Thread: The Crow: Unforeseen Duet (Alvis Alendran & darkangel76)

Jacob leaned on the wall, takign deep breaths to try and find some kind of center to himself, some focus, something that would give him a leg up on what he was doing. He looked up across the street. There was a man there, a large man with a galre for anyone that looked at him. Jacob shivered a moment, before closing his eyes. Heat at his back, going to burn, had to move soon, doesn't care, Ben is gone. Aleena is gone. Guns, guns aiming at his body, promise of death, promise of an ending so final none can escape it. Hesitation made to inspire fear, fear cannot touch a man with nothing left, they see it, know it, cannot miss it, why are they waiting? They see, they know, it is their task, they must do this, orders, it always has to be orders. Thunder and noise, the points tearing into him, ending things, making the black come. But the black was not quiet, the despair, everythign he wanted away from followed him into the black Jacob cried out, reeling back, hands on his head again. A memory, a thought, something that he couldn't escape, something always waiting for him when his eyes closed. He looked across the street, seeing the face of the man there. Jacob felt his lip curl in a snarl. The man had been there. Had been one of the gunmen. Had killed him. had helped kill Aleena. Ben. Everyone that mattered. There was no justice in this man walking the street. It needed to be settled, to be evened. It had to be done. Or attempted. Jacob put one foot forward, then the other, making a move to cross the street. He started to run, distance vanishing. The man knew he was followed, knew something came for him, and ducked away from the street, making a getaway. But Jacob didn't relent. Eyes overhead, staring down, the cry of the crow, following the man, giving Jacob eyes int he sky to track his quarry. His prey. Yes, it was a hunt now, not just a chase, and all that kept Jacob moving forward was a sense of rage, of wrong that needed righting. A small courtyard in the city, away from all prying eyes, bad things had happened here for years, smart people, good people, avoided it. Desperate might come here, those with darkness within them seeking to do harm and great wrongs to others. The gunman put his back to a wall, a weapon in hand, a slow breath being released. He is calm. He knows this game. The one after him does not, that much is clear. His pursuit is obvious, rushed, hurried. A punk looking to make a name most like. One less in a moment. his pursuit comes around the corner, and the heavy pistol in his hand roars. The man staggers away, and is hit again. Then again. He falls. The gunman smiled, and lowers the weapon. Pain, again pain. Bullets, the sensation familiar, tearing through him. The impact hard enough to take his feet from him, and lay him on the ground. Eyes closing, pain fading. And ending. Yes, it must be an ending. A muffled clink. Eyes open again, flicking down. Bullets pushing from closing wounds. Failure not upon him. Not yet. He is not yet done. A wracking, sickening and tortured laugh prying itself free from his throat, carrying across the air to the shooter. Not the sound a dying or dead man ought make. The fuck...? The gunman muttered, looking at the now convulsing man, as he sat up, holes in his ragged shirt showing where bullets entered, but clean unmarked flesh beneath it. The gun snapped up, one more shot, the bullet snapping the man's head back. Clean kill shot. Nothing survived that. The skull didn't shatter, but only just, cracks would be spidered out from that impact. The head snapped back down, blood running from the bullet hole, making a tracery along his face. Sick grin, something wrong in that look, something that spoke of rage adn hate and pain and despair and that it was all now focused on the gunman. The gun went off again, this time missing, the hands of the shooter shaking. Jacob was in motion, rolling to his feet in a motion far too smooth for him, faster than he'd ever been, he knew this, discarded, not important. His quarry before him, all that is important. Bullets spalling on the payment, chips flying, uncared for, unnoticed even. A balled fist hammering home, hitting the chest of the shooter. The man staggered back, clutching the impact point, another hand hitting his wrist, cracking a bone, dropping the gun from nerveless fingers. The fuck?! The man shouted, looking up at his assailant, at Jacob. There was another clink as the gunman watched the bullet slide from the wound in the head, and drop to the pavement. Jesus. Jesus Christ. No no, too late for that. How many time has someone else said that to you while you took aim, took your time? Jacob asked, his hand gripping hte shoulder of the gunman. Did it ever make you stop? Fuck you! Then fuck you want from me?! The words were spat, and the man tried to lunge forward. Jacob hammered a fist into his sternum, then to his face, then drove fingers at his skin. Breaking through it, he closed a fist around a bone, the collarbone. The gunman screamed, loud and raw, as Jacob twsited his wrist, snapping the bone. Gasping breath now,the gunman slumped to the wall, the hand releasing the now broken bone. Look at me. What do you see? Jacob asked. The man complied, seeing just a face. Then he looked a little closer. No. No no no. You're fucking gone. I watched you die! He shouted before gasping from the broken bone. And now you return the favour. Turn about after all... Jacob punched the broken bone, making the man all but pass out. Fingers going in again, this time for his cracked wrist, wrenching it, contorting the joint. A screech of pain beyond endurance split the air, making Jacob smile a moment before stabbing his fingers into the throat of his foe, his killer, his victim, and ripping it out in a welter of blood and viscera. He let the wet mass fall, and raised bloodied hands to the sky, giving voice to rage, to despair, to vengeance wrought, bright and terrible. He placed a hand to the dead man's face to push him from the wall, when- Faces. He can see the faces of his companions as they clean and load the weapons they have been given. Weapons given to them specifically. hollow point bullets, massive trauma to flesh, but low penetration. Won't break the thick glass of where they're going. One target in mind, overkill to send four men, and have two more on hand to start the party, but their boss is thorough. He believes in being sure. -staggering away, faces, names, they were in his head, things he'd never seen, couldn't have seen, but there they were, seen to him, known to him. The men who had killed him, and that there were more of them besides, the ones that would have killed Ben and Aleena. Five now. Going to be less. The sky rumbled, the promise of rain and lightning coming. He heaved a breath, and stood taller, squaring his shoulders, and beginning to walk. He had no idea where to start. But he had been a journalist. He knew how to look for people. He'd find them. And he would show them fear. He would show them vengeance. He stepped back onot the street, heedless of the blood on his hands.