Sometimes all it took was for Domen to make an appearance. Some men would cower at the mere sight of the mercenary standing at his full height of six feet and three inches clad in that all black combat suit with the helmet painted in the likeness of a white skull, his black eyes glinting malevolently as he approached with a machete in one hand and a gun in the other. All along his armored body were weapons, cuts and bullet holes but it held true against all assaults despite the obvious wear and tear. He moved easily as though it were a second skin and possessed an eerie kind of grace when he stalked toward his prey. There was a certain thrill to be had for Domen whenever he first made his prey aware of him. He fed off the fear and uncertainty the same way a vampire feeds off of human blood, it gave him strength.
Setting this up was as simple as a phone call. Gigi had the time, the place. She knew when to meet him, knew when to make her appearance to watch his handiwork first hand. Domen didn't take her for the kind to be late to something like this so he didn't wait. The small building was run down in one of Rhy"Din's seediest neighborhoods. The grime of the windows contained most of the light that flickered from inside. He could see the indistinct shape of a man walking through a room with a television and counted to ten.
One"two"
He approached from a rooftop, dropping silently into the street to cross through the gloom of the poorly lit avenue.
Three"four"
His prey's silhouette stood against the window. Domen paused just outside; his dark armor bathed in the faint orange glow of artificial light that leaked from the layer of filth that coated the glass. He turned, walking left around the building.
Five'six"
He flicked his wrist. A length of wire rolled out on the ground behind him as he circled the building's perimeter, checking for escape routes, listening for voices. His prey was hosting a small gathering of men and women in the back room. He approached the window.
Seven"eight"
There were six of them in all. They sat around a poker table with drinks and drugs in one hand and cards in the other. They were laughing, cursing and threatening one another. The party was all lower class scum, people Domen didn't think the world cared about; people who wouldn't survive the night.
Nine"
His gun was in hand. It resembled an M1911 and sounded exactly the same as he fired into the window.
Ten.
Glass shattered as the bullet cut through the air and blasted into a man's skull. Blood and brain matter exploded outward and spilled over the woman who sat in his lap. Domen dove through the window and lashed out with the length of wire as one of the men stood with a gun in hand. It curled around his wrist and dug into his flesh, drops of red trickled down the length of metal and dripped onto the floor as he fell face first. Domen stepped on the back of his head and pushed until he heard the crunch of bone, firing three more rounds to silence a screaming woman, a shouting man and another who yelled at him in a language he didn't understand.
The last in the room was another woman who hid behind the overturned table. The ground was strewn with poker chips and playing cards and she was covered in blood. Domen shot her as he walked by. He heard the sounds of his target running through the house, the sound of a pump-action shotgun echoed as a round was put into the chamber and readied to fire in the adjacent room. He knew his target was waiting for him to walk through the door.
Domen slid his gun into its holster and turned to look around at the room he was in. It was a kitchen, as luck would have it, and so he approached the small stove and oven combination to reach behind it and tug the pipe free that guided the flow of gas. He could breathe as long as he wanted to; his helmet's air filter would keep his lungs fresh and clean for several hours as gas flooded the kitchen.
"I know you're waiting," Domen's voice echoed through the small building. "What's that' A Remington 870?? his coarse laugh hung in the air as he crossed the room to the pile of dead bodies and dug through their pockets for a cigarette and a lighter. He lit one of the cancer sticks and set it on the window sill and twisted around to duck into the corner, dragging the overturned table up with him to act as an impromptu shield.
He counted to ten.
Setting this up was as simple as a phone call. Gigi had the time, the place. She knew when to meet him, knew when to make her appearance to watch his handiwork first hand. Domen didn't take her for the kind to be late to something like this so he didn't wait. The small building was run down in one of Rhy"Din's seediest neighborhoods. The grime of the windows contained most of the light that flickered from inside. He could see the indistinct shape of a man walking through a room with a television and counted to ten.
One"two"
He approached from a rooftop, dropping silently into the street to cross through the gloom of the poorly lit avenue.
Three"four"
His prey's silhouette stood against the window. Domen paused just outside; his dark armor bathed in the faint orange glow of artificial light that leaked from the layer of filth that coated the glass. He turned, walking left around the building.
Five'six"
He flicked his wrist. A length of wire rolled out on the ground behind him as he circled the building's perimeter, checking for escape routes, listening for voices. His prey was hosting a small gathering of men and women in the back room. He approached the window.
Seven"eight"
There were six of them in all. They sat around a poker table with drinks and drugs in one hand and cards in the other. They were laughing, cursing and threatening one another. The party was all lower class scum, people Domen didn't think the world cared about; people who wouldn't survive the night.
Nine"
His gun was in hand. It resembled an M1911 and sounded exactly the same as he fired into the window.
Ten.
Glass shattered as the bullet cut through the air and blasted into a man's skull. Blood and brain matter exploded outward and spilled over the woman who sat in his lap. Domen dove through the window and lashed out with the length of wire as one of the men stood with a gun in hand. It curled around his wrist and dug into his flesh, drops of red trickled down the length of metal and dripped onto the floor as he fell face first. Domen stepped on the back of his head and pushed until he heard the crunch of bone, firing three more rounds to silence a screaming woman, a shouting man and another who yelled at him in a language he didn't understand.
The last in the room was another woman who hid behind the overturned table. The ground was strewn with poker chips and playing cards and she was covered in blood. Domen shot her as he walked by. He heard the sounds of his target running through the house, the sound of a pump-action shotgun echoed as a round was put into the chamber and readied to fire in the adjacent room. He knew his target was waiting for him to walk through the door.
Domen slid his gun into its holster and turned to look around at the room he was in. It was a kitchen, as luck would have it, and so he approached the small stove and oven combination to reach behind it and tug the pipe free that guided the flow of gas. He could breathe as long as he wanted to; his helmet's air filter would keep his lungs fresh and clean for several hours as gas flooded the kitchen.
"I know you're waiting," Domen's voice echoed through the small building. "What's that' A Remington 870?? his coarse laugh hung in the air as he crossed the room to the pile of dead bodies and dug through their pockets for a cigarette and a lighter. He lit one of the cancer sticks and set it on the window sill and twisted around to duck into the corner, dragging the overturned table up with him to act as an impromptu shield.
He counted to ten.