'A stroke of luck is all it needs to succeed some days. Unfortunately, some men do not ever possess it.'

If you're faced with a threat you single out the most important target and then eliminate it.

It is a crucial lesson to learn.

He has proven his understanding for this rule.

He has proven it on the battlefield after being deployed in the front row of a war zone.

He has proven it to be understood when he followed the orders of other men.

It is in his nature by now.

Find the strongest contester, the biggest aggressor, and then take it out as fast as you can. There is a method in that.

Even though in his first battles, he never could take down the threads and everyone he knew got taken by the ash and crows.

Even though he is just the handler. Not the receving end.

Now he has to make a decision. It isn't a hard one at all. The one named Jon helped a great deal to clean this up. Whatever kind of ghost that one is, haunted from future and past and present, he has left the ghost of Thomas with answers and directions.

He was suspicious at first to follow them. But they were so very precise he can't help himself to access them.

He holds the rifle in his hands like he remembers the girl with the block letter tattoos do in her sleep. He hugs it with both arms a moment, taking a breath and feeling the breach in his mind.

There is a difference to the girl, however. The Ghost knows how to use guns. The Ghost is a hunter and he will take down prey today. He has waited for this moment long enough.

At first, it was becoming part of the crowds and daily life again. It is not too hard in a big city like Archeon. The Ghost of Thomas could almost think about beauty if he cared for it. It's a lining of impressive architecture with bridges as veins over the river stamped into the ground with the palace and caesars square as its heart. He has never been here before.

"You could come back with me when I leave."
Beauty lies in that simple request. But it's too simple. Eyes locked onto each other, hands seeking warmth and familiarity and then there's always the kisses and more, more-

"As your guest of honor, I suppose, Prince Maven?"

Mocking, hurt, masking it behind the words.

"There is always work to do."

Is the answer he gets. And not the answer he wants. Not the answer he can ever get.

Red Blood proves an advantage sometimes. it has helped to blend in if he just keeps his head down and his eyes never in the same spot too long. He may have killed for a splinter group of the famed and hated Scarlet Guard but no one ever saw his face or heard his real name.

Ghost of the fog lands, a poetic play of words Jon brought up. But meaningless.

He simply had to swap his old uniform for some simple clothing. Worn down in brown and black he doesn't look too different from any other servant boy or messenger, any other worker.

Does he miss wearing the uniform?

He is not sure. It was a good reminder while it lasted but also so very heavily symbolic. If a man that he didn't know could see through the reasoning, others would too. Perhaps parting is for the best. It has to be when parting, loosing, fighting, is all there is still left.

Pretending to be alive is something else entirely.
He may breathe and walk but they are not the same. Every heartbeat in his chest is a contradiction. It serves as a mockery for the death that abandoned him and left him to stay in misery surrounded by screams and beautiful corrosion.

After floating along and being unnoticeable to the watchful eyes of guards and cameras, the scouting begins.

He knows how to be patient. He has sat in a trench. He has waited for enemy fire and silver blooded dogs ripping things apart with their teeth.

He knows how to cover his tracks, through sunshine mud and rain. He goes through the crowd like they are trees, one by one, gaining cover.

He watches high windows and points. Where guards stand. Where sentinels walk. How servants enter the palace. Somehow he is very sure he is not the only one.
Everyone in this place spies on one another. And the Reds have eyes too. Even if they are all quiet they exist around him. Not really reachable, just as his own memories.

He finds the spot by the window Jon has told him about. He instantly notices the man repairing the shutter.

Under the right circumstances, a well placed single shot could take out a target from there.

One shot. A single howling bang. An echo of a bursting head. And silence, silence when he wants to scream.

A lot of variables come into play.

You'd need a very good gun. It's a long distance. His old friend the iron lover is not suited for that. It is effective enough but lacks range.

Then there is the timing. A narrow window just like the one he'd be leaning on. But he'll get it soon enough.

When you have the timing and the weapon, you need to keep another eye out for any disruption. Nothing is allowed to bother him.

No silver guard can come in between him and the target.

You will go to Archeon and you will take a shot.

He has gone to Archeon and he has to take the shot now. No questions are needed.

Very few breaths until the Ghost has found his way to the small windowsill.

The shutters are drawn open. He has made sure that he's all alone. If anyone changes that, they will have to take the consequences.

Concurrently he proves everyone every day he breathes there is no mercy in him. Not one bit of this misguided philosophy people always get so wrong.

And then there's a cloud above shielding any betraying light breaking itself.

He looks down and sees the frames start emerging on the small gap that opens in the hollow of a big entryway to the Square.

A blink; a swallowing of air, tasting the world around himself before he leans forward and looks through the scope.

His finger lays so very gently on the trigger. Not the familiar old friend but a new one. Accompanying him on this last day.

Seek peace
Seek death,

Seek vengeance.

Is it the same?

There is no metal bender, as far as he can see. Jon was correct about this too.

But there is a woman. Blond hair. With a profile that wakes some resemblance to the picture he always held close to his heart. He closes on her face. He studies it.

Time goes too fast he needs to shoot.

He stares at her face. Finger on the trigger.

She stops.

He still holds his breath.

Her blue eyes stare right at him.

They see him.

She knows he is there.

Mind readers are in his case just as bad as metal benders.

They bend your head and destroy your brain more effective than his bullets could.

He tries to pull the trigger hard.

His hand is not under his command.

There is another one in his head now. Even at this distance.

Faint.

He only notices because he starts to think about memories that are hidden behind the maws of the sea serpent. Memories about himself.

He can't hold his breath anymore. The scope shakes slightly.

And then his scope makes a slight turn losing the focus. And Jon did not tell him this.

He did not tell him that there would be a boy wearing a crown of molten flames.

He knew.

He could not have NOT known.

That is why he does not stay and never trusts people too much.

He should have shot him in the valley right there and then.

The Ghost feels the stuttering in his arms.

He stares attached to the too real and too close image he didn't want to have.

He feels. He feels his heart, the blood pumping through his veins. He feels the tugging of reality merging with what could have been. He feels alive.

Mine, mine, you're never mine. A laugh, a pale angry face, and fire, fire eating everything.

He studies the curve of a cheek he has kissed and touched a long, long time ago.

Even without the mind controlling his hand and stopping him from shooting, he fights his own war.

The serpent opens its maw. The ghost screeches at it. they fight for the upper hand.

There is no mercy. There is no mercy left in him. Not the false kind.

Easy, would it be? Change the whole history with one shot.

That was a good idea. A good plan.

After everything he has heard, everything he has seen, would it truly be no mercy to shoot Maven Calore in the head? It would go so fast.

More desperately than ever his finger wants to pull the trigger.

It can't.

He can only watch the face of someone he once thought he knew turn in the scope.

And then the control fades, and the whole group vanishes from his view.

He can't stop the anger, the fear, and the cloud of confusion dazing him.

It makes him shake and shiver. It makes his body fight and his hands denying service.

Even though now he is alone again he is not in control. He leaves the rifle and he runs. Ready to slice through anyone that will get in his way.

Flesh is soft when you find the right place to bury your sharp edge on it. It breaks easily, first the skin, and then the nerves and muscles and tissue rip and you twist before its over. The knife is so quiet while it follows the hand that flies a curve and points the attack.

The ghost runs. Runs fast.

Because that is what frightened people do often. They run.

Finds his hideaway.

No second chances. Not for for anything. Not when you used all your second chances.