The bird stood at the open window of an old apartment, in a nearly abandoned building Jace had found his home in when he'd first started college all those years ago. The doors were left unlocked, for he was no longer in Chicago...No, he'd wandered to a suburb, a small one, familiar ground. The only tenant within the ten apartments was an old, nearly senile man who required 24 hour care. The woman who came to care for him was his daughter, an older woman in her late forties. They paid each other no mind, for Jace kept himself well hidden when she was around. As Jace silently entered the apartment, the crow regarded him in a stony silence for a moment, then tested his wings and flew to alight upon his shoulder. Another moment, and once again, he was gone. There was work to be done.
Not two hours later, man and bird stood atop an aging building that housed an apartment and a sports bar, one that was oh so fresh in his memories. The place stank of alchohol and tobacco, and he wasn't even inside yet. He had a while to wait, a while to stew over the memories of the fateful night he lost his life. Damn them, he cursed mentally, feeling the pull of the crow's mentality within his mind as he did so. Damn them all to Hell, when I send them there. How many others has there been? How many lives? Enough, came the silent reply of the crow, flapping his wings in anticipation and perhaps a touch of agitation. The moment draws near when you will see them again. The memories will come, and they will be harsh. You must be ready.
Sure enough, within the hour, a confident mass of man began his stride out of the bar, followed by a handful of his goons. Had the man not lifted his face toward the streetlight, Jace might have missed him completely. And as the bird predicted, he grew suddenly nauseous, choked with the memories that flooded back, of that sneer, that curled lip, those deadly words. He recovered quickly enough, however, to follow them down the street as they bantered loudly between themselves, telling lewd jokes and harassing passersby. They were tough, well known, and they knew it. People crossed to the other side of the street to avoid them. Their leader took it with disgusting pride, sending glares that would bring chills to any giant of a man. Jace cracked his neck. It was now or never.
He leaped from the top of the building into an alley, abandoned and empty save a few large dumpsters. Landing with an unnatural grace in a crouch, he stood quickly and waited the bird. But no, the crow would stay above, to watch his back. He nodded silently, and began walking. He followed them for a few blocks, watched as three of the goons said their goodbyes before parting paths. Jace's hands tightened their grips on the pair of daggars he'd obtained three days ago. For three solid days, without rest, he'd trained himself, and was now quick as a whip with them, moving with blinding speed as he thrust and leaped at invisible opponents, his thirst for revenge all-consuming. He sneered now, watching unseen and unknown. He had a choice to make then, and he made it swiftly. He would pick them off slowly, their leader would be the last to fall. Silently, he followed the three who'd parted ways with the main gang.
They crossed through an alley, empty save one soul who walked hurriedly, obviously uncomfortable as she walked, unescorted, through a deadly part of the neighborhood. Stupid was Jace's thought as he followed them, still undetected. He resisted the urge to growl as one of the men gave a low, approving whistle, and the female stiffened, clutching her purse strap. The reflection of silver in the keys that she carried fisted in her hands caught his eye, perhaps she wasn't as dumb as he'd first thought. At least she carried some form of protection. As they passed her, the whistler reached out with a quickness that was obviously trained to grab her upper arm. She leaped away from him like a stricken cat, shouting her protest. The man next to the whistler leaped after her, pinning her between himself and the brick wall of another building.
Hush, little baby, don't say a word...Daddy's gonna buy you a mocking bird...
His voice was low, his words reeking with mockery. He clamped his hand over her mouth, but she brought her fisted hand up and slashed him across the face with a key. He stepped back, cursing and holding his bleeding cheek. Whistler replaced him, being sure to pin her arm with his other hand as he covered her mouth once more.
Now, now...That wasn't very nice, was it?
She attempted to say something, but of course, whatever pointless threat she gave was muffled by his large, foul-smelling hand. Her struggles were just as useless, for he was far more powerful than she.iNow/i. p With a silence that seemed almost impossible, he approached the trio, swiftly delivering a knockout punch to the one who'd made no move to assist his friends before stepping up behind and sliding a daggar across the throat of the man who still held his cheek. This, Whistler heard, and stepped back from the woman as he turned to face Jace. He glanced down at his fallen friends, releasing a line of curses unfit for a sailor's ears.
Who the hell are you??
Jace cast a glance to the woman, she needed little prompting to make herself scarce. When she'd gone, he stepped forward, into the light of a street lamp, his pale face gleaming, the dark marks around his eyes and mouth forboding.
I am everything you ever feared...Fucking murderer.
His voice held an unnaturally icy tone to it, cold with death. The sound of the words sliced through Whistler, and he stepped back in a momentary fall of fear. Anger for his now dead friend took over, however, and he stepped forward once again, his eyes flashing.
You'll pay for that, bastard. I'll fucking kill you.
I feel a sense of deja vu here...Hmmm...Why might that be?
Jace's tone took on a sarcastic ring, it appeared he was enjoying himself. A groan lifted from behind him, the man he'd knocked out was awakening. He'd be out of commission long enough for Jace to do his work, however. He paid the man no mind, and kept his glare fixed on Whistler.
I have a job for you, Shit-for-Brains. Tell your boss death will be his soon.
Who the fu- His words were cut off as a flying, armed hand moved across his face and tore a gash from cheek to cheek. Again, he cursed, stumbling backwards and holding his face.
Get out of here! Go! And do what I said!
Whistler didn't hesitate. He moved off, forgetting the companion that still lived. Jace, however, did not. He turned on his heels and bent over, hauling the fallen man to his feet. Throwing him against a wall bathed in the dim light of a far-off streetlamp, his eyes widened as he stared into a sickeningly familiar face. His expression clouded over as the man before him cowered in fear, shielding his face with his arms.
It was the man who'd stepped infront of him on the night of the murder. The one who'd attempted to stop...Stryke, that was his name...from killing him. Jace sneered down at him, tearing the man's hands away.
How many more? How many were there after me?
Wh-what?? I...I don't know what you're talking about! Kris...Gunner... stared up at him in stark terror, still in shock.
That all too familiar voice was filled now with fear as he stared up at the death-clown.
Outside Steve's Sports Pub...A year ago...Two men...Jace stopped as recognition settled across the frozen features of the man before him. Jace grabbed him at the collar of his jacket and slammed him once again against the wall. How many more??
Gunner, who'd by now nearly forgotten the name given to him at birth, winced as pain shot up his back. His hand went automatically for his belt, where he held a .45 for just this occasion. Jace caught the movement, however, and reached for the gun himself, tossing it behind him like an old toy. Shit. He was going to die. His features hardened. He didn't care. He didn't give a Goddamned shit.
As many as necessary. His voice shook, betraying the calm that had entered his expression. Jace backhanded him. He pointed down the alley were the woman had dashed away.
And she was just going to be another necessary, after you were finished with her?
He backhanded Gunner again, this time with a bit more power.
What the hell do you want?
You to feel this. He placed his hands over Gunner's face, and all the pain, all the rage, all the fear slipped from him for two glorious moments...Slipped through him, and into the now screaming Gunner. He fell to his knees, but Jace still held on. Finally, he tore his hands away, watching as blood ran down Gunner's nose, ears and mouth. He gave a moan, lifted his head to stare blankly at his attacker, before falling face-down on the tar, dead before his head hit with a sickening thud.