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Alcohol. After his last, rather public appearance, he felt the desparate need for some liquid refreshment. Thanks to events following that profitable evening though, Martin was forced to hide his face. Not because he had been identified as the killer, but because he was presently being sought as witness to the crime. The search should die down in a few weeks time, but presently he was rather ill equipped to go outside in his natural persona. Therefore he had decided to don his guise of Gretchen again, the femme fatale some found slightly reminiscent of Lady Gaga. Both had a perchant for cutting-edge fashion. This is as far as he himself could see any resemblance. But people would believe what they wanted to.

This evening, Martin had invested (via online shopping no less) in some rather ingenious assortment of clothing. It was a baroque seeming gown again, in which s/he had boarded a Cab. Baroque and not. While the corset laced what had in the first iteration been a pair of grapefruit - now it was something made of rubber, with slightly more boom - rather nicely into something most females would probably view with a slight case of breast-envy, her skirt made no effort to hide her other roundings as well. These had been difficult for Martin to archieve, but the discomfort he suffered now was quite minimal. (Though the whole ensemble with platin-blonde wig was abominably hot.)

His efforts of clothing himself... herself... were somewhat rewarded by the stares... rather lusty stares... she got in the first bar she entered. And she did enter the first bar she came across. Something of a mistake, as that turned out to be a rocker establishment. Lady Gaga might have found the be-leatherd and round-bellied boys entertaining. Gretchen on the other hand did not. She fled with her combat boots - that had not changed since her inception - falling rather rapidly on the street, entering the next bar huffed and in even more desparate need of refreshment. That dress was *hot*. Thank all the gods for high-functioning deodorants and 24-Hour lipstick!

Though the bar was packed, Gretchens way to the counter was rather easy. She shoved and used quite unladylike words until the looks of males in her vicinity found her ample bosom. They found a polite spirit somewhere - usually - and let her flop herself down near another female on a barstool. Arranging that gown after quickly ordering a water gave her enough time to muster the other female who had just gotten what seemed to be another drink.

Her Alto was exasperated and slightly huffy as she addressed the woman. "Now what might you be drinking to tonight, Honey?" It was a voice to fall into. To let yourself in... the voice of a godess. Who was, arguably, not Lady Gaga. But she had ample bosom. Stuffed with explosives tonight.

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.)

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.

Slowly Martins eyes changed back to their usual... hiding your nature, are we? Letting go was easy, time snapping back into order. Chandler though alreaddy was beyond himself. Had seen enough? Probably. He was crying afresh now, tears flowing down his cheeks, disappearing somewhere along the line of his collar. He sobbed loudly as Andrew gripped him. Sobbed and sobbed. Beside himself? The man was terrified witless it seemed, for the contact elicited nothing from him. No promises, just a low hicc as he grasped for air - once- to resume giving a voice to his feelings.

Weightily weightless he was in Andrews arms, as he did not resist though his slightly pudgy flesh dampened by sweat offered a resistance all on its own, slippery it was to the touch. Befouling hands that came into contact with its secretions. The smell - reek rather to be noticeable over the innate smell of abandoned building - was one of stale sweat.

Martin stood silently, watching only for what would happen now. He did laude - internally for now - the creativity of his follower in using his mutation for the amis of the master. It seemed fitting somehow. Of course he determined to keep alert for the cance - however remote - that the fat man would actually do as toled and escape. Never trusting fully. It was part of what he was. He could not trust the others - and there were only others. No one like him. A lonely existence he had become accustomed to again. Again and again as people deserted him. one after the other they all left. Died. Away, forever beyond his reach.

It was the dilemma of the immortals.

Ah. So nice I am to give her time... for me time to watch, how her legs shift, the stance moves. How the weight is distributed. How muscles tighten in anticipation. Anticipation it is that fills me. The knowing that things will happen and the heady overtones that I am the one making them happen. I am the one who decides. My knife. My power. My edge.

Cutting you yet?

Martin shifts closer and closer, quickly yet not. The balance is preserved, on the balls of his feet he is shifting. His arm is half-raised, the shadow of the knife falling as a reminder, cutting through the light.

Shifting.

Quickly now. Stabbing at your midsection. Where the blood lies.

*gnah* An indian Godess.

I love it!

Speak to me! Says the man without
a mouth to speak to from
Whisper for me
sweet nothing in my ear
for no ear to hear
your sweet nothing
they cry
day and night
the twofold question
why
die

Snap. Gunshot. Powder changing natures, hot gas expanding, pushing outwards that little piece of metal, bullet. Shooting in your face. All it takes is a little pull, only your finger moves the ending into coming. It is such a little thing. Mayhaps it is the thing that fascinates us with guns. So little the action, immovable the reaction. With just my fingertip moving destinies. Can you give it to me? That little push?

Martin sees it happening, sees it all. The muscles of the arm contracting, one by one, milimetre by milimetre, bracing for the inevitable. The movement of the hand, just slowly incing the finger back, fighting the resistance. Until the point comes. Trigger moment. Snap. Hot gas expanding. A bullet leaving the barrel, spinning slowly around itself. Lazy almost it seems.
But Martin sees more: The hundreds of fragments, thousands, floating around them. All the little pieces that once were one. He can taste them on his tounge. Feel them on his fingertips. Times-a-wasting. Wasting time. Laying waste to it. Breaking. Hundreds of pieces of glass slowly moving, the fracture lines expanding. In your face.
The bullet crosses one, then a next one. It leaves parts of it behind as its own velocity starts ripping it apart. Snap. Nothing remains but smoke and mirrors. Nothing but a smile on a young boys face.

"You really can do better... I hope."

He announces the words, not speaking them. Just plainly: Making things clear for you. And then movement comes. One step. Two. Closing the distance. (What can be more intimate?)