Of Gunshots and Roses
By Darkness Orange
Memories
Deep inside the bowels of the Barons Palace, thousands of men were looking for one who did not belong. Unfortunately for them, their armor gave away where they were well before they could even hope to catch a glance of the elusive target. To this end, Torn was crouched over instinctively, despite being nearly invisible, and was walking with a quietness you only get after years of harsh training. He was walking along the catwalks, well above the hallway, for he new this would be the best place to see him, and also the most likely place that his target would be hiding.
Torn took a turn and caught the second glimpse of his prey since the alarm had gone off. He was stealthy, but when he walked there was still a slight noise that the soldiers down in the hallway could not hear. Torn walked forward, faster and quieter then his prey, and silently withdrew one of his knives.
The man himself was unaware that death was just a few short seconds away. As far as he was concerned, he was close to death anyways, for he was sent in to assassinate the Baron. He reached out for the next door in the catwalks, and was suddenly grabbed back. His eyes grew wide with fright and fear at the unknown, for there were no arms around him. Suddenly, a disembodied knife, long, curved, and horrifying, came to his neck. He had no time to scream as suddenly his throat was cut. Blood gushed from the pair of arteries in his neck, in a steady stream that seemed to defy the laws of gravity.
Torn turned the cloaking device off, for he knew the blood stains on it would compromise the invisibility. Without even looking at the corpse, he radioed in that the target had been caught and killed. The alarms turned off, and suddenly the palace guards were back to their duties, bright red armor reflecting the dull lights of the palace. He stooped over, his black suit shot through with light streaks from the dull emergency lights above, and grabbed his prey.
He made the mistake of looking into the mans eyes. They were fixed forever in wide, frightened expectation. Torn took the man up onto his shoulders and began the long descent from the catwalks to the hallway below.
Then he heard it. It was a sound he feared above all, a low growl that shook the very foundations of the palace. He turned around, and was face to face with a Metal Head at least three times his size.
"SHIT!" He shouted in fear as the beast roared louder in his face. He dropped the body on his shoulders and pulled his long, curved knives out. The glinted with the dull light as he went head to head with the Metal Head. The Metal Head, roaring in outrage at the challenge, smashed its fore paw at Torn, who rolled sideways, catching a bit of the claw on his arm, shredding his stealth suit. Dammit its not made for this kind of abuse...Torn thought, and then cleared his mind. He could not afford to have any thoughts distract – SHIT!
A claw just narrowly missed slicing his head off as he ducked under it. He rolled again and scanned his foes body for weak points. Within half a second he identified a tendon on each foreleg, and jumped up to slice them with his knives. His slices were graceful, but brutal arcs in the air, slicing tendon, muscle, and artery alike.
The beast roared in pain from the kiss of the cold steel blade. While his foe was reeling in pain, Torn was alive with motion. He swiftly withdrew a red vial and poured it on his blades. They glowed a sinister red as Torn jumped up at the stunned creatures neck. He identified an artery, and promptly sliced it, red energy beams shooting out from the weapon as crimson blood flew from the now dying creature. He lept again, jammed the blade in his right hand into the beasts back, and swung himself onto its back. Not letting the momentum up, he stabbed the creatures neck. Its roars suddenly stopped as it fell forward onto the ground, dead. Torn jumped off, and ran down the hall way with the energy of a man possessed.
He sheathed his knives and withdrew his pistol from its holster, for he could hear smaller Metal Heads approaching. He skidded around a corner, his boots lacking traction on the cold, hard steel floor, and he came upon a grisly sight. A dead guard, his skull open, with the brain exposed, and a Metal Head poised over him. Blood was splattered all over the creatures mouth, and something that looked like an organ was skewered on its tooth.
Torn wasted no time in shooting the Metal Head. His pistol was an extremely old projectile-based relic, but this was all he was allowed to have. The revolver bounced in his hands as he let loose a rain of hail of bullets, each nearly half an inch wide. The creature shuttered from the force of the blasts, and then suddenly stopped moving.
Torn had a hard time sleeping that night. Someone, probably a homeless drunk, broke into his house and stole all his booze. When Torn didn't drink, he dreamt. And when he dreamt, he usually remembered things he ought not remember. Tonight was no different.
He was in an apartment, small but well appointed. Rain was lashing the windows with all the fury Hell could muster at the city. He had heard sirens go off, wailing a terrible, wholly frightening scream. Then came the explosions, and the sound of distant guns firing. Everything seemed a lot taller to Torn then normal; even the counters were so high he had to stretch to reach them. He saw three people huddling in one of the corners of the house, underneath a wooden desk. Torn walked over there, slowly because his legs seemed to have shrunk. He did not know what was going on, only these three people, who he seemed to know and care for, were frightened, and this scared him as well. The wooden floor creaked and clattered under his light wood and leather sandles. He crawled into the arms of one of the people, a woman, and laid there, unsure and unaware of the horrors outside the building. The woman, who he instinctively knew as his mother, rubbed his head slowly, tears of fright streaming down her face.
Then, suddenly, their door smashed open. Soldiers clad in red stormed in and began to open fire on his parents. Torn ran off to a nearby room and hid in its closet as he listened to the screams of his parents as they were murdered by the soldiers. He then heard a scream that could have only come from the third person, his sister. The soldiers, their cold red armor creating shock waves on the floor, advanced into the room Torn was hiding in. His closet door opened, and suddenly he found himself lying on a saggy couch in a run down apartment.
"God dammit..." he muttered to himself, mentally cursing the lack of a better lock then the cheap one he had on his door. He pulled himself out of the couch with an effort that defied the very laws of physics and shuffled over to his cheap rusted metal door. With a sigh, he left his home, grabbing his pistol and concealing it before doing so.
He wandered the city aimlessly, as he did countless sleepless nights before. The night was an oppressive black that obscured everything but the lights of nearby hovercars, which smeared and blurred together above his head. He had no money, so getting more booze was out of the question. He couldn't sleep, so going back to his rancid apartment was out of the question. So he wandered, never really knowing where he was going or why he was going there. He never knew why he did what he did.
The upper levels of the palace were calm, despite the excitement that day saw. This section of the palace was a stark contrast to the rest of it, with wooden floors, soft but sufficient lights, and the most expensive wooden furniture money could buy, harvested straight from the legendary Percursor Forest. Ashelin walked down one of the many softly lit hallways, wearing her Krimzon Guard uniform. She entered her room, stripped her uniform off and collapsed on the bed, the slight draft from the fan above nipping at her nude body. She crawled under the blankets, and turned out the lights. She repulsed inwardly at her surroundings, the luxury of it, when he had lived so much more humbly. She had remembered his deep grey eyes, his long black hair, his strong chin. She remembered the stubble on his face when he could not get his hands on a razor, and the hair on his chest she used to play with when she visited him. Ashelin closed her eyes and let sleep overtake her.
It was a dark room, dirty and smelling of tobacco, alcohol, and dead creatures. She saw him, dressed in his red uniform, but there was something different about him. His grey eyes no longer shown with optimism, but had a gleam of hatred to them. She knew what he was about to do. However, she could do precious little to stop him. He gave her one look, a look that told her everything, and then left the house. Ashelin broke down in tears, for she knew he would never return.
She could hear a door bell ringing, but she refused to answer. She knew he had been executed. She knew it, because she was there to watch it. Ashelin did not want to answer the door to anyone or anything.
"Wake up sweetheart," She heard, and her eyes bolted open. Somehow she had managed to kick her blankets off her bed over the night, and Errol was standing in her doorway, looking at her with a most demented expression.
"Hi honey..." She said with a far off voice. She had been courting Errol for nearly three months now, and she hardly enjoyed it. It was only by the insistence of her father that she continued the relations with the man.
"Has anyone told you how incredibly gorgeous you are?" He said, walking up to her as she sat up.
"Yes, dear, you've told me this several times." She said as he hugged her and began to feel up and down her back.
"You know, we still have an hour before we have to be on duty. How about we have a little bit of fun before then?" He said, while taking his shirt off.
"Might as well..." Came the reply.
From outside her room, Praxis could hear the screams of passion from within. Praxis gave a chuckle, for he was glad that his friend was enjoying himself.