An overly despondent sigh escaped the malicious murderers lips as the trembling child beneath his hands answered his honest inquiry with a single statement laced in overwhelming ignorance. It was, admittedly, the expected response but still, routine was ever so dull, a little creativity wouldn't have hurt girl... well, relatively speaking. She may have lost a finger or perhaps a piece of her ear but it would have been something different; a taste of variety to add a touch of spice to both their lives and ward off the ever impending sense of taedium. However the shivering adolescent had made no such effort and thus it was left to the Canadian killer to take control as he always did and introduce a pinch of piquancy to the proceedings and, verily, what could be more exquisite than the terror and despair of another?

"I'm disappointed puppet, I had hoped you to be a bright girl, clearly that is not the case."

The torturers tone held all the comforting cadence of a crestfallen father yet it still retained the subtle nuances of the sadistic anarchists twisted persona which left the words coated in indistinct iniquity which was brought into sudden clarity as the foreign travelers wrist slowly shifted, causing the cold metal within his grasp to gradually gouge a scarlet streak though the child's otherwise unmarred flesh. Blood swiftly rose to the surface of the imppiteous wound and began to pool, forming an incarnadine illustration as the noxious nihilist's steady hand deftly directed the aciculate device and sliced an incomplete incision in the shape of a three sided square a into the girls right shoulder blade. Crimson fluid flowed freely at this point, streaming in relucent ruby rivulets down the child's side and the track of her spine, a few wayward droplets even made their way into the tenebrous sewage surging below as the adolescent writhed under the taste of the knife and quivering cries escaped her lips.

"I'm sorry, what was that? I'm afraid I tend to get quite lost in my work, you'll have to speak up in afraid."

shifting away from his current area of operations the sadistic former soldier craned his neck downwards until he caught sight of Katrina's face and in spite of the shadow he himself was casting it was all too easy to distinguish the damp trail of tears which crept down her features from the edges of her ashen eyes. A thoughtful hum escaped the deranged wanderer as he crouched down once more and placed left arm atop the quivering adolescents skull, locking it in place whilst his hand crept across her tear filled physiognomy until his fingers positioned themselves on either side of the girls right eye, prying the eyelid open and forcing her to meet the virulent viridian gaze of her captor as he calmly drew the utility knife towards her slate shaded iris, bringing the crimson stained blade to within a millimeter of contact before it paused, remaining perfectly quiescent for innumerable seconds before rapidly darting to the inner corner of the child's eye and catching a newly released tear just as it formed.

There was no cut, no scratch, the cardinal blade never touched the adolescents eye, though it had come within a hairs breadth of doing so. Yet now that the weapon had fulfilled its purpose and collected it's due so to speak it was quickly withdraw and smoothly brought upwards to the sinister slaughters own emerald orbs for closer inspection. At length however the foreign killer spoke in a soft, almost detached tone which hinted at the barest of compassion, yet it was nothing more than an affectation. "I suppose you must think me rather harsh, however it cannot be helped, you brought this upon yourself and the punishment cannot be avoided. Still... education is part of the process. if you recognize why you're here then perhaps we can move on."

Finally releasing the pressure on the trembling child's head Hull leant back to give the girl some space as he lowered the utility knife out of sight in order to craft some misconception of safety while he ran his free hand rested gently at the back of her head. "Well Katrina, can you tell me why you're here?"

>>>"I'm disappointed puppet, I had hoped you to be a bright girl, clearly that is not the case."

What had he wanted, some smart ass response, a quiveringly terrified admittance that she'd made a mistake, or some cool psychologist's analysis of his sick behavior? Even if she had guessed, she certainly wouldn't have guessed correctly. Wasn't that how it worked out in all the movies? The hero gets punished for any answer they make, no matter if it is right or not. If he was hoping for some entertainment or something, she should have just watched a movie or something.

Then, the predictable part of the plot. She was punished for her lack of correct answer to his question. She kept her hands clenched as he pressed his knife into the skin over her shoulder blade. Soon he'd ask her the same question again and she'd give another wrong answer. Or she would remain silent maybe, trying to make his frustrated, but maybe that would be even more entertaining to him. Who knew?

The cut stung, and tears involuntarily leaked out of her eyes and made their pilgrimage down to her chin, but she didn't cry out this time. She tried to hold her breath and distance herself from the feeling of the pain. It hurt less than the burn on her hand had done (and still did), and it felt different, too. A cut was much more of a sharp stinging pain like a squadron of bees in a perfect line on her back, whereas a burn caused a writhing, flesh consuming type of pain, as if a fireworm were trying to digest its through her hand.

If she focused, she could almost feel the shape of what he was carving, like a horribly twisted version of the game her mother used to play with her when she was ill with a fever as a child.

“I'll draw something on your back, and you have to guess what it is.”

“Okay, mommy.”

A straight line, another straight line, and third.

“I?”

“I?” She guessed a letter.

>>>"I'm sorry, what was that? I'm afraid I tend to get quite lost in my work, you'll have to speak up in afraid."

Liar, he'd heard what she said. She wasn't going to repeat it for him, instead clamping her mouth shut. That's how they did it in the stories wasn't it? The hero, bravely silent and refusing to tell the torturer anything they wanted to know. Not that she knew anything that he wanted to know. This one was just a sick freak.

He leaned disapprovingly over her face and “Hmm”ed at her before placing his hand on the side of her face and using his fingers to force her eye open. She hadn't meant that kind of I. The air was too cold and too dry, and she instinctively tried to close her lids again. The one he wasn't touching clamped shut, the other just fluttered uselessly. Her eye rolled upwards, trying to find its covering again and watered automatically to try to moisten the surface without blinking. So far she didn't like any of his games, but this one had to be her least favorite thus far.

And it got worse.

Something red in his hand, dangerously close to her eye. She couldn't blink, couldn't focus on it to see what it was. Yet, somehow she knew. It was the knife he had been holding. It paused, and she didn't dare breathe. She tried to prepare herself for the inevitable pain that would surely follow, perhaps the worst pain yet, that of her eye being sliced open. Every second the pain didn't come was worse than the second before it. Time seemed to stand still until he finally flicked the blade to put her out of the misery of waiting, and she inhaled again. Her breath came in short bursts, as if in the interim her lungs had forgotten how to breathe properly.

Nothing. He hadn't cut her at all. Now he'd probably just laugh at how much she had flinched. Was it more entertaining to him to frighten her or hurt her? She focused on trying to catch her breath and rein it back under control. She wasn't going to sob for him any longer than was necessary, no matter how terrified she was, not matter how much she wished for her mother.

“That's right. How about this?” Two more straight lines, and a a bumpy one.

“A heart.”

>>>"I suppose you must think me rather harsh, however it cannot be helped, you brought this upon yourself and the punishment cannot be avoided. Still... education is part of the process. if you recognize why you're here then perhaps we can move on."

“One more,” her mother drew one last line, a curving scoop across her shoulder blade.

>>>"Well Katrina, can you tell me why you're here?"

“You.” Her mother stroked the back of her head, making sure her hair stayed off of her hot neck as she fell asleep.

“You.” Her torturer stroked the back of her head, trying to lull her into a false sense of temporary safety. Katrina just wondered when he would finally kill her.

“I'm here because of you. You like to scare and hurt little girls, and I conveniently walked into your trap,” her voice was quiet, but confident. She was fairly confident that was the correct answer, even if it wasn't the one he wanted to hear. Maybe he would be angry now, or maybe he would laugh, or maybe he would kill her so quickly for her obstinacy that she would never realize what his reaction had been. He liked his guessing games, this one. Like the man who put a kitten in a box and left it there to prove a point; you would never know whether it was still alive or whether it had died until you observed it for yourself.

Pain is a vastly protean concept, far too often it is merely misconstrued as nothing more than its physical facet; an unpleasant side effect resulting from trauma to the skin. The ignorant masses lack the capacity to truly comprehend the full scope of agony their minds can so readily provide, an accomplished aficionado however is well aware that, in many ways, pain is like ice cream; although only a limited selection is generally offered main stream, a vast aggregation of flavours are available to those who truly know where to look. Anything ranging from the dull vanilla throb of a brute force contusion to the aberrant white hot torment of a gouged eye, yet pain is not limited to purely physical wounds, there are other mediums it can take; fear, grief, shame, rejection, despair… all represent a form of suffering which can, with care, be coaxed from the mind of another and crafted to whichever purpose the manipulator sees fit.

For all its complexity and versatility the derivation of pain is surprisingly abecedarian; stemming from nothing more than the most primal instinct of survival, honed through untold generations, humanity’s persistent subsistence has resulted in a genetic ethos which covets nothing more strongly than arcadian analgesia, and it is because of this inveterate Eros that torture has long been a well utilized tool in the praxis of practical punishment. In spite of all its history however one vital aspect of torture is often overlooked, especially in modern western society where so much emphasis is placed upon the individual instead of the group, yet it should be noted that true torture is never restrained to a single casualty, in the same way a single leaf can cause ripples upon the surface of a lake, so too can the effects of torture extend beyond the boundaries of the initial victim. Humans are, after all, social creatures and though there may be the occasional exception by and large every individual is connected to at least one other and through such connections many things may be shared; affection, amusement, amazement, alarm, anger, anxiety and of course agony.

Illatively it is imaginable that a solitary act of cruelty to a single individual could, in fact disseminate across an entire community, nay an entire society, if only the act in question prove potent enough. A concatenation of events fueled by wrath and revenge as the pain of one inspires the many to seek out that ever so elusive and prejudicant of conceits known as justice. Driven by bovarism and a fallacy of social equity the vengeful would seek to extract their own form of reparation and, in doing so, would step beyond the convoluted constructs of the law, thereby entering an addictive game without rules, where the only limitation was lack of imagination and the grand prize was the chance to play again.

At least, that was the dream.

Although Hull’s customary grip on sanity was tenuous at the best of times the malevolent murderer retained an innate faculty for ratiocination when it came to the crafting of chaos, thus the twisted traveler was able to recognize, if somewhat despondently, that while a fresh horde of vigilantes would certainly make his life far more interesting, more than likely his description would simply be passed onto the local authorities were it would swiftly be filed away out of sight and, ultimately, out of mind. Still, there was no reason the sinister slaughterer couldn’t enjoy his present endeavor, after all, what could be more rewarding than working with impressionable young minds?

… a certain corticated brunette did spring to mind, however the deranged wander swiftly dismissed such thoughts as his argent hands continued to gently stroke the quivering gamines blonde hair. There would be time enough to tease the buxom bonemancer at a later date, for now though he needed to ensure his latest playmate felt appreciated.

“You.”[/color]

Shaken from his insidious machinations the former soldier shifted his venomous viridian gaze, having only just caught the faintest whisper from the trembling ingénues lips. A ghost of a grin danced across the anarchist’s agreeable countenance while his sterling fingers continued to caress the back of the child’s skull, softly tousling the girl’s hair as she gave voice to her thoughts, clearly placing all blame for her misfortune squarely upon the Canadian killers shoulders. It was, admittedly, a logical conclusion and many would have difficulty in arguing against the gamines statement. Hull’s cerebrations however was decidedly dissimilar to the majority of humanity, his photographic memory ensured every experience left its mark and his sadistic tendencies had inspired an almost savant level of corkscrew reasoning.

In short, Hull was not about to allow the girl to find solace in her thoughts.

“hmm, I suppose I could give you partial credit for that.” He mused thoughtfully as his he brought his hand about to the girls face and carefully wiped away the trail of tears marring the marring the petit gamines features, while his other hand swept out of the gamines visual range and twitched for briefest of moments, argent fingers shifting position to a more suitable as the crimson utility knife vanished and was rapidly replaced by a frosted glass bottle emblazoned with the world renowned coca cola logo. The chilled container was then brought into Katrina’s view and the cap deftly unscrewed before the bottle was tilted towards the ingénue’s lips in a silent offering. When they had first met the petulant adolescent had rejected the thallium laced beverage, apparently based on nothing more than morals, now however things were… different to say the least, and it would take no great of imagination for one to suspect the child may have now changed her mind.

In either case once the gamine had made her decision the toxic libation was idly placed beside the girls head atop the same cement construct to which she was bound and the sinister wanderer resumed his lecturer as he gently rested a hand against the child’s face and softly traced a path down the to the adolescents jaw, his fingers then moving to follow the natural curvature of her neck before ghosting along the length of her outstretched arm as he spoke in a kind tone. “It is all too easy to blame ones misfortune on another Katrina, ultimately though it is nothing more than a pitiful excuse to avoid responsibility for one’s own actions. Think for a moment, how did you get here? I didn’t drag you from your bed in the middle of the night, nor did I threaten or intimidate, you followed me of your own accord, why was that?”

By the time he finished speaking Hull’s hand had come encompass the gamines own, argent fingers curled lightly around frail fist in an almost paternal manner while his thumb lightly brushed up and down the back of the ingénues palm. The simple gesture did not last long however, as the twisted anarchist abruptly released his grip and began to trail back down the adolescents arm, upon reach the child’s elbow though he paused and turned to face the girl as best he could from his position. “Well Katrina, do you have an answer?”

The gamine did not respond immediately, whether her silence was an act of refusal or simply a last minute attempt to collect her thoughts was unclear, however Hull would not have cared either way, he had no intention of allowing the girl to drag events out in an effort to avoid his ministrations and so, without any more than sigh to signal his actions the truculent traveler placed the feel of his palm against the gamines elbow wordlessly shot his form forward, tearing the muscles in the child’s limb as he effortlessly ruptured the joint leaving the arm all but useless.

“I am not known for my patience.”

Her torturer was playing the gentle nurse again, tousling her hair, wiping her tears, and offering her a cold drink. Katrina couldn't help but wonder if the green eyed man's mother had ever done those things for him when he was little. It was a very strange thought, that someone like him would have a mother, or could ever have been a child. What kind of child grows up into this? It didn't seem possible that a baby could be evil already. If not at birth, when did they go wrong?

What has to happen to kid to make them turn out like him?

Her back still stung, her hand still smoldered, and there was no way she was going to accept his cold beverage. She pinched her lips tightly together to make her choice perfectly clear; she wasn't going to drink his Coca Cola. Not now, not ever.

He didn't punish her for her choice, this time. This time, it was a monologue. Katrina listened, she didn't have much of a choice in the matter, as he spoke about choices and gave her a series of Socratic questions designed to lead her into blaming herself for her own misfortune. She didn't respond. She didn't think it mattered. Maybe if she didn't do anything he'd get bored and leave her alone. Katrina couldn't fool herself; she was just waiting, preparing herself for the next round of...

He grabbed her elbow and yanked it, hard. She couldn't see it, but it felt like he'd tried to tear her arm off. His fingers around her elbow had become a thousand knives, stabbing at it from every possible direction.

God, please help me.

No matter how she braced herself, she wasn't able to predict and prepare for something like that. He tore a gasp from her lips and a fresh set of tears from her eyes. Why would someone want to do this? How would it all end? Not for the first time, Katrina wondered whether she would even be alive at the end of the day, of even the hour.

Please. Even in her prayer, Katrina had a hard time putting words together, her mind was a jumble of pain and nightmare pictures that all formed the question, Is anyone there?

Whether or not God heard the girl, whether or not he cared or answered, one fact remains true: in the Mondragon Labs board room, the Kabal’s Leader suddenly gripped his elbow with a gasp. He felt tears running down his cheeks, tracing different paths than the phantom tears that stung more warmly in his mind.

The meeting came to an abrupt halt.

>> Is anyone there?

“Katrina?” Slate asked, looking around as if to find the girl standing nearby. His searching eyes found Melissa Rivers’ frown, Nigel Banks’ hand reflexively on his gun, and Noin Mortman pausing at the door, a stack of papers in her hands. Melissa opened her mouth to speak, but Nigel cautioned her with a glance.

Slate frowned and uncurled his hand from his arm. Katrina? He tried again. Where are you?

There was no time to mobilize the Kabal. For this, the soldiers of the Labs would have to suffice.

It is interesting to note, if one should ever have the time, that throughout the ages numerous religions have risen and fallen, their origins are scattered across the world, among a multitude of different cultures, societies and events. Despite all this though it is almost astounding how the majority of religions shared a basic concept, namely, eternal suffering. Even in this so called 'modern' day and age references of Hell, Gehenna, Tartarus and Jahannam are no less diminished than they were 1000 years ago, indeed in certain areas of the world it could be said that such mentions have increased.

Further, consider that in all but the rarest of exceptions religion begins as nothing more than one individuals word preaching to any who will listen. There will be no proof or evidence of the individuals claims that he is speaking on behalf of a deity or sharing the wisdom of enlighten. No, there is only his word, and as the reader must surely be aware all humans possess the capacity to bedote, beguile, cheat, cozen, deceive, delude... it all equates to the same common denominator; an utterance of falsehoods by the speaker for their own selfish ends.

And what astounding ends they were! Even a cursory glance through the pages of history will reveal that religion is responsible for more deaths on earth than any other cause short of so called 'acts of god' which, due to their very name, could be said to be a subsection of religion. It is truly remarkable to think that so much blood has been spilled on the commands of a select few masquerading under a benevolent guise when truly they seek nothing more than their own personal satisfaction regardless of the overall cost, or indeed perhaps fully cognizant of said costs.

It was thoughts such as these which kept Hull in good humour whenever he caught sight of others praying for hope, salvation or even release for their ignorance was almost beyond measure, and as a general rule the greater ones ignorance the easier they are to toy with. Thus when the sadistic slaughterer glimpsed Katrina's utterly focused expression and noted the minute motions of her lips the Canadian killer grinned, and then released a low chuckled which resonated deep within his throat before emerging into the air. It seemed he had caught a devote Christian girl.

This would be fun.

As his laughter subsided to a mere murmur of its original intensity the malevolent murder gently stroked the gamines injured arm, his sterling fingers gliding upon her skin as his deranged train of thought swept towards its macabre conclusion; idly sifting through the collection of tools and devices resting just outside the ingénue's sight, assigning priorities to each one whilst contemplating which one would be best suited to shatter the girl's silent resolve. Possibly the soldering iron? It had worked well in the beginning to command the adolescents undivided attention, but no, the child would be able to recognize its distinctive hiss and thus steel herself.

Possibly the mallet? Blunt force trauma was generally effective no matter the victim, yet it was so unoriginal; the common tool of your quotidian thug. It could have its place to be sure, but not at this precise moment. It simply would not be an adequate introduction to the second act after this brief interlude no, something more deliciously arcane would be needed here if he wished to decimate her determination and rend her will.

Venomous viridian eyes slid slowly across the makeshift metallic tray, appraising each individual item until, abruptly, an almost inaudible scratching sound reached the demented anarchist's ears causing his gaze to shift to the sewer floor and a sadistic grin to light upon his sinister countenance as his attention centered upon the meager rodent he had stumbled minutes earlier. The creature, in spite of its close contact with electrical current, had revived and was taking time to test the dimensions of its new prison, which was in fact little more than a bucket.

Rats and other vermin had been quite a prominent feature among the many mediaeval torture tools. The creatures were, by and large, omnivores and so with relatively little coaxing mixed with mild starvation they could be persuaded to gorge themselves on the flesh of creatures they would instinctively avoid. A particularly imaginative innovation Hull had encountered some time ago involved force feeding the live rodent down the throat via a metallic pipe and a hot instrument. It was supposedly quite a gruesome death and the one the malign anarchist had been wishing practice for quite some time.

Then there was, of course, the carving pen; a most ingenious device who original purpose was not so far removed from Hull's own. Little more than a miniscule diamond tipped drill the tool had been designed to etch artistic carvings in dense, unyielding materials such as wood, stone or bone. The only slight flaw with the pen was that liquids or softer materials could clog its inner working and thus any surface it worked on had to be properly cleaned and treated beforehand...

Scarlet stained hands hovered momentarily over the equally crimson fillet knife which had been used near the beginning of the session. Already the florid fluid had dried, coating the once sterling steel with a layer of faux rust, yet the killer knew with certainty that this would do nothing to dull the blades edge for it still had a task to complete.

Indeed the new hue seemed to grant the weapon an even greater sanguinary slant as the twisted torturer grasped the handle and held the metal up to the tunnels dim lighting whilst his free hand ghosted over the adolescents lacerated shoulder, tracing the still damp edges of the three sided incision before bringing the tarnished knife to bear on the pale skin; deftly severing the tender tissue and causing another scarlet stream to spill steadily across the gamines arced back as the square of flesh was lifted and placed, almost reverently, besides Katrina's head.

Muffled sobs continued to rack the girls diminutive frame as the blade almost immediately returned to task on the newly skinned section of shoulder. With one hand continuing to hold the child in place Hull gently eased the metal into the muscular fibers resting above the agonized gamines scapula, slowly and carefully dissecting the twitching tissue until the alabaster bone beneath gleamed in the pool of fresh blood and the juveniles arm rendered all but useless.

Only then did Hull turn away, idly withdrawing a bleached cloth from thin air and nonchalantly running both sides of the blade along the smooth material until argent steel was once more visible. "I hope I have you're full attention Katrina, there's a new game we're going to play; it's called truth or harm."

Shifting back into the gamines line of sight the macabre menace knelt until he was at eye level with the child and tenderly wiped away her tears before continuing. "Here's how it works, I'm going to ask you a question and as long as you give me a truthful answer I'll stay away from my toys. Does that sound good?"

After allowing Katrina a moment to concentrate and comprehend precisely what he was offering Hull abruptly abandoned his amiable facade and allowed a malevolent grin to snake across his lips. "If however, you refuse to answer or I feel you are lying to me, I shall return to my original entertainment, do you understand?"

"Then let's begin."

>>>Katrina? Where are you?

Katrina gasped. Hull sliced her shoulder again, it felt like the knife scraped her shoulder blade. Tears streamed down her cheeks and blood streamed down her back. Whimpers and sobs were on autopilot now. She didn't even try to stop them. The pain made it impossible to concentrate. Her answer to Slate was in short bursts, pictures more than words.

Central Park. The path. The fountain. The manhole cover next to the bush. The dully lit sewer. Each snapshot was brief, but intensely detailed, sharpened by pain. Katrina wouldn't soon forget any of those places.

Fingers pried at her flesh, pulled at it, tore it. What the knife had started his hand finished. The fire worm that had burrowed through her hand had taken flight, landed on her back, and laid an entire nest full of squirming, burning, flesh devouring offspring. The pain was unbelievable. It would have been unbearable, too, except that somehow she had to bear it and she was surviving it so far.

It wasn't fair.

The silken voice was talking again. It didn't seem important to actually listen. Katrina felt only the pain. She had plenty of time to feel it, too. The shape of it. The size. The color and intensity. Every part of it she felt.

Hurry. She tried to broadcast a message to her psychic friend, but her all she could focus on was the pain. So that's what she broadcast. Outward, to the green eyed man and to anyone directly above her. Anyone within her range felt exactly as she felt. Pain.

Katrina wasn't responding, that was... disappointing.

With a muted shake of his head Hull lay the gleaming steel knife back upon the tray. Children were so soft these days, whining and crying about the smallest things. Back in his day kids learned how to take a beating or two, normally at his hands but there had been the odd occasion when the morbid menace had failed to become the victor of a brawl and during those times he'd learned a few things about pain himself.

In any case the rather disagreeable fact of the matter was that he'd over estimated his young charge and pushed her beyond her tolerance for pain, leaving her crying like... well, a little girl. It was quite a deplorable situation but there was little which could be done about it at this stage. Truly the sinister slaughterer was faced with only two choices; he could set his tools and immediate source of entertainment aside in order to give the sobbing adolescent a chance to recollect herself. This would undoubtedly take a significant amount of time and likely cause him no small amount of boredom.

Alternatively the twisted torturer could instead abandon his initial idea of tormenting the child's psyche and instead choose the more urbane but immediately rewarding option of simply using the girl's body as a testing ground for his newest tools, hmm...

Not much of a contest really.

With a cheerful clap and rub of his hands Hull abruptly pivoted and reached down to select the exquisitely designed sable carving pen. A brief moment was taken to connect the drilling device to the jury-rigged power source above and malevolent hum quickly cascaded throughout the tunnels narrow confines. This was drill which could pierce wood, stone and, in a few short seconds, bone.

Once more hovering over the quivering adolescent a sturdy hand was again placed at the girl's neck to keep her still whilst another more precise hand was carefully lowered the carving pen towards the revealed plate of bleached bone until the diamond stud connected with surface of the osseous matter and easily ate through to the tender nerves buried beneath.

Then, things became... interesting.

Pain erupted from the left shoulder, surging along torn muscles, ravaged tendons and split skin screaming for the attention of the conscious mind. That wasn't all though, above everything else was a deeper form of agony from savaged nerves which rarely saw the light of day; a blazing cry of agony emanating from a mutilated scapula which seemed to have been etched with liquid fire along its length.

All perfectly normal sensations for a victim given the circumstances, for the torturer to experience them in tandem however is another matter entirely.

Hull's reaction to the sudden spike of pain blooming in his shoulder was quite simple. He promptly forgot everything he'd been doing and collapsed on top of his restrained victim, his hands swiftly abandoned their prior tasks and reached around to clutch and possibly stem the blood which could be felt tricking down the skin of his back. The crimson jacket emblazoned with coca cola logo quickly vanished as impetuous argent fingers made contact, the alabaster t-shirt rapidly followed until questing fingers made contact with clean, unmarked skin.

'WTF?'

The thought drifted above the layer of pain coating the twisted malevolent murderers thoughts as his searching hands failed to find the injury his mind insistently screamed was there. And in the wake of the confusion which set amidst the burning torment his combat training set in; grasping control of his lungs and forcing deep but regular breaths to ensure a steady flow of oxygen as one of his clamped down to apply pressure to stem the bleeding of the nonexistent wound and also relieve a measure of the pain. Though neither action truly did anything they allowed the sinister anarchist to fall into the mental routine he typically reserved for bullet stab wounds creating space within his mind to think and act.

Rising slowly Hull kept one hand clamped upon the ghost wound in his shoulder as the other found purchase on the edge of the horizontal slab supporting his victim and venomous viridian eyes rapidly focused on the fresh wound he'd inflicted on the child. It took no great no noteworthy amount of thought to make a connection in this latest twist of events, and so didn't pause to ponder the how's or why's of the situation. He merely acted as any demented homicidally inclined individual would by slamming the fist of his free hand down on Katrina's head.

There was more than one path, in Central Park.
More than one fountain.
More than one bush.
More than one jogger suddenly gasping on the ground; more than one searching guard on his knees from the sudden pain.

“I think we found it,” Artemis gasped, his palm shaking as he steadied himself on the metal manhole cover. The other went to the headset tucked over his ear, making sure it was still secure.

Move in. The order came.

Save Katrina. It was the only order that mattered.

The frantic drive here had been agonizing. It was how he had known she was still alive.

Just a little longer. Please, he sent to her. They were here. They had found her. She couldn’t die now.

Her shoulder burned. Her hand burned. Even the tears in her eyes burned.

Slate's voice echoed somewhere in her head, but she couldn't focus enough to recognize what he said and she didn't have enough time to formulate some kind of response before something hit her temple. Darkness came again to wash away the sights, the sounds, and smells of the sewers. Even the pain faded into blissful nothingness.

The guards of Mondragon Labs stopped feeling her pain, too. Despite the worst case scenario, they kept moving. Boots splashed down into murky water, guns cocked and pointed toward the dark haired man illuminated from behind by his makeshift lamp.

“Get away from the girl,” Percy growled as he leveled the gun, keeping the man's chest in his sights. They didn't know what this man could do, it would put him much at ease if there was more distance between the psychopath and the prone blonde girl. It would put him even more at ease if the pain would come back to his shoulder. The only thing worse than feeling that pain was not feeling it anymore.

More pairs of boots splashed down in the darkness behind Percy.

A mantra often espoused by those unable to defend themselves is that' violence never solves anything.'

Taken utterly out of context the statement, in and of itself, is rather accurate; mere violence does not solve anything, it merely postpones an issue by forcing the parties involved to recover and so at best presents only a short term remedy. What many people often omit from such an argument however is that the ultimate conclusion of violence is death, and as everyone knows, death cures all illness and settles all debts. It is the final solution.

Hull had long ago come to appreciate this universal truth and so as his mind cleared away the last vestiges of the phantom pain which had suffused his thoughts the twisted torturer's attention returned to the blonde specimen laid out before him and his toxic emerald eyes narrowed as he considered the comatose child in the dim flickering glow of the sewer lamp. The gamine clearly possessed some of form of telepathy in order for her to transpose her pain onto others and though the Canadian killer may not have been sane but neither was he masochist.

The sinister slaughterers hand rose and hovered briefly over the adolescents skull, argent fingers uncurling with a measured motion before they descended and lit upon the side of the child's face in a manner similar to a morbid arachnid. Thumb and forefinger were positioned over one of the gamines eyes and adroitly pulled back the closed eyelid to reveal unresponsive ashen iris's. Unwilling to rely on such a basic indicator any further though the malevolent murderer gave the eye a cursory flick with another finger and when that too failed to elicit a response the demented wander released his grasp, allowing the ingenue head to fall back to its prior position upon the stone slab.

The girl was well and truly out, now would be best the time to conclude things; a single incision could end things with the minimum amount of fuss. It wasn't how he'd planned things to end but then, he rarely put much stock by such things; fare better to remain flexible. The malicious wanderers hand formed a loose fist and a pristine switchblade swiftly flickered into existence to occupy the space. The only remaining issue was location, location, location.

The tip of the blade quickly dropped down to the base of Katrina's skull, it's edge biting lightly into the girls tender skin until new beads of blood swelled. If the girl's head were tilted the jugular vein would make itself a most convenient target, and the child's own heart would expel the blood from her body, yet that was so cliché.

The knife trailed down further, never easing it's pressure as it crafted a thin crimson line down the gamines spine before pausing a short distance below the shoulder blades. Both the lungs and heart were accessible at this level and indeed were quite convenient targets as a thrust from this angle would entirely circumvent the meager protection offered by the ribs-

The sound of shifting rusted metal abruptly sliced through the foreign fiends morbid musings and his attention swiftly redirected to the source of the unexpected intrusion; someone was coming down the manhole from above, and given the odds of someone conducting any form of maintenance or inspection at this time of day that visitors would not be friendly. Still, guests were guests and needed to be greeted appropriately, Hull's freehand raised and flexed as an MP5 blinked into life within its grasp. The weapon was aimed casually at the sewer entrance and deftly tracked the first man to descend the latter.

"Ah, company! This is wonderful, I so rarely get the chance to entertain-"

“Get away from the girl,”[/color]

"And you brought housewarming gifts, how thoughtful. "

Hull's cheerful affectation changed not a single iota as he stared into the muzzle of the firearm leveled in his direction. It was merely a pistol and even if it were a semiautomatic it wouldn't match up to a submachine gun which was an optimal weapon in narrow confines such as this. His grin only widened as noticed more armed bodies descending the ladder, and idly he wondered if the sewer's structural integrity would be able withstand a pipebomb; he'd always enjoyed dynamite fishing when he was younger, perhaps he could-

One of the men stepped forward.

"Ah ah ah, careful there." The switch blade was rapidly relocated to Katrina throat. "Did you know it takes less than five pounds of pressure to pierce the epidermis and rupture the jugular vein? It's really quite a convenient fact really but it does tend to make quite the mess and I'm not sure you properly appreciate that. Now why don't you toss your little gifts into the water and we can go on from there hmm?"