly counter clockwise. Then, with his arms still crossed, he rammed his shoulder into it, rolling through over the lead hill and landing to hunch down, arms straight on either side, ready for combat. They retracted and he stood.
The night sky seemed to emit past the dark building, as if its presence stood alone in an abyss of time. "Aren't you coming?" Vor asked without turning.
Steve shook his gaze from the monolith building and stuttered out the excuse, "I don't have anything to fight with."
Vor reached behind him and pulled out yet another shaft from its slot in his back, and tossed it to Steve, who nearly dropped it. "What the hell is this?"
"Quiet! It's a cutlass, use it. Now C'mon." Vor strode right up to the door. After a second's pause, his claws came out again.
The door stood. Suddenly, it was crisscrossed and cut through, but still stood... Until a foot and leg fired through, the figure landing and going into a roll, simultaneously unlatching his shaft plasma cannon in his right hand, and his original blaster in his left. Upon his crouching landing, his eyes darted back and forth with his crosshairs, scanning the area. Nothing.
He leapt/rolled to the center of the room, and scanned again, then sighed and stood. "Damn it." Vor murmured.
Steve had just come in and said something to the effect of, "What happened?" Vor simply responded with a grunt and growl.
"If you're looking for the assassins, they're in the Valley Junkyard!"
Both Elite whirled toward the voice. A lone figure stood on the catwalk above them. She was wearing a long, red trench coat. Long, wavy goldenish white dreadlocks and streams of hair complimented her slender body and face. Her eyes were a cross between emerald green and silver, an odd but beautiful mix. But there were tears streaming from her eyes.
"I'll go, you stay." Vor said shortly and sped out the door.
"Fine by me." Steve breathed. His eyes went to the woman. He stepped forward hesitantly and asked with growing concern, "Why are you crying?"
The woman put her weight on the handlebars and choked out, "I've just betrayed my loyalty."
And outside, up and over the lead and oil columns, Vor ran, making every leg length count for distance.