Silence is drawn like a curtain over the people on the streets, lightly falling heavily. People are turning, first a few and more and more and more. All turning. Their eyes are locked upon the one place. It is not an ominous silence, not like the ones from the movie. People are still laughing in the distance, talking on a phone. No heavy drums that announce the imminence of violence. (Some might have wanted them in the beginning. Now it is too late.) In lieu of them, a phone starts ringing merrily. A heavy rap song fills the air. Not pestilence, only another natural sound of city life. People are staring. They have seen the picture in movies often enough. Have seen it in the news.

The cough of the gun had been muffled by a silencer and was quickly lost in the audious terror of the streets. What was not lost - rather lost too much - was brains and blood. Not they made a rather pretty abstaract painting on one of the highly polished windows. D&G bags, pictures of pretty people smiling, now had slightly soggy company. (Are you happy now?) A rather small hole was punched in the window beside the mess like an exclamation point. Underlining the end of life with copious aesthetics. Cracks were getting visible as liquid flowing down took the paths of least resistance - thanks be to cappilary forces.

People are staring silently. The turning has stopped now. Unlike in the movies there is no screaming now. No avenging angel swooping down with a fiery sword, no fast cars and no big-bosomed women. It is not. No children are crying for their mothers. People are staring silently and watching. The ones closest are not yet ready to believe - they will take longest to comprehend. Brushign death means it leaving a taint with you. You need time and time again - room to get closer. To better understand each other. It is those that turned second or third that break the silence as they turn away. Their eyes are suddenly alive. This is news. It has not happened to me yet. The first cell phones are taken from pockets. Photos are snapped and once or twice the police is actually called in. A dead man in the street.

The newsrooms will get the first pictures of the event - grainy and badly lit - at approximately the same time. Come, come, come... the call goes out. This is a real corpse to see. Just a bit of death for you. People are not crying. Not any more. They form a wide, wide circle. Not from respect, but because some unconscious impulse tells them... something innate. That man has lived his life. How sad for him they think.

Martin can see it through the eye of the scope on the gun he has used. Studies the studied indifference on the faces. The eyes that speak: It is not me. Will not be me. So lets make it a show. People need to see. Not me! (me! Me! ME! Happily)

He begins dismantling the gun with quick and sure grips. Click, click, click. The parts he arrays before him in a neat little line. He retrieves a backpack from beside him and slips them in. He will not leave it on this rooftop. Much too easy, dont you think? Those Criminologists need to earn their pay. Gravel crunches underfoot as he turns around to leave.

on teh street people are talking with ones they have never seen before, excitedly revealing how close they came. And indeed how the city is growing worse with the passing of days. Criminals are everywhere, are they now? People are people, I say. I think. They will stedfastly ignore that they do not want to see. Luckily I have three eyes. One of the might teach you... breaking your playthings.

Zelek stopped in his tracks as a red mist filled the air in front of him. His stomach growled and for a moment he almost lunged down and feasted on the now very dead man before him, Zelek Smiled and turned from the crowd every one else was all awe and bewilderment. He was amusement and curiosity. the angle the bullet bit into the man's head, and the subsequent initial explosion of carrion debris meant the shooter was up high. likely across and yes a form was up there looking down. Zelek Jaywalked quickly across the road though traffic was doomed on this particular street. He would normally seek out an alley to do what he was about to but, there was no need just now everyone was here to see the macabre sight before them, never mind the man manipulating the minerals around him to create a makeshift elevator.

Zelek placed his back to the wall and summoned layer after layer of mineral under his feet in a small square, as he got further from the sidewalk the material changed to that which was contained in the brick. As he felt the wall leave from behind his back, he leaned into and sat on the ledge. spinning and kicking his feet over as he spied the shooter making his wat away. Oh good, he already put away his firearm, it wouldn't due to have to heal from a sniper shot from this distance no.

"Excuse me, Sniper. But, may I ask, was that work or pleasure?" He grinned and remembered to wipe the red from his face, Sliding his palm across and licking his fingers clean. He toyed with the idea for a moment of taking the shooter for his meal. but then he was a dangerous gun toting manic, might be best to leave him running about the city making messes.

The killer was presently and pleasantly engaged in mentally counting up the amounts of money to be retrieved from the successful completion of this operation. A rather natural mental reaction for the creation of large amounts of Dopamine in the quotidian population. For Martin it was a rather dry enumeration of sums (he was indeed not above submitting expenses to his employers.) and the appropriate additions. To compound this, he was engaged in recalling the contingency and getaway plans prepared for the amicable ending, the last act of this bit of highly dramatized theater. It would be rather shameful for the professional killer to be arrested as a possible interlude before life incarceration without parole. (A rather daunting prospect for the jailors that would be, as the jailed would outlive them rather permanently.) All this was, permitting the rather cynical wording, routine. His combat boots – the only luxury he tended to permit himself in this kind of covert setting – good shoeware was hard to come by – was meteronomically dulling. Just another step in a perfectly choreographed dance.

>> "Excuse me, Sniper. But, may I ask, was that work or pleasure?"

If you wanted to, you might interpret it as a sign of professionalism. Or of foolhardiness. Both of them rarely ventured out together as it was said, perhaps rightly so, that there are no old, bold soldiers. Of what action I am speaking? I am speaking of the fact that the sudden intrusion of a voice into Martins rather satisfied post-murder ruminations was not to be followed by immediate and violent action. Indeed there was not even so much as the overt tensing of muscles to alert the intruder towards the enigmatic killers intentions. Rather there was a turning. About ninety degrees it was, until the apparently youthful specimen of homo superior was face to face with the intruder into his little killers world.

Three eyes blinked in unconcerned unison as said invader proceeded to lick blood off his fingertips. This, as well as the fact of his sudden arrival, was more than enough for Martins mind to open and close certain drawstrings. Stages. Mutant one said. The one saying 'threat' was presently mildly illuminated, curtains half drawn. (Choose your own Pictures of indecision.) And of awaiting. There was a noticeable pause, as the young man corrected the seat of his absolutely unremarkable backpack with his right hand. His left ever so conveniently slipped into one of the many pockets of his gray-mottled cargo pants.

“Business.” Then came as the answer to the question asked. A hard word it was, unforgiving. It was, perhaps intentionally, tinged with a harsh accent that gave away some of the speakers Germanic or perhaps Slavic language heritage. It was a word of finality in some ways. A pronouncement of intentionality. (This is America, Corporate.)

"Ah. Too bad." Zelek let his own Russian accent thicken in answer to hearing some of the older tongues on the man across from him. His frivolity shown through much more in the sigh on his breath and the slump in his shoulder he had so hoped to find a kindred soul that did so enjoy a good kill.

His gaze peered at the three eyed man in front of him not shocked so much as interested, And wondered which of the three looked through the scope to watch the man die. He then wondered if the thought would have crossed his mind at all if he only had the usual two. not likely.

Zelek looked over his shoulder as the pedestal that he had raised from his surroundings slowly found its way home. A bicycle cop had found his way to the scene and was for the most part attempting to keep anyone from the immediate scene. He stood and paced away from the ledge that would immediately give away the vantage that the shooter had taken his shot from.

"I had hoped it was pleasure, such a precise and beautiful shot to be wasted on anything but art." Don't let me keep you, We can walk and talk if you like, if you are concerned with being caught red handed." the statement made due to the way he seemed to remind himself that he was carrying the rifle on his shoulder as they spoke. or perhaps that was a subtle reminder that he still had his arms with him. and likely more in his pocket.

Zelek subconsciously readied his imagination to call upon protection from his surroundings.or perhaps a hefty spike in his, the best offense is a good defense and what not. He made his way in the direction Martin was already heading. "Shall we?"

Martin gave the other a curt nod of approval. "We shall." All business he still was. The frivolity seemed to be largely lost on him. Or it seemed to leave him unaffected. In teh end it came down to the same thing. Hand still in the pocket he nodded once. The way down led through the interior of the building, wherefore it was necessary to pass through the door of a small aperture to enter a stairwell inside.

Martin nodded again. "After you." Nothing like a suspicious killer on your backside to keep you occupied, is there? Martin seemed to think his behavior totally normal. Or at least insofar unremarkable as to not change his rather robotic tone. And indeed robotic it was. Businesslike, polite, but even after such few sentences it became rather obvious that there was something much different about him. No matter three eyes or not. This tone of indifference was absolutely abnormal.

Only after re-entering the protective confines of the building did the youthful killer address the other issue raised. "I take some pride in doing good work. Call it found art if you will." The rather unnervingly calm demeanor was in no way altered as he posed a question that puzzled him a bit. "So do you usually join assassins after their work?" His face he his erstwhile in the multitude of shadows of the dimly-lit upper stairwells of the building. These were not designed for public exposure and therefore consisted mostly of steel grids with come cables in many colors for variety. Steps were loud here and the options for movement few. What had posessed the killer to choose this confined route?

Zelek nodded, and continued forward with the android like sniper, perhaps he allowed himself some detachment from himself and the situation to cope, or maybe he was just an odd one, surely having three eyes changed the way you perceived things. regardless, he took his intrusion to a lovely kill in stride and so things were going amiably enough.

The vampire continued forward and led the way, though he knew not where they were going.
“ Ah, I see, I thought the splash was artful, the shot was certainly masterful, I did get a first person view after all.” He shook his head slightly, “ No, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to communicate with a fellow killer. I tend to stick to shadows and lone targets that stray, it uncomplicated things in the long run. It was refreshing to see such a bold statement. Anywhere, anytime, death is among us the hole in his head seemed to say.”

He walked forward without a care in the world always overconfident in his abilities and his ability to get out of any situation he could get into. Had he bitten off more than he could chew? He thought not as he would be able to hear any weapon that might be loaded behind his back, more importantly he doubted the fine fellow had any stakes on him.

Killer? Am I? The question bloomed like a growing ice crystal in Martins mind. Slowly it reached its tendrils out, assorted arms moving into the depths of his mind, just where the heeart was hidden. Creeping things, poisonous, were grown there, had grown for the longest time thinkable. unthinkable to anyone alive, was it not? The times thought of here. Too much, too many things cultivates there. Neat rows of ideas under ideas, stacking up in layers his different roles, identities.

Outwardly the killer was nearly unmoved. Only his eyes, those closed for a few seconds as the young vampire spoke on and on. The knife in his one hand was take by a slight shudder, almost one of rejection. Almost like the man was cold... inside. His eyes opened in the shadows. Seeing something grotesque, are we not? We don't like... this, are like this. The knife steadied as his steps, broken by a minute pause, continued. Towards one of the stairs leading down, out. Metal grids upon one another. The depths lay almost open here.

The light of a bare bulb flared overhead, painting harsh shadows on the walls. Martin shook his head, finally. There had been silence for a while as he was lost in his thoughts. He had allowed silence between them as his thoughts ran their course. "I am an assassin, not a fellow killer. While I may take pride in my work, make it good and even aesthetically pleasing, those aspects are not the core of my doings. Wherefore I am unlike you." The notes flowed now like water rushing down a slope. Coldly, inorexably drawing inwards. Sometimes a harsh consonant or vowel might be hinting at undercurrents. Dangerous undercurrents. The man was... slightly angered? Angry at the vampire? Could that be? He now was showing quite a bit of white teeth when talking. Almost like a dare?

Some further steps led the pair away from the harsh lighting. Back into half-shadow. Grays became more pronounced here. Down the slowpes, steps. The spiral went on and on it seemed. Ready to make you fall... for me. "And consider this, young friend: This was the first time I just a rifle during my work." Not that the information was particularly useful. Unless you wanted to go to the police. As a vampire that could be difficult.

The dare was met, sampled and dispatched; the growl on his acquaintances attitude was charming. The hand in his pocket was cause for alarm, he was a mutant after all, who knows what dastardly mutation he might have. Iron slowly and subtlety coated the inside of his shirt, the cloth would soon hang with the added weight of the protection he had bothered with, just because he could survive a murder, didn’t mean it was all that comfortable to do so.

Zelek’s cackle echoed off of the walls in the catwalk. That was good, an assassin not a killer. “Semantics.” The vampire stated. He was slightly bewildered at the man’s retort. A prideful assassin, who was not a killer, did not make an assassin at all. “Do elaborate, you might as well claim to be a chef that doesn’t cook while you are at it. The body on the street is no more or less dead if you label him as assassinated or killed. Still his corpse will bleed and defecate. ”

His second comment however amused him more than the first. “I am more hands on myself as well. Being up close and seeing the moment they know they will die is so much more fulfilling, I am sure that a scope gives a hint of that taste but it can’t compare to the real thing, I’d imagine.”

“But I’m interrupting. I believe you were going to clarify why exactly you are superior to my lowly status of predator.” He carried on at his steady nonchalant pace waiting for the viper he had hoped to find a kindred soul in, declared himself a foe.