This is from Selatcia's POV, and any and all history on this man is purely the brainchild of my overactively morbid imagination.
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Herbert Selatcia still had not been able to extract the knife from his shoulder.
He had not only underestimated the girl's skill; he had also underestimated her strength of character. He had tried to ease her mindset and force her to sleep rather than merely suggesting it and she had fought him.
In essence, the Tribunal was destroyed. All his contacts that had been carefully evaluated, handchosen for their loyalty and secrecy and their contcts, were all dead. He had no allies left. No one else knew.
He wore a white trench coat over his usual suit, to hide the blood and the handle of the knife. He could not remove it, not because he wasn't strong enough, but because it was the only thing holding his severed artery together, preventing him from bleeding to death. He would not allow that. He was not remotely afraid of dying; he just had important things to attend to before he did.
Destroying Dethklok. (A/N: Due to Selatcia's reluctance to allow the others to blatantly destroy the band in the videos [he usually advises the others to wait and see what happens, I had kind of assumed he had joined the Tribunal to help the band destroy the public and bring about an apocalypse of metal. However, for the purposes of this fic, he is evil.)
He sat on a large boulder on a beach, having driven there from the complex in Washington DC. He drove a 1999 gray Lexus car.
He stared off at the sunset, thinking. About his past and about Dethklok's hopeful future.
And the girl.
He sighed and again examined the gilt pomel of the girl's knife. It was really quite pretty. It was a shame it had to be examined buried hilt-deep into his own flesh. He would have liked to remove it. It was really quite painful.
And it was now his weakness.
He would have to protect himself there if ever he ran into Naetasha Hagebak again.
Sighing again, he got to his feet and made his way to his car. It was time to start again.
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