CRUNCH. STRAINED CRY. The cold, ruthless boot of Stryker drops onto Moxxie's outstretched hand, just out of reach of the gun. The snake grins. "You dumb fucks lost the upper hand fast, huh?" he croons, braggadocio dripping from his southern drawl as he scoops up the weapon. He takes aim at Blitzø, gun held at the waist, relaxed, at ease. Blitzø suddenly turns confident, eyes narrowed and lips curled into a sneering, haughty smile of his own. "Hah! You seem to have forgotten something, fucko!" He lets loose a chorus of whistling. Stryker's confidence morphs to the alertness of a threatened animal.
Outside, Loona's ears jolt up. She hisses quietly, not even looking away from the phone screen.
Seconds pass. The tension in Stryker's shoulders eases, arrogance restored. Blitzø gives an exasperated sigh. "Fuckin' dammit Loona." Moxxie, still trapped beneath him, loses all hope, slumping in defeat. "It's a damn shame, Blitz. We might actually have made a good team." The assassin shrugs. "Oh well."
CRASH. The trademark tinkling sound of shattered glass. The window. Fierce eyes of blue and green. Rugged, drab, professional clothes. Heavy boots hit the floor. Triple-tap pistol fire. Narrow misses. Stryker turns, countering instantly, loosing a shot that goes wide. A sweep of his tail, unexpected, catches the hand with the pistol. Too close now to shoot, he swings the rifle like a mace, catches the assailant's face hard, but hits awkwardly, sending it tumbling from Stryker's grasp. Stunned, but with momentum carrying through, both smash into the coffee table.
Blitzø, too injured to move, cries "FUCK his HONKY-TONK ASS UP, Trachis!" Moxxie, too transfixed to intervene, watches the struggle with wide eyes and slack jaw.
Stryker follows up, knee up in the ribs, the gun finally knocked from the man's hand and skittering across the floor, Stryker rolls on top. Going for the throat-THUD. A heavy elbow strike to his jaw forces him off. Stryker rolls away, shakes it off as he gets to his feet. His adversary follows. And then it's war. A flat-out, close-quarters death match with no rules, no safety, no mercy. Two cold-hearted killers with one goal: Take the head of the other. Stryker older and less fit, but wily and unorthodox, Trachis technical and relentless, but still hammered and bleeding from the opening blow. Hits and grabs, sweeps and kicks, moves and counter-moves. Trachis pins Stryker to the wall, the two of them bracing, grappling, the snake kicks off the wall behind him to avoid being overpowered. They fall. Stryker moves to lock arms around Trachis' neck, but a forearm jammed in between creates space. He forces Stryker away.
The gun on the floor. Struggle for it. Stryker there first. Trachis right on him. Pinned there. Four hands and one pistol. Then, BLAM. Wild shot, into the painting on the wall. Still wrestling. Stryker's nose broken, until CLACK. Gun knocked away again. Stryker kicks away, jumping up to run for the door. Trachis up and following. Before the stairs, he gets a hand on Stryker's tail, pulls him back. The war resumes, the stairwell the battlefield. Trachis is higher, but Stryker has greater reach. They move to the ground floor. Fighting is vicious, quiet apart from impacts and grunts and breathing. A brutal exchange, matching each other's moves like shadows. Relentless.
The fight moves further through the house, the two killers tiring now. Trachis' face is scratched, blood leaking from claw marks. A welt where the rifle butt struck, swollen red and angry. Eyes still as cold and steady as they were from the word go. Stryker in worse shape, broken teeth and bits of mangled, sanguine lip. Nose split and cartilage protruding. Limbs heavy with exhaustion, wild eyes lacking their previous predatory gleam. Trachis catches Stryker's arm, with a savage grunt, throws him through the bathroom door with a violent booming crash. Confined space, the snake cornered, Trachis has the upper hand now. Stryker tiring, no longer the match he was. Grabs a straight razor from the sink, swings wildly. Trachis deflects, grabs for it, slams the bladed hand into the wall. Slams it again. Once more. The razor clinks across the tile floor. Weak and disarmed, fear finally finally blooms in Stryker's eyes. He's finished, and looking into remorseless blue-greens, he knows it.
A vice grip locks his throat, blood and air ceasing to flow from body to head. A strangled wheeze. Gurgling. Trachis' face a feral snarl, grimacing and glaring with dagger eyes, breathing hard and ragged, blood still running down his cheeks. Desperation, Stryker flails hands and tail wildly, grabbing and poking and clawing at his executioner's face. The icy Wrath demon slaps them all aside, unyielding. Out of strength. Out of time. Out of options. Stryker's eyes fall closed, breathing ceasing, limp. Trachis finally holds dead weight. With a strained groan, the tension in his muscles released, Trachis lets the body fall, slumping in the corner of the shower. It lay, unmoving.
At last, a silent, still moment.
Then...
"God-DAMMIT that was hot, Trachis! I swear if you weren't straight and/or an employee..."
Blitzø.
"Wow. That was...beautiful. Somehow. Violent and horrific, yes. But beautiful!"
Moxxie.
"Dude. That might have been the coolest thing I've ever seen. Definitely posting that vid tonight."
Loona?
All three were standing in the living room, having followed him downstairs. At least ONE of them could have helped. Not that it mattered now.
Stepping out of the mess in the bathroom, Trachis wiped a sleeve across his face, coating it in red. The shaky, melted feeling of intense exercise washed over him. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, taking in cool air and breathing fire out of his lungs. The exhilarating afterglow of adrenaline-fueled hand-to-hand fighting left him feeling weightless. It was the first time Trachis had killed someone with any real skill since joining IMP. It had been a tough fight. Tougher than it should have been. He nearly felt embarrassed, having to work so hard just to take down some local-yokel hotshot who stabbed hogs for a living. Shit, he wasn't even getting paid for looking so foolish. He could feel the rust flaking off a bit, but it reminded him that he'd gotten complacent. Weaker. Softer. That would change after today.
"It was kind of you to leave all the fun for me," he remarked sarcastically, the statement a long, sighing breath release. His lethal eyes slipped open again, turning with the body to face the trio. They all looked predictably pleased. Trachis, on the other hand, had returned to himself, the blue-green orbs no longer cold and sharp, merely cold. A small spark of curiosity flitted through them, an eyebrow went up.
"So boss, would you mind telling me why I just killed some straw-chomping farm hand?"
Silently, the bathroom window fell closed. The shower now empty of a corpse.
Out the house, in a heartbeat.
