Authors notes: sorry for the long delay, my sincere apologies. I have been on Jak withdrawal for months now, and that really saps away Erol muse. However, I have been reading somewhat violent fantasy books lately and tada! Erol's on a killing spree, w00t w00t!

Erol: ohh yes, my triumphant return had to involve guns, blood, and sex didn't it?

Scorpion: Hey, you're just lucky I dreamed up a hot recruit for you. I could have made him a pot-bellied booze hog with three-day-old stubble…

Erol: excellent point.

Chapter five – shadows and dust

Erol's heavy black KG boots thunked loudly on the rock-hard streets of the slums. The place was empty, without colour or any sense of life. The city lay silent, save for the occasional drumming of military boots on stone and the harsh scratching of hastily drawn curtains.

Dread ran through the veins of Haven like a drug, fear stalked every dark, gloomy alley. Every civilian heart would pound at the sound of footsteps slowing by locked doors, or the clatter of something unknown on grime encrusted glass.

This made his job so much easier. Anyone out tonight would be up to something, and the promise of bloodshed made his heart quicken in sick pleasure. So much so that he eyed each locked down with disgust, hoping that he would come upon one that had forgotten to be bolted shut. Perhaps the inhabitants would be asleep, curled up and snoring softly. He could creep up on them, press the barrel of his gun to soft pallid skin, and watch the blood flower on ragged off-white sheets. Hear the screams…

It was defiantly time to stop thinking.

Oh, he loved this time, when the air was still and thick with apprehension and the world seemed to balance on a knife-edge. The path he followed was drenched in shadow, which, ironically enough, suited the almost cat-like way he prowled along it, his boots clanging on stone. A steady beat before which shadows constantly fled.

Erol paused, pressing himself into the cracked and dirty wall of the nearest building, fading into the shadows. His ear pricked, picking up the distinctive sound of hurried footsteps just around the corner.

At that moment a spider scuttled down his arm, breaking his concentration. He stared at it, poised, waiting for it to inch onto his palm. The reaction was instantaneous, his fist closing like a vice and crushing it slowly. He smiled, wishing that it had a voice…

Just so he could hear it screaming.

He was brought sharply back to the situation at hand by the sound of voices close by. His hand inched down till he could curl his fingers lovingly around the handle of his gun.

Drawing it out of its holster slowly, so as not to make a sound, he cocked it and began the hunt.

Silently now he inched along the wall to the corner, breathing lightly, straining to catch the conversation. The voices were muffled and barely coherent – but he could taste the fear in them and the knowledge made him shiver with pleasure.

Footsteps drew nearer and the commander tensed, licking his lips in anticipation. A voice sounded, not three feet away, and there was the sound of something heavy dragging on stone.

Erol took a deep breath, fixing this moment of ecstasy in his mind. He was the hunter, the predator, so close to his prey that he could smell their terror. He held the power of life and death over them; he could send their worthless souls into the void in an instant.

The idea was incredibly alluring.

With a smile he spun on his heel, swinging around the corner.

His gun connected with skin even as he fired, the man seeming to explode as the bullet ripped into him, showering the commander in blood with a spray of crimson rain.

The other two underground fighters were momentarily stunned – the sight of their comrade being blown apart rooting them to the spot. This allowed Erol time to fire again, the bullet slamming into the first man's throat. He dropped to his knees, pushing his fingers inside the bloody tear in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of life from his jugular. With almost comical slowness he fell forwards, crashing into the ground.

The third man made a run for it.

Erol took careful aim and fired. As the bullet rushed towards the man he stumbled, and it almost sailed past him.

Almost.

In this city of no second chances almost might as well be a death sentence.

The bullet tore through the back of the man's neck and he was pitched from his feet. Erol picked his way carefully past the first two bodies and walked towards him, boots thumping menacingly on the street. He bent down and flipped the man onto his back – amazingly he was still conscious. Erol straightened and studied the face of the fight, who was, in truth, little more than a boy.

"Some people say you experience wonderful visions before you die. You, however, do not deserve such joy."

And with that said Erol put a bullet right through his treacherous heart.

"Well that was hardly sporting," came the drawling voice of one ex-commander, thick with disgust. Erol turned to see Torn leaning against the wall of a nearby building. He was surveying the mangled bodies with intense distaste.

"Do you think it's true, that you see visions?" he asked. Erol shrugged as he went to inspect the first corpse.

"I wouldn't know, I have never died."

Torn pried himself away from the wall, moving towards the body of the younger man.

"You look wonderful by the way," he muttered sarcastically. Erol nudged the corpse he was standing over with his foot.

"It was this guy, he was so very close." He raised his hand till it was just inches away from his face, staring at the palm for a few seconds, remembering how the man's face had contorted with pain and shock. Then he let his hand drop to his side, a thin smile twisting his features as he admired his handiwork.

"Oh Torn, you should of seen his face." Chuckling he fished his communicator out of its place on his belt.

"Send a squadron down to E-17 for cleanup."

"Yes sir, straight away sir."

Turning off his COM, Erol slumped down against the wall of the closest building. Only then did he realize that there was blood all over him – his hands, his face (bare of its usual racing mask), his clothes.

Hell, it even dripped down his neck from his shock of now crimson hair.

He holstered his gun and looked up at Torn, who was still surveying the bodies quietly.

"You know, that's the difference between me and you Torn. I take no prisoners. Sure, they'll ask me why, but unfortunately my actions, although regrettable, were necessary to ensure the safety of the civilians nearby and, of course, myself." He smiled, but it was thin and a little too wide.

"You're a maniac," hissed Torn. Erol laughed, throwing his head back and clapping his hands in childish mirth. The action was wholly scornful, plainly rude amusement. Then he lurched to his feet, picking up the unmistakable sound of his approaching squadron.

"I could kill you Torn, but I won't. After all, what is life without a little healthy competition?" Chuckling malevolently he strode towards the guards who had just entered the street.

"Clean this up." He made to move past them, but his eye was caught by one of the younger guards who had just removed his helmet – revealing short black hair, full lips, and blue eyes. He was standing with a bunch of other new recruits who had not yet received orders.

"The rest of you help with the bodies, but you", he drawled, jabbing his finger at the blue-eyed recruit. "You come with me, I've got a special job for you."

He spun on his heel, the recruit following obediently.

"What do you need me to do sir?" he asked. Erol looked at him, smiling and showing just a few too many teeth for comfort.

"You are going to be stress relief," he answered, chuckling darkly as the palace loomed into view. "Tell me, what room are you."

Erol sighed and ran a hand through his hair – it was stiff and tangled and refused to yield to his fingers. Blood still flecked his hands and face, and the outer layers of his armor (discarded near the door) were stained a deep crimson.

With a disgusted grunt – he was in dire need of a clean – Erol moved to the window through which grimy, filtered light managed to penetrate.

The city was stirring with the dawn, the terrors of the night fading away as the light pierced the gloomy decrepit streets of the slums.

He smiled, the corners of his mouth sinking into the charcoal stains of his tattoos.

Even now the first of the civilians would be seeking the signs of last nights slaughter. They were like moths to a flame – every slum rat would be draw to the memories of gunfire. Unfortunately all they would find was dried blood splatters on both the street and the buildings that crowded it. He knew that the underground would of found out about the deaths already, perhaps they had already mourned for their three lost comrades.

He closed his eyes, savoring the memories, going through then slowly for otherwise he felt he might choke on the sweetness.

Only when he had relived every second did he turn away from the window and begin his search for what things he had left on the floor. Careful not to wake the recruit (he still did not know his name) who lay tangled in the crisp white linen sheets, the commander moved silently about the room. Shuffling through discarded red KG armor he finally found what he was looking for. His fingers curled around his belt, stroking the handle of his gun fondly before he slid it on and tightened it.

Then, after gathering what else he had left lying around, he dumped his possessions on the table and moved to the bed. With a smirk, lips drawn tight and wide, he leant forwards, till his breath fluttered on the pale neck of the recruit.

The man awoke instantly.

"You are very good stress relief," he hissed, his throaty voice so sweet it was almost sickening. "But now you must get up for training, and I must attend to more important matters."

The recruit rolled over, so that Erol was leaning over him. The commander bent forwards, placing his lips next to the man's ear.

"Tell anyone and I will kill you an inch at a time," he purred, the sound full and rich and yet very very cold.

His head moved so their lips met, holding it for a moment before pulling away and leaping from the bed. He gathered up his things and moved to the door, where he paused, spinning around to look at the recruit.

"Oh, and you…" He paused, waiting for a name to be supplied.

"Carcer, sir."

"Right, Carcer, next time adhere to military protocol and do not remove your helmet in what was a combat zone." He held up his index finger, "your one warning is gone, and if you do it again I'm afraid I will have to punish you. Other than that, you might want to be quick," he smirked, glancing at the window, "you're going to be late."

And with that done and dusted Erol, wearing tight navy stretch leggings and little else, spun on his heel and stalked down the iron-grey corridors of the barracks.