tampered | log; incomplete

log; incomplete

when; 30 March, evening.
rating; PG-13.
characters; Muraki Kazutaka (

roy_de_epee), Riffael Raffit (

ruined_arcana).
summary; After an invitation to a drink, certain plans are meant to be followed through.
log;

The evening was cool, but not too chillingly so. Luckily, a light jacket fit the balance very well, and it wasn't warm enough that he suffocated at the thought of lighting a cigarette. A good balance, a pleasant evening; even more so at the prospect of, perhaps, were he not nearly as careful as someone would like him to be, some bloodshed? Oh, it could be brushed off as a simple mistake - so long as the man was alive, what did it matter? Blood, yes... a prospect of a fine evening, indeed.

The shadows in an alley were the best way to go about it; even white could be hidden in the blackness of such crevices. And that butler, the lapdog of the original target, would be taken back to that man for god knows what reason. Maybe he could ask about that later... after all, curiosity was merely a search for a truth - hardly stepping on anyone's toes....

One, two, three, four... Footfalls. Growing very close - very.

Sharp eyes? Ready. A gun lay at his side, ready for whatever came his way, and Muraki himself wasn't one to come unprepared. Even simple butlers could be dangerous. No time to make any mistakes - just aim, shoot for anything but the head or heart, and pray for the best. And so he silently waited, back pressed to the bricks that obscured him from the oncoming traffic of a lone man (or woman, who knew?), the gun itching to be taken out. Hah.

Like he needed a prayer, though.

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The strange invitation of Dr. Muraki had diverted Riff's attention from the day's obsessions with sorting and numbers, but as he stepped cautiously along the sidewalk he fell back into the same arithmetic thinking. He stepped only directly on bricks, avoiding the cracks and weeds between them, counting the number of exhalations and steps as he went. six, seven, eight. It was almost calming.

The doctor had seemed kind enough, but even without Cain's warning he would have had his misgivings. His words had seemed too light, almost taunting... It certainly wouldn't be a sort of personality he had no experience with.

And why had the man contacted him so suddenly? A connection to Delilah? The sender of the mysterious bouquet he'd received a few days earlier? Something else entirely?

If the doctor's intentions were sinister, did he intend to use Riff to get to Cain? He couldn't begin to imagine.

Naturally, Riff had insisted that there was no need to worry, he'd be home in time to brew Cain a cup of evening tea, to do a few night-time chores, but he wasn't nearly as certain himself. It seemed faintly dishonest. He fingered the pistol in his overcoat pocket as he turned a street corner.

And just as the street corner turned, the footsteps became louder, more pronounced, even. As though someone were counting the steps and making a point of it to keep track of the number. Yes, that could have applied to anyone, the city-wide curse was quite amusing in that aspect - but he had the nagging suspicion that, yes, someone he had arranged to come down this little sidewalk was the one, and not some random stranger. Of course, just as planned - did his plans ever go wrong?

Nah, he didn't need to answer that just yet, not when his fingers were moving ever closer and closer to the small six-barrel shotgun at his side. It required concentration, a certain skill, an art to it - it wasn't nearly as easy as the movies made it look.

Breathing, shallower than usual... nerves, or was it a thought distracting the breathing process? Yes, it was the guy. Now, he knew how to get attention. He had his ways of doing so.

One simple shot into the air, a loud bang, was sufficient enough to scare even the resting pigeons on the ledges.

Riff had prepared himself for something like this, but still, the gunshot was very sudden. The sound was deafening. He started slightly, misstepped (completely forgetting his goal of not touching the cracks on the bricks). His ears were ringing and he put his free hand to his forehead, pulling out his pistol with the other.

Squinting frantically in the darkness, he tried to make out the location of his assailant. Was that shadow a coat-tail, or ...? There was no time to be spent making decisions, but he had severe misgivings about firing blindly in the doctor's direction - and it was, of course, the doctor, there could be little doubt on that accout. If he missed it would be disastrous.

Riff ducked down behind a trash can by the side of the street but it did little to help the unnerving feeling that he was an easy target.

"Doctor Muraki..." he began, hoping a response from the other would give away his whereabouts.

Edited 2008-04-01 02:33 (UTC)

Five. The darkness worked well in his favour, as did the sudden startling of that butler. Throw the prey off-guard, then aim to kill. No, no, then a reprimand. Had to be alive, hmn? Perhaps a touch more rattling to that cage of his, a little more of a shake to his frame; he could smell the anxiety from that man from a mile away.

He smirked to himself. He had the upper hand, as always, and thank god above for that. This would be only too easy, unless he threw in some complications himself. The blood... oh, he could smell that in his anticipation, too. Five left. But that seemed almost too many bullets for the job.

Ready, aim... His finger lay on the trigger, his eye on the garbage bin lid, and he knew that would be enough to let his victim know what sort of power he was dealing with. Right in the middle at the handle. Now, squeeze. Another shot exploded in the evening air, and suddenly the tin lid flew off the bin, landing to the side.

Sure enough, there was a clean bullet hole just underneath the handle.

Another shot. This time it was worse, the bin clanged loudly and recoiled against him. The sound could hardly be explained, and a breeze could be felt as the bullet went past him. Riff hunched down still further, totally unable to determine the location of the other man.

Riff didn't lose his nerve easily, and he hadn't been given over entirely to terror, but he was completely focused, driven primarily by basic instincts for survival.

The question of why he was still uninjured was more than a little troubling - was the doctor shooting to miss? If Muraki was simply trying to startle him then it was working, and Riff didn't at all like the idea that he was being toyed with.

If he was out of his league, then maybe it was better to just take the risk of shooting. There was still a small chance of success? His fingers tightened, raised the pistol and fired into the darkness.

A moment of breathlessness and then... The bullet collided with something, probably the wall of a building - it sounded much harder than human flesh in any event, and there was no cry of pain.

Riff gritted his teeth, he had missed.

Edited 2008-04-01 02:32 (UTC)

Four. And already the other man had missed - barely, but still he had missed. The thought was enough to merit a chuckle; he'd allow it, what did it matter? The thrill of the danger in the situation was almost good enough to be an aphrodisiac. Shame the man he was aiming for wasn't really his type. But the thought was amusing nonetheless.

It was tempting to give way to the magic at his disposal to finish the job now. One quick summon, one feral attack, and his prey would be out for the count. But that was no fun. Not when the prey was so much fun to toy with... and who said you couldn't mix business with pleasure?

Ready. Aim. Fire. This time, the bin itself was under attack - right in the middle again. If it happened to move through and hit the other man, well, all the better - but he doubted a .22 would have done such a stellar job. And then, three left. The revolver in his hand was begging to be shot again.

A loud rattling, and the trash bin had been shot. Riff gave silent thanks that it was full, the bullet would have almost certainly gone through it otherwise. Every muscle in his body had tensed - he knew he was completely overpowered by this adversary, and that this could have been so easily avoided, it had been incredibly foolish to come out at all. He was not proud of making such a mistake.

He didn't look forward to explaining this all to Cain, to making him worry, or worse, not being able to explain at all... It was no time to dwell on such things, of course, but dying was not an option.

He gripped the pistol, fired again, near mechanically, and waited... but again, the bullet seemed to have missed its intended target.

How cute. He had missed, yet again. And this time the bullet was further away than the first one. This man, this lapdog, was rattled quite well. Muraki almost wanted to call out to the man to try more to the left, but that would have made it too easy on him. Let him guess, let him shoot blindly into the dark. Meanwhile, he had a good aim and a better view of his adversary.

I want him back alive. Yes, he had heard that when he was ordered to bring this man to him. The sheer tone in that frigid English voice was enough to let him know that this wasn't negotiable. But he never did say anything about wounds, now, did he? Muraki's smirk grew wider at that thought; loopholes were what made the game much more fun, anyway.

Three bullets left - it was time to get a little more serious. His eyes set upon the man's shoulder. There, not too close to either head nor heart, nor spine; as harmless as a shot could get, anyhow. He already had the distinct feeling that the shot would reach that shoulder the instant he fired for the fourth time - how could it not? His plans never did go awry.

He had become so accustomed to the bullets missing that when it did hit him it came as a complete shock. Pain surged through him as the bullet entered his shoulder and soon he was bent double, gasping for air. It wasn't all just fun and games, then, his life really was on the line?

He pressed a hand to his wound, trying to push back the nausea as blood seeped out across his fingers.

It was hopeless. His movements were fumbling, his arm could barely lift the pistol to begin with and all the blood coating his hand had caused the trigger to stick. Still, he couldn't resign himself. Even if it was playing right into the doctor's plans, in the lack of a clear alternative it was all he could do. He pulled and fired again.

Yes, just as he planned. Right in the shoulder joint - oh, look at all that blood, what a shame. But Muraki was wise enough to know he wouldn't suffer critically from even blood loss. It fit into the rules, didn't it? No need to worry, no need for a confrontation. Again, he allowed himself to chuckle, even while dodging the inevitable bullet and moving to the other side of the alley.

A noble ambition, to go down blazing. Sportsmanlike, even.How admirable.

Now, a clearer aim, still in the shade; the garbage bin wasn't obstructing his sights, and he could aim for the feet, perhaps. Maybe he wanted to see a dance, like in those American Western movies. Grinning widely at the prospect, another shot was fired at the ground near the butler's feet. A good injury to the shoulder would eventually tire the victim out with such blood loss. Perhaps now it was merely a waiting game.

This time the bullet only grazed him, tearing across a leather shoe, through the skin on the top of his foot, to reveal the bone. Graze or no, it was painful.

He was quite aware of the fact that he was losing blood and quickly. His shoulder wound itself was almost numb, but he could feel a certain wetness creeping out across his shirt. Vision had begun to blur, there were the telltale popping lights, his head hurt terribly. But he absolutely wouldn't give in so easily.

The butler lifted the gun once more in a truly pathetic show of bravery and fired, again and again, until he could no longer physically lift the weight of it or take the pain of the recoil. He had failed, completely.

Master Cain...? His determination was unshakeable, but his body wouldn't, couldn't respond to his wishes.

Riff sunk back against the wall in exhaustion to await whatever was to come.

Well. He had won, and with one bullet left to him. Not so bad. But it was rather amusing - how many bullets had that man fired, seven? And he was out for the count now, the last few shots merely frustrated punctuation to the silence of defeat. Brave, yet terribly stupid. Oh, well. More an advantage to him.

Likely, the exhaustion was taking over - one, two, three. The languishing breath, the loosely focused stare, the slack in posture... they were enough telltale symptoms to convince him fully of the state of his victim. Yes, the blood loss was affecting him quite badly. Now, maybe one swift injury, hardly even a shot, and he'd be down. Best to get them unconscious; there was less chance of a struggle to get away.

One, two, three footfalls... Muraki edged closer to his fallen prey through the shadows, finally back to the brick wall which the other man was leaning against. His gun's bullet would only be wasted on such hapless prey... for a moment, he stared at the revolver in his hand. Knock him out cold.

Then the barrel was in his hand instead of the handle, and the blunt edge of the gun handle whipped forward to aim for the other man's head.

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log; incomplete

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