NationStates Jolt Archive

Steam. It was everywhere, swirling around him & clouding his already blurred vision. Cold asphalt chilled his scaly face, sticky with drying blood. Shifting positions caused a spike of painful nausea to shoot through his system, resulting in a spout of dry heaves that kept him firmly locked in his fetal position.

As the sickness cleared, he rolled to his back, landing on a steam vent in the lonesome backalley where he'd awoken. His head throbbed, like some infernal demon within was trying to bash its way out into the mortal world...

"Surely this isn't Hell..."

He thought to himself, comtemplating the billowing clouds of hot vapor around him. Stretching out, his right hand touched something cold, metallic. After grabbing the object, he knew exactly what it was: A gun...

"Holy shit..."

Surprise & disgust caused him to drop the bloody firearm, sending it back to the street with a dull clatter. It was a model 19 Glock, an Austrian 9mm issued to the Argonian Intelligence Service. If he'd taken the time to look closer, he'd have noticed the abscence of a serial number, or any external markings for that matter. The full-wrap pacmar grips where smeared with blood, as was most of the muzzle.

The badly battered Argonian slid a dirty hand to his forehead, finding a deep cut along his temple. No small wonder his head pounded like it did. Without thinking, he secured the pistol he'd dropped earlier & dropped the magazine. Out of the maximum fifteen rounds, seven remained. Rubbing his eyes, he caught glimpses of empty brass casings littering the area, along with an empty magazine a few feet to his left. Bloodstains covered the pavement, darkening it even further...

"What the fuck happened here? Where the Hell am I? Or who for that matter..."

The 'Where' was Grayrock, capitol city of the newly industrialized Argonian nation. The 'Who', however, remains to be seen. The dazed Argonian eased himself into a sitting position & slapped the magazine back into the weapon with a practiced effectiveness uncommon in novice pistoleers. With seven in the magainze it meant he had eight in the weapon. How he knew this, even he wasn't sure. He must've read it somewhere, or something. Dizzy & bone-tired from who-knows-what, he slipped into a fitful, dreamless sleep...

With the Civil War in full swing, security in Grayrock was at an all-time high. Policemen & Domestic Defense Forces patrolled the streets in full battle-rattle, packing USAS-12 automatic shotguns & MP5A4 sub-machineguns along with the standard .45 caliber Mk23 for the officers & the 9mm 92FS for the DDF, the Argonian version of the National Guard.

With the increased security, it was unlikely a gunfight of the proportions that our mysterious individual had been involved in would have gone un-noticed. Despite the obvious dangers of traveling to a country in the midst of civil conflict, the tourisum rates had never really declined. Those adventuerous souls who typically visited such places where still in abundance within Grayrock. Their type wasn't unheard of, those who typically went about armed & had histories or pasts they really didn't like to discuss with the common passer-by.

It was nearing midnight in the capitol city, time when whatever creatures of the night evaded the watchful eyes of the patrolling security forces might slip out for a few hours of recreation. It was doubtful there where any vampires, lycanthropes, or any such creatures lurking within the city, but one never knew...

It was doubtful there where any vampires, lycanthropes, or any such creatures lurking within the city, but one never knew...

Talisman (http://www.atddm.com/Talisman.htm) wasn't any of those things but she certainly wasn't human either. The brief but raging battle had attracted her attention from her lofty skyscraper spire top perch several blocks away. Normally she wouldn't stick a wingtip into such matters but she was feeling so restless, and reckless, this night for some reason. She was not immune to occassional bouts of restlessness, but common sense usually counciled caution.

Silently she landed well short of the badly battered Argonian, furling her wings closely behind her.

"Moulted feathers! Some one cleaned up fast, but looks like you got left behind"

Barest of whispers, Talisman shook her head as she looked at the lavish spills of darkening blood and the one curled up, possibly dead. Though a moments intent listening, ingoring the intrusive city sounds, let her know that he wasn't, just out like a light, though his breeathing was ragged.

Cautiously she knelt next to him, one hand gently going to a shoulder. She could carry him if she had too, but if he would wake and move on his own, so much the better.

"Hey, come on lets get you out of the damp." her voice was melodious, her lavender eyes shadowed with concern.

It was doubtful there where any vampires, lycanthropes, or any such creatures lurking within the city, but one never knew...

Talisman (http://www.atddm.com/Talisman.htm) wasn't any of those things but she certainly wasn't human either. The brief but raging battle had attracted her attention from her lofty skyscraper spire top perch several blocks away. Normally she wouldn't stick a wingtip into such matters but she was feeling so restless, and reckless, this night for some reason. She was not immune to occassional bouts of restlessness, but common sense usually counciled caution.

Silently she landed well short of the badly battered Argonian, furling her wings closely behind her.

"Moulted feathers! Some one cleaned up fast, but looks like you got left behind"

Barest of whispers, Talisman shook her head as she looked at the lavish spills of darkening blood and the one curled up, possibly dead. Though a moments intent listening, ingoring the intrusive city sounds, let her know that he wasn't, just out like a light, though his breeathing was ragged.

Cautiously she knelt next to him, one hand gently going to a shoulder. She could carry him if she had too, but if he would wake and move on his own, so much the better.

"Hey, come on lets get you out of the damp." her voice was melodious, her lavender eyes shadowed with concern.

The battered man of mystery awoke, dazedly reguarding the avian through blackened blue eyes. Weakly he brought the pistol into a shaky one-handed firing position...

"Stay back... Back..."

In his current state, he wasn't much of a threat. Clad in black, fatigue-like clothing & a nylon web-belt, he looked every inch the covert type. Torn nylon straps hung from the right side of his hip, possibly the remains of a tactical thigh holster, or perhaps an equipment pouch...

"Uhhhnnnh..."

With a low groan, he passed out in a limp heap, the 9mm again clattering to the pavement. If one was to inspect the the guts of the weapon, one would find a threaded barrel, polished feed ramp, widened ejection port, and beleveled magazine well. It was clearly no off-the-shelf purchase...

Talisman had frozen when the man had first drawn a gun on her, eyes going wide. She'd summon her weapons if she had to...then he went limp, out again. Talisman sighed and picked the semi auto up and stuffed it hurriedly into her belt pouch. She had a feeling that leaving it would not be a good idea.

Carefully she hefted him in her arms, an awkward armfull. He was heavier than he looked and take off was going to strain her, but her wings swept open their full span. Their sweeps blew paper trash about and 'dusted' the area thoroughly, three broad strokes and she was air borne

As Talisman flew, the distance to her small loft was not far and in but a few minutes she was landing heavily on the balcony. The french doors stood open wide, and the single lamp provided enough light for her to make her way to the second bedroom. Gently she laid him on the bed and went to gather supplies from her small stock of medical equipment. Bandages, alcohol and some gauze pads went on to a tray, along with antibiotic cream and and ice pack.

The mysterious individual thrashes at odd intervals, as if he's fighting something horrible in the dark depths of his subconcious...

Gunshots rang in his ears, the high-pitched whine of auditory overload drowning out any other noises. The magazine in his pistol went dry, without thinking he hit the release & it hit the pavement. A fresh one was well on its way before more gunfire flew in his direction, sending him rolling behind a dumpster until he got his weapon ready to fire. With a flick of his thumb the slide flew forward with a metallic snap & he was leaning out from behind the dumpster, firing again with a Weaver-style grip.

One of his foes caught a pair of 9x19's in the chest, rolling him to the left & leaving him face-down on the asphalt. They wore masks, balaclavas that covered all but the eyes. They where armed, too. One of them definitely had a modified 5.56x45mm, automatic with a drum magazine. It was too small to be belt-fed, and the constant rain of high-velocity rounds was a good indicator of its operation. Another pair of shots left the automatic rifleman dead with a chunk of his throat missing, a 9mm having struck him slightly below his jawline.

'Two dead... How many more?'

Again he rolled, this time to the left out of his cover & rising with his pistol held out in front of him, night-sights aligned with whatever might be out there. He was sure he'd counted three. Where was the last?

Something hard & blunt caught him across the kidneys, sending him forwards into a painful roll. Apon rising, sights aligned with his attacker's skull, the object connected with the back of his firing hand, sending the Austrian-made semi-auto sailing out of reach. A spinning return stroke struck soundly across his temple, sending him into unconciousness...

What he didn't know was that his attacker was driven off by a pair of DDF soldiers who'd heard the gunfire & come running. They followed, and where never seen again. What happened to the bodies also remains a mystery, since two bullet-riddled corpses have a way of attracting attention...

Talisman had done the best she could with her limited knowledge of Argonaina physiology, first aid for Argonians, and her small stocks of medical supplies. She'd also grabbed what clean towels ...'got to remember to do laundry tomorrow'.. and stripped the unconscious mystery man bare and given him the best sponge bath she could. He had been filthy from the alley. Now he was tucked under clean sheets, kept warm with her thickest quilt.

Her rescuee muttered unintelligibly and flailed about intermittently, but never completely regained consciousness. Talisman guessed that he probably was reliving the struggle that landed him battered and whole body bruised in the muck of the alley. There was clear sign of a major head strike, but when she'd forced his eye lids open the pupils were equal and reactive.

She'd wrestled with the thought of contacting the authorities, or taking him to a hospital, but something kept telling her 'No' very firmly. Talisman dug through her stacks of books and found an old favorite to read as she kept watch over her find. She wait till dawn and see if there was any change.

He was flailing again, this time his right hand was patting softly around the surface of the bedside table, as if he was looking for something...

'Dammit... Left the thing in the holster again... That'll get me killed one of these days...'

Abruptly he sat up, glancing around the darkened room. He was quite fit, toned muscle rippled beneath the surface of his scales. His reptillian features took on a look of confusion as he reguarded the bedside table...

"Where the Hell is my gun?"

The statement seemed directed more at himself than anyone in particular...

"Where the Hell am I?"

The decoration suggested a feminie touch, which led him to believe that he'd gotten wasted in a bar again & wound up in some female's bed. The painful throbbing in his skull reinforced that hypothesis...

"Helllooo? Anybody home?"

He exited the bed, a small barcode/number tattoo on the side of his neck was visible, where it would have been hidden by his clothing previously... 97652

Helllooo? Anybody home?"

Talisman cursed under her breath. Her mystery man had fallen still at last and she had hoped that she had enough time to get a shower. She'd managed the shower but was just now towelling off. She snatched one of her paraeo's, dark indigo silk with silver embroidery along the hem and hurriedly wrapped it as a halter dress. Her thick ebon tresses were damp asn she wrapped the towel about them.

"I was worried about you" The bead curtain, its rippling shimmers of rainbow hued crystals clicking softly, swirled around her as she stepped through the archway that lead to her bedroom. Her ice white wings flared slightly, displaying the tip banding of slate, indigo and black, as she looked him over intently with dark amethyst eyes.

"How's you sense of balance? Any vertigo?" She reached out a slender hand to ever so lightly touch the lump at his temple. Talisman kept her melodious voice low, she'd learned that Argonians had superior hearing. "You were pretty out of it when I found you."

The slender cigarette was drawn out of it’s cheap cardboard casket and attracted towards the shadow blue hands which it was lusting after. The movement was fluid, practiced, artistic. Like wine flowing in slow motion into a sparkling glass. The motion proceeded, the cigarette which was now comfortable in it’s loving hand’s embrace waltzed slowly within digits in a musing manner. The owner of these hands did so idly, thoughtlessly, and continued the dance with the next position, within his lips. It was placed within lips playfully, toyfully. It looked as if it trembling in pleasure, of what the act was and what was to be; hanging so dangerously and so gloriously on those softly gleaming lips of shadow blue shade.

A smile was on those painted upon these lips. A smile of neither contentment, nor happiness, nor joy, nor the passion which was displayed on the cigarette's part. It was the smile of an artist, for that was what Murk considered himself to be in many respects. If you looked to him as an artist, a poet, a philosopher, then many things were more acceptable, and understandable. Murk. Murk the artist, using life as a canvass. Never painted on it mind. Just considered what he could produce.

For Murk was his name. A name acquired from a dream, accepted as a result of overwhelming sense of nostalgia when he spoke the word for the first time. He associated it with personality, identity, morals that were forgotten for a while, but picked up again once you realise that they are indeed yours. But perhaps this name did not belong to him, this word. Perhaps it was more accurate to say this name, owned him. So he complied to this name, without fuss, nor did he think further on it. Murk was his name, and has been for quite some time it is believed.

And that was that.

The cigarette was ignited with an artistic flick of the wrist and his silver lighter snapping open and releasing flame. It punctuated the act with the snap motion of metal, the clicking breaking calm silence. The light broke darkness, sent ripples of illumination to the back alley. The air gained that faint odore of brief petrol driven fire, and the husky smell of smoke. There was something else too...Murk always recognised it, understood it's origin. It was fate.

The lighter disappeared with a dance of his left hand, a thoughtless motion learned from nostalgia. He had always done that when he smoked. It worked. It fitted. And few things fitted into Murk’s life. Things were rarely complete, crystal, whole, and his own. But familiar gestures, manners of speaking, and motions provided him some confidence that he was someone. He had once tried to change the way he was, way he spoke and acted, but it made him slowly go insane. One cannot be like glass, to let different shades of light filter through you and shape you. No. Murk decided he would not be a pane of glass. He would project light, dark shadowy light into the pane, and see what reflections it produced.

Not that it mattered how he acted, the way he talked, the identity which was his and accepted. He could be a ghost, a spectre of memory unsure of identity and not caring for it all. A morbid spirit who does not mourn, does not concern and trouble himself over matters of seeming important, who is not plagued with words spawning answers.

Why.
How.
If.

Well, such questions were asked, but the questions were musing just like every motion he took, every word he spoke, every lungful of air he drew in.

The smoke flowed out of his lips in the same artistic fashion that all his gestures were baptised in. To look upon him, he would seem content. So content that one might suspect his body containing chemicals which rendered him so musing and woefully fascinated by minor oddities of the world. Inanimate, animate, and transient oddities that most other beings did not notice, or if they did, refused to comment on.

The way trees grew. The way society worked. The way people spoke of ideas. Odd quirks he looked upon with a strange eye of his own, and turned it upon his head. That was the way Murk was. Reality was a different concept to him. How could it not? He did not know if he was even of this world.

But did know something. He pondered it as he breathed in the fumes of nicotine, the smell which was familiar in the air. He breathed in the night air again and again, and always caught the scent of it. An old perfume flowing softly into to the winds, alluring and teasingly faint…but there none the less. Murk trusted his senses on this one. He smelt it.

Smelt her.

That smell was the smell of a love perhaps? A smell of familiarity, of pleasant memories and much enjoyment of musings. And other things beside, and possible. The one link he had, of flesh and blood, which was in his own predicament. Well, predicament would not be Murk’s word for it. Sense experience perhaps. Shared circumstance. Pooled memories. Soul mates. Perhaps the last term would only be said by Murk in that teasing manner he always had. One could never judge, trap or hold down Murk. A force of morbid but beautiful nature. It was just his way.

Murk sat amidst garbage of a back alley, contemplating that smell, that female smell that was comforting to smell. And so addictive! The scent of a memory he could not place, which was so fascinating, a riddle completely unsolvable. It was something he never grew bored of. He could never grow bored of her. He would wait a while before he made his appearance.

Oh certainly, she was used to seeing him at random intervals. Chances were, he thought pleasantly, is that she smelt him. Smelt that faint aroma of him, although...perhaps not. Such things he only discussed with the same musing manner. Discussed was too strong a word, too direct. Hinted at. Murk always took every opportunity to alluring to being love struck to her in that sarcastic, yet playful manner. The real truth of matters was hard to find in a sea of musing dances, for true opinion is rarely stated, just toyed with and remoulded into something more interesting.

Murk lay in the ally, alone and in artistic thought, breathing in the smoke that the cigarette was lovingly bestowing upon him. Yes. He would see her again. Tonight. He was always drawn back to her, no matter where she was, sooner or later. He could not resist coming back, to have another conversation of some sort. The possibilities which were there, but always toyed and reshaped into another possibility. Dancing with possibilities. Drawn back to her soul irresistibly.

Murk would have it no other way. She provided the most interesting aspect of his life. So many....many interesting possibilities...

At her appearance his right foot dropped back, setting him in a loose fighting stance. Oddly, he seemed not to notice...

"Oww... What the Hell?"

He, too, lightly stroked the lump on his skull...

'Did I get mugged or something? Who the Hell is this? And why does she have wings?'

He stared back intently, racking his brain for any memory of this female... being, before him...

"...You are?"

"Oww... What the Hell?"

Talisman winced in sympathy, but was carefull to make no sudden moves, or to alter her stance - His automatic response to the appearance of some one he didn't know was not missed. Some what surprised to se him up and about, considering the amount of damage he'd been left with, she wondered what his opponents looked like currently.

"...You are?"

The bewhilderment in his blue eyes, with their surrounding bruises forming deep purple black rings about them, made his thoughts almost transparent to her. She smiled slightly, her voice remianing low and hopefully soothing.

"You probably hurt all over - and you don't know me from Adam - people call me Talisman."

"And you are?"

Keen cat pupiled eyes had caught the small tattoo on his neck - 'Now how did I miss that when I washed him off?' She wondered inwardly. Talsiman had been distracted by trying to decide if a faint trace of a scent she had caught, and dismised, back in the alley was real or a phantom, but she really shouldn't have missed something that obvious. She prided herself on her powers of observation 'but I fell flat this time...but who..what was it that I sensed, scented, who? No, it couldn't be...' A pulse of excitement surged through her, but firmly she turned her wayward thoughts back to her impromptu guest.

She frowned as she looked at barcode and number tattoo again. Talisman disliked the notion of that sort of 'tagging'. People weren't cattle to be branded, bought and sold. It spoke of a lack of respect, a demeaning of ones self and individuality.

Grayrock was changing, most definitely... Dekker remebered when it was just a collection of huts & lean-to's...

'This place looks a LOT different than the last time I was here...'

Faint memories of running force-on-force exercises in the marshlands surfaced in his brain. That was about five years ago. It had been a while, granted, but the Argonian people where really moving with their update plans. Dekker Bray had flown in on assignment from his employer, Red Dawn International, to assist the new government's armed forces in fighting some sort of uprising they where having issues with. The whole story reminded him of 'The Last Samurai', the shitty movie where the white guy ends up being the last badass asian warrior, but without the cinematic bullshit.

He'd seen more than his share of combat, taken too many lives. Most had been close enough to bleed on him afterwards, something that had caused his ex-wife no small amount of frustration, the reason he called her his ex. His son was now 18, which meant he was thirty-six...

'I'm gettin' too old for this sort of buisness...'

High blood pressure & battle-induced adrenaline never went well together, about as well as old dynamite & a blast furnace. He was getting older, things wheren't as easy as when he was twenty-two, kicking in doors as a SEAL. Some things never changed, however. His constant companion, an AMT M1911A1 Hardballer, still sat under his left shoulder in its worn leather holster. The full-wrap pacmar was contured perfectly to his hand, worn smooth by frequent use. The .45 automatic sported a widened ejection port, polished feed ramp, beleveled magazine well, as well as a ported and threaded match-grade barrel. It was a killing piece, pure and simple. The powerful package was finished in bead-blasted stainless steel topped with high-visibility lithium night-sights. A 'Back-Up' model from AMT in matching caliber was tucked in his right boot. A K-BAR knife, 440 gage stainless steel with a no-shine matte black finish hung under the Hardballer. Under his right arm he had three magazines, each carrying seven rounds apiece.

His PDA said to meet his contact in a small pub around 700 meters from his present location, and Dekker wasn't keen on being late. He started off at a good pace towards the meeting point...

"Oww... What the Hell?"

Talisman winced in sympathy, but was carefull to make no sudden moves, or to alter her stance - His automatic response to the appearance of some one he didn't know was not missed. Some what surprised to se him up and about, considering the amount of damage he'd been left with, she wondered what his opponents looked like currently.

"...You are?"

The bewhilderment in his blue eyes, with their surrounding bruises forming deep purple black rings about them, made his thoughts almost transparent to her. She smiled slightly, her voice remianing low and hopefully soothing.

"You probably hurt all over - and you don't know me from Adam - people call me Talisman."

"And you are?"

Keen cat pupiled eyes had caught the small tattoo on his neck - 'Now how did I miss that when I washed him off?' She wondered inwardly. Talsiman had been distracted by trying to decide if a faint trace of a scent she had caught, and dismised, back in the alley was real or a phantom, but she really shouldn't have missed something that obvious. She prided herself on her powers of observation 'but I fell flat this time...but who..what was it that I sensed, scented, who? No, it couldn't be...' A pulse of excitement surged through her, but firmly she turned her wayward thoughts back to her impromptu guest.

She frowned as she looked at barcode and number tattoo again. Talisman disliked the notion of that sort of 'tagging'. People weren't cattle to be branded, bought and sold. It spoke of a lack of respect, a demeaning of ones self and individuality.

He pondered the question for a moment, again scanning his throbbing brain for any clues to his own name. It seemed he'd simply forgotten it...

'Dammit... Who the Hell am I? This is bullshit, how can I not know who the Hell I am? Alcohol? I'm not drinking ever again, this headache is driving me out of my mind..."

His eyes returned from wandering, and at the same time trying not to stare, he answered the question with another...

"Hmm... Uh, yeah... Didn't I tell you?"

Worridly, he glanced back at the bed. It had been slept in most definitely, but by how many, he wasn't certain. His crystal gaze drifted back her way...

"Did we..."

His hand flew up, gesturing over his right shoulder with the thumb of the same hand...

Talsiman watched him lose focus for a moment, and knew his next question almost before he said it.

"Hmm... Uh, yeah... Didn't I tell you?"

His next question caught her completely flat footed though

"Did we..."

Both eye eyebrows flew up and she could barely suppress a chuff of laughter. However she looked him very consideringly up and down, carefull not to hide the fact that she found his appearance pleasing. She had not even considered it, given the circumstances. Talisman was far more attracted to personality than looks, but it was not in her nature to leave a man insulted- unless he deserved it, and then she could be ruthless.

"My dear, very handsome, and even more battered, man, I may have carried you home, but I don't bed just any one. Especially when they've just gotten the beating that left them in that battered state."

She gestured to the lump disfigureing his temple. "You were out cold when I found you. I'd followed the sounds of gunfire - a nasty exchange that. You've got bruising over your kidneys, the back of that hand - what ever hit you there nearly broke the bones, and you caught more than a couple to your face. And then there's the Roc's Egg on your temple."

"I couldn't just leave you. I have a soft spot for strays....especially those that don't have any memories."

"Which you decidedly don't at the moment - do you?" It wasn't a question. It was a statement she herself was long familiar with. Her sympathy for his situation shone clearly on her face.

"Various experts say that trauma caused memory loss usually fades in a few hours....though some times it lasts ...forever" Her voice was bleak at the last, for just a moment, before she shook it off.

Talsiman watched him lose focus for a moment, and knew his next question almost before he said it.

"Hmm... Uh, yeah... Didn't I tell you?"

His next question caught her completely flat footed though

"Did we..."

Both eye eyebrows flew up and she could barely suppress a chuff of laughter. However she looked him very consideringly up and down, carefull not to hide the fact that she found his appearance pleasing. She had not even considered it, given the circumstances. Talisman was far more attracted to personality than looks, but it was not in her nature to leave a man insulted- unless he deserved it, and then she could be ruthless.

"My dear, very handsome, and even more battered, man, I may have carried you home, but I don't bed just any one. Especially when they've just gotten the beating that left them in that battered state."

She gestured to the lump disfigureing his temple. "You were out cold when I found you. I'd followed the sounds of gunfire - a nasty exchange that. You've got bruising over your kidneys, the back of that hand - what ever hit you there nearly broke the bones, and you caught more than a couple to your face. And then there's the Roc's Egg on your temple."

"I couldn't just leave you. I have a soft spot for strays....especially those that don't have any memories."

"Which you decidedly don't at the moment - do you?" It wasn't a question. It was a statement she herself was long familiar with. Her sympathy for his situation shone clearly on her face.

"Various experts say that trauma caused memory loss usually fades in a few hours....though some times it lasts ...forever" Her voice was bleak at the last, for just a moment, before she shook it off.

He blew a sigh of relief, placing a hand on his face before sharply drawing it away as it pressed against the knot he'd collected from somewhere...

"Not exactly... I know I had a gun & I killed some people, people with guns that where shooting at me, but why we where shooting, or why I even had the gun in the first place is a total blank... Man, this sucks..."

Common courtesy said he was being rude, but he wasn't sure what to do if he didn't have a name. As he moved past her to the mirror, the mark on his neck vanished. The ink seemed to disappear unless the light hit it a certain way, clearly an expensive sort of ID tattoo, too expensive to suggest he'd been a slave before...

"For what it's worth, thanks for not leaving my ass in the alley. I have a feeling that guy with the stick would have finished me off... I did off two of his buddies, after all..."

The Argonian seems to be approaching the end of his young adult stage, the equivalent to thirty-five for humans & moving towards middle age. The scales on his forearms are scarred, like they've been ripped open by claws of some kind. Puncture marks run like bird tracks across his neck & down his left shoulder. His torso bears the horizontal slash marks of some sort of bladed weapon, but the scarring seems fairly healthly, and somewhat old. It is most likely he recieved these wounds at a young age. It is possible he was a vampire hunter before the reformation, and had several run-ins with prey more powerful than he was...

"When did I get that..."

He asks the mirror, lightly scratching the tattoo, which has re-appeared in the direct lighting of the bathroom...

"Weird..."

The mystery Argonian turns with a shrug, moving back towards the bed...

"If you'll hand me my clothes & my gun, I'll burden you no further. I think I should report the shooting to the police, they'll know what to do..."

On silent barefoot feet Talisman had followed him most of the way into the bathroom, watching him examine himself

"When did I get that..."

"I couldn't tell you but it smacks of things I find highly distastful- but it's high tech, not the usual for Argonia.

"If you'll hand me my clothes & my gun, I'll burden you no further. I think I should report the shooting to the police, they'll know what to do..."

Talisman shrugged and turned to where she'd roughly folded his stained and torn clothing, pistol on top, on a ladder backed wooden chair

"There you go, but something tells me you shouldn't go to the police. You're not your average mugee, or average military man - and thats no common pistol either...and burden, no you've not been a burden"

She turned to leave, to give him some privacy. Not that he'd shown any body modesty. That made her smile a little. She stopped in the doorway, half drawing it shut.

"I'll go with you to the police, if that's what you are intent on doing. Maybe what little I can add will be of some help."

On silent barefoot feet Talisman had followed him most of the way into the bathroom, watching him examine himself

"When did I get that..."

"I couldn't tell you but it smacks of things I find highly distastful- but it's high tech, not the usual for Argonia.

"If you'll hand me my clothes & my gun, I'll burden you no further. I think I should report the shooting to the police, they'll know what to do..."

Talisman shrugged and turned to where she'd roughly folded his stained and torn clothing, pistol on top, on a ladder backed wooden chair

"There you go, but something tells me you shouldn't go to the police. You're not your average mugee, or average military man - and thats no common pistol either...and burden, no you've not been a burden"

She turned to leave, to give him some privacy. Not that he'd shown any body modesty. That made her smile a little. She stopped in the doorway, half drawing it shut.

"I'll go with you to the police, if that's what you are intent on doing. Maybe what little I can add will be of some help."

The clothing was the first thing that struck him as odd...

'All black, military-style jacket, pants, shirt, and boots...'

He prodded the soles, why, he really couldn't say...

'Soft-soled boots...'

The torn belt was easily solved. The straps where from a tactical holster, he must have lost it rolling around in the alley. The pistol was what scared him, however. For one, he couldn't find a serial number. Two, there was no caliber or even a manufacturer's logo on the thing. It was smooth. Completely smooth. Too smooth... Government issue?

'Where did I get a government-issue pistol? What am I? AIS (Argonian Intelligence Service)? No telling, but why would a secret agent get caught in a gunfight in the middle of a city of his home country? That's just fucked up...'

After pulling on the pants, he turned to his impromptu landlady...

"We're not going to the police anymore... I don't think showing up with a weapon like this would be the best idea I've ever had..."

He paused for a moment...

"Have you looked at this thing?"

He held the pistol out, grip first, towards her. The ejection port seemed wider than what would be factory standard, and the magazine fit a little too well into the magazine well. How he knew this, even he wasn't sure...

"Have you looked at this thing?"

Talisman nodded as she took the pistol and properly safetyed it, looking it over once again.

"Yes, it's been highly customized, and very fine workmanship it is. Too much about you says special ops, or at least it would in most places I've been."

She studied him intently once more as she handed him back the pistol. She knew what it was like to search through mists and fog and come up blank, knowing things, but not how you knew them, or where you knew them from.

"Are you hungry? I cook a mean omelet." She offered. "We can brainstorm over food. It helps one think I've found."

"Have you looked at this thing?"

Talisman nodded as she took the pistol and properly safetyed it, looking it over once again.

"Yes, it's been highly customized, and very fine workmanship it is. Too much about you says special ops, or at least it would in most places I've been."

She studied him intently once more as she handed him back the pistol. She knew what it was like to search through mists and fog and come up blank, knowing things, but not how you knew them, or where you knew them from.

"Are you hungry? I cook a mean omelet." She offered. "We can brainstorm over food. It helps one think I've found."

He nodded...

"Sure... Maybe then I can come up with a name..."

The streets below where silent, as was that alley he'd been in a few hours earlier. It wasn't exactly deserted, however. Within stood a powerfully-built Argonian, clad in black with a matching balaclava. A .45 automatic hung under his left shoulder, with a saber hanging from his hip. The nylon sheath of a STAP baton was visible on his left side as well. The long, whip-like tail that trailed behind him was charcoal black, and twitched nervously...

'Where have you gone, young hunter...? Apparently I didn't deal with your misguided personage properly, otherwise you'd still be here, helpless as I ended your paganistic life... I leave for a century & this is what happens? I believe the Elder Council should be the next target, the fools for bringing war against our own people like that...'

The hunter knelt, studying the bloodstains intently...

'Gunshots spilled this blood, too much for one being to shed in a single night. It is more likely that two others where here, felled by bullets from my young hunter... He prefers a 9x19mm, common enough to discourage anyone from trying to trace a round back too far without the weapon that fired it...'

The Dark Argonian thought to himself, holding a black nickel casing between his clawed thumb & index finger...

'Hornady TAP FPD... Low flashpoint powder for night-vision conservation, hollow-point with terminal performance & supreme accuracy. Expensive, and not avaliable to the general public...'

Something wasn't right, worse so than an Argonian killing his brethren. It seemed he'd struck in error. Those two Argonians who died seemed to have been trying to kill the third...

"Sure... Maybe then I can come up with a name..."

"Don't push it too hard. Give it a rest and let your brain recover a bit." Talisman suggested as she led the way into the kitchen.

"And since you are up and moving, it will be safe to have some mild over the counter pain killer. I have a bottle of your national brand in that cabinet there" Talisman gestured as she went to the cooler and pulled out the makings for her special omelets. As she worked she watched him out of the corners of her eyes, keeping a watch on him. She was concerned about a possible relapse.

He was doing fine apparently as she slid a plate, before where he sat at the kitchen table. The plate, done in a traditional Argonian pottery pattern, was mostly buried under an omelet that spilled mushrooms, ham, bacon, cheese, and more out both ends.

"Eat, don't wait on me." She smiled as she turned back to cook her own. Jars of peppers, sour cream, and other toppings had been brough from the cooler and set in the center of the table, where a large lazy susan held various dining utensils.

Murk did not know how long he was going to spend in this ally, smoking slowly in the darkness. Time was irrelevant on most subjects. Subjects come and go, brighten and fade, slip in and out of relevancy. If any subject was relevant at all. But this subject of her was most relevant. If anything was relevant, she was.

Breathing out the smoke from the last offering of the cigarette, he identified four dragons in the smoke. They curled around one another, spiralling upwards as they were losing themselves in the experience of it all. Blindly flowing into the comforting arms of the wind, out of the ally and into the city. Such an easy life to lead he thought, as he flicked the cigarette incompassionately into the street with reckless abandon. He sold that little tube of love out, he has used it for his own indulgences. But it should have known better than to hope for a long lasting relationship, or one which was not just for practicality. It should be grateful. I fulfilled the damn thing’s destiny. Quid pro quo.

Apparently, it’s destiny was not just to provide Murk with satisfaction. As it was cast aside with reckless abandon it caused a new situation which resulted in swift irritation to one, and crimson eyes to observe the new development.

Guess who the offending party was. It sure wasn’t the cigarette. It could not be blamed of course. It was just fulfilling his destiny. Murk just helped it along a bit. The man who was walking by the dark ally was indulging in his own thoughts on how he was going to explain to his wife where he had been and how he had lost all of his money on poker. Unfortunately he was not in the mood to be understanding of the grand scheme of things like Murk. The embers of the dying cigarette flumed around the man’s scrawny face, sending it from a dour expression of concentration, to one of understandable irritation as he reeled from this absent minded assault. Murk realised what he had just done. Rather than apologise as one might, he looked over with low glazed eyes, absorbing the scene’s colours and shades. The flecks of ember, the ash flickering, the man as a whole.

“You fuckin’ asshole! Who in the fuck do you think you are?” The man bellowed, his face now moulding itself from shock to rage. He had someone to put the blame on. Although if there was a proper talk about it, Murk would disagree that it was his fault. He did not see the man walking across the ally, and he was just fulfilling destiny anyway. Not that most people listened to that excuse. The man got not sharp retort from Murk, no reaction at all. And to someone who is pointing fingers, that gets terribly frustrating very rapidly.

Murk remained in a lazy position against the alley wall and assessed this complaint, and the one who complained. He gave him a lazy half-hearted glance, and immediately catalogued him under, “Ordinary”. The only things of interest were the recent improvement to him to make him more interesting, his slightly singed eyebrows with those flecks of ash in them. That was the only thing that was remotely curious. So he paid him no more attention.

This was Murk’s method of keeping his time efficiently spent. If it was ordinary, or could not provide some interest, then what was the point of indulging? If he threw the cigarette at most people they would have the same reaction more or less. He was more focused upon the pattern of ash on the man’s face, and where the cigarette was. That was more random, less controlled and beautiful. Murk thought that he had just given that cigarette a pretty good climax. Exploding in someone’s face, burning out in the final “fuck you” to world. Interestingly, unknown to Murk or the cigarette, the angry man did not smoke. Perhaps if either one knew about that small fact, it might have been ironic or something. The cigarette’s final act of rage against anyone nearby was against someone who did not use him and throw him away. He just treated with neglect when he saw others using them, or the neat lines of them in shops with labels and prices. Which was better? Murk would have actually thought about that if he had spent more time in the ally, and did not have that scent of her on his mind. Perhaps he could indulge contemplating the life and emotions of a cigarette. He could empathise with anything it seemed.

Murk was torn up from the ground by those greasy hands which had recently been holding too many glasses, holding too much whisky and not much else, apart from poker cards and chips. Perhaps if he had not been holding so much whisky, perhaps he would have been able to handle this situation better, to keep his cool. This too was considered normal by Murk, although he did think about it for a moment. A man could do almost anything in mistake, but not be brave enough to repeat it should he want to or require it. The trivial had a story behind it, a musky scent of someone could tell you much about them. Where they had been. Occupation. Lifestyle. Wives all over the world knew that the subtle could indicate so very much.

“Hey, you listening to me you retarded f-“

The words were caught in his throat, as he grasped the grey shirt in tight angry balls within his meat hands. He was drawn up by the man limply, Murk’s body remaining sleepy and lazy. His head lolled back, his arms trailed back like a pendulum. Murk was just being himself. But he had a definite effect upon the man, as he looked at the face which hung back so idly. The eyes were still open, still that glazed over crimson, and his flesh was that shadow blue. His skin had disturbing scars upon it, lines perfectly drawn across his face to create further morbid beauty. They were all over his slender form, placed with deliberate purpose.

The angry man’s colour drained from him, gone to his boots which were still in darkness. For this man had seem Murk’s appearance, that was all. He knew that he had just caused a situation he would regret, and his body didn’t know how to react. It just stood there, frozen, limp, impotent. He had heard of vampires in the night, but what the hell was this? Something new? A zombie? A dead man? Only his eyes darted around, drawing in the full shadowy picture of this man. The man with shadow blue flesh with slice marks within it. His red eyes which implied his nature. The aura this man commanded about him, that one could not touch him, could not judge.

How can you judge an artist?

Murk craned his neck slowly upwards, his eyes staring upwards as he did so. He arced his head towards the man, and stared him in the eyes. His mouth curled in that humble smile of private jokes and reflections. Murk enjoyed that look of terror on the man’s face. He was no means sadistic, but he did enjoy turning the tables completely and giving people something new to consider or think about. Murk stared deep into the ordinary man’s eyes for a few seconds, tried to draw something out of it. A story. A new thought. A new….experience. But nothing came to Murk, there was nothing that this man could grant him. There was no story he had not heard from his kind. So he had no use for him. If the man was allowed to be himself, to be free to do as he pleased. Murk felt he could indulge in his own pleasure, once more, before he met her. He spoke, his words crisp, slowly delivered, and chilling to hear.

“How does it feel to be completely ordinary when you come up with your polar opposite? Something unique. You bore me. You have no mirrors in your life, so you cannot adjust your ego, instinct or habits.”

Murk was now gripping the man’s clothes, his ordinary clothes with his shadow blue hands. The next step in the dance had been taken instantly, and now the man was pinned with his own fear and pressure from Murk’s arms. Both knew that he could not escape. His voice would not rise to the occasion to protest, or answer Murk’s recent contribution.

“For that reason…”

Murk flowed away, standing back from the man in one motion in the same manner that he had lit his cigarette. He smiled broadly, impishly that made the man feel more dread, feel his heart thumping in reaction to this, hammering away as if it would do anything. The man was standing stupidly, nearly collapsing from the speed of it all.

“I remove you from my sight.”

A gleam of metal, a sliver of brilliant silver like reflecting glass flickered in his hands. He held two within his dexterous hands, and they moved about in a flowing motion towards the man. His mortality was realised in his hands, Murk had the power to save this man’s life, to prevent his death. Even when he attacked, Murk did not know what he would choose. That was part of the enjoyment of it.

Fortunately for the man, Murk was feeling constructive. The man did not feel the metal of those dirks he carried upon him, the quicksilver bite. But he certainly realised his own mortality, how easily he had come to ending his own story in a ally fight with something unnatural and completely incomprehensible.

Instead his vision turned to black fog which clouded his sight, and his nose smelt the faint hint of smoke. The smoke smothered him playfully, the shadowy substance falling to the ground lethargically, like some strange perfume of the night. Murk had charged into him, and become nothing but this fascinating smoke. It curled around the man for a short while, and flowed into the ground to where it belonged.

Murk’s words spoke, a reminder that he was indeed real. The man did not know if this terrifying man spoke and his ears heard him or his mind heard him.

“Or am I the mirror? Reflecting. Find a mirror ordinary man. Find it and become unique.”

The man was left alone, with the sense that Murk had been smiling when he had spoke those words. And Murk was now going to the woman who was the centre to his musing, the centre to his interest. He gradually got closer to her, and he savoured this tantalising aroma which got more distinct. Knowing that she would smell him, sense him growing closer made it more enjoyable. Murk always did this when he came to her. Other than indulging Murk in this sense experience, this savouring of the scent of her, it served a practical purpose too. In the past when they were still new to the world and each other, Murk had often interrupted something which he should not have interrupted. Although it was fascinating to see her within the arms of another, within the passionate embrace…but it made him feel something else too? Murk did never linger on that point.

Lingering on his emotions towards her was not something he indulged in, unless it was a playful musing and not serious confessions to himself of what the nature of his feelings were. If there were feelings at all.

Murk's words drifted towards Talisman, like the beautiful smoke he was moving as. His voice was distinct to her, it always brought memories of the unique relationship they had, the link between them. His playful voice, his voice which could place the right word so eloquently and correctly, with just the desired amount of suggestion. He spoke softly to her, and if one was not accustomed to being addressed by this strange method of communication, one might assume it was just a trick of the mind, or the wind. But Talisman would not dismiss it. She never did.

He just spoke her name, speaking the word as if he was tasting a fine wine, playing with the word, as if he was saying the word for the first time and absorbing the accoustic beauty of the lyric.

"Talisman."

"Sure... Maybe then I can come up with a name..."

"Don't push it too hard. Give it a rest and let your brain recover a bit." Talisman suggested as she led the way into the kitchen.

"And since you are up and moving, it will be safe to have some mild over the counter pain killer. I have a bottle of your national brand in that cabinet there" Talisman gestured as she went to the cooler and pulled out the makings for her special omelets. As she worked she watched him out of the corners of her eyes, keeping a watch on him. She was concerned about a possible relapse.

He was doing fine apparently as she slid a plate, before where he sat at the kitchen table. The plate, done in a traditional Argonian pottery pattern, was mostly buried under an omelet that spilled mushrooms, ham, bacon, cheese, and more out both ends.

"Eat, don't wait on me." She smiled as she turned back to cook her own. Jars of peppers, sour cream, and other toppings had been brough from the cooler and set in the center of the table, where a large lazy susan held various dining utensils.

With a shrug, he began to eat. He hadn't realized how hungry he was, at least until there was food in his mouth. The jacket & shirt still lay on the bed, the pistol within arms' reach on the tabletop. He'd need more ammunition, only eight remained within his weapon & something told him there where more than eight people looking for him...

The enigmatic hunter with the blade on his hip rose from the asphalt alleyway, dropping the black nickel casing in the general area where he'd found it. Something had carried him away, it had most definitely flown...

And by the scent of things, it was female...

'Interesting... A female avian has bore my quarry away...'

The G.I. Standard Colt M1911A1 came out of the underarm holster, the owner pulling the slide back to chamber a round. He knew not the nature of this female, but it had never hurt him in the past to have a loaded gun handy when meeting strangers, especially in his line of work...

A fucking mess

Huddled to the side of a dumpster, a weary man breathed hard, not worrying about the stench rising into his head. More than the briefcase he had locked to his wrist, he gripped the Beretta in his hand. Familiar with the model, he trusted his ability to defend himself with it.

If my 74M wouldnt make such a sight, i would just be holding it out...

A few blocks away, two Argonian soldiers lay dead. Gunshots to the backs and heads, they lay stripped of their ammunition and weapons. In addition, multiple civilians lay dead in the wake, though they were close enough to the soldiers to not leave an arrow to the killer.

The man fingered his cell phone with his free hand, then retreated it. He had a mission to complete, and he knew a safe house in the vicinity. He took off the stock of his AK-74M, in a way no standard 74 could. An unusual stock, it slid off in such a way, and the man hid it in his suit, as well as sliding the rest of the assault rifle into the suits back, which was made to hold the individual gun.

He stood up, put the beretta into a concealed holster, where his glock 20 normally sat, and began to head to the safe-house.

--------------------------

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Said a quite large man, holding a shotgun to his side."Get the fuck in here, Kennian" He continued, in chellian. "What in gods name happened?" The man examined Kennian, noting the torn clothing.

"Fuck if I know, Ivan. People began to shoot at me from all over the place. I lost my 20 somehow, and the ammunition in my 74m, save for one clip." Kennian replied, in chellian as well, throwing most of the DDF equipment onto a table.

"Im gonna make a call to the uppers, see what they want."
"Have a blast"

--------------

The chellian mafia was a small, but fairly well known group in the city. Started by chellian arms smugglers, it quickly became involved in drug movement, organized crime, assassination, and other illicit activities.

While the starters were chellian, and nobody high up was anything but, the lower levels were mostly argonians, or chellians working their way up. About two hundred resided in the city, but they were only a branch of the chellian homeland mafia, who were too big to be counted.

They called themselves the GaW, or the Green and White mafia. Nobody knows why, but its suspected to be for the chellian eff, a symbol in green and white, which represents chellis to the world.

The suitcase had such a symbol embroidered upon it. It wasnt quite known what was in the suitcase, except for a few uppers. All that was known by Kennian, Ivan, and other lowers was that they would all die if it wasnt delivered properly. And already, there were problems.

Talisman."

Her adopted name sang in her head, curling softly around her thoughts, taking them from the problems of her rescuee to ones solely of he who touched her as no other could, though they had never... For a moment incandescent joy lit her features and shown in her eyes. 'Murk' her thoughts caroled..or was it 'Beloved"? She dared never let him know. Then carefully she hid it away, barriered her feelings with ease of long practise.

"I just knew that you'd come to steal my omelet you imp of the perverse" Her voice was a cool descant, her smile a maddening mona lisa curve of bee stung lips as she spoke to the predawn wind that brought the swirl of smoke to her.

Would he materialize with his arms about her?...or behind her, tapping her on the shoulder just to see her jump? She was never sure, but savored each appearance as unique, part of the totality that was Murk. Murk, whom she loved with heart and soul, and never, ever dared give any clue. Murk, whom she desired beyond all reason or understanding...and dared give no clue beyond the light torment they dealt one another. Glances, looks that spoke everything and nothing, brief caresses that were far more than accidents, but were always treated as such. She could watch him for hours, discusss everything and yet nothing as the hands of the clock circled round and round, all else unmattering save for the intoxication of his presence, his company.

She'd better warn the battered Argonian warrior plying fork against the sizeable omelet. She strongly suspected he might react badly to a sudden and unannounced appearance.

"Don't be startled, but an old... friend" The word was kept carefully enigmatic, the mona lisa smile still curving her lips "will be arriving shortly, and not in an usual manner." She slid the steaming omelet on to a plate and turned toward the kitchen table

Sometimes Murk appeared in a grandious fashion, exploding into existance, becoming the center of attention. Other times he would walk into the apartment as he normally would, pretending to be a normal human being going on a first date with her, or the landlord coming for the rent. He was never the boring company. He was always fresh, interesting, something new to say. That was so irritating and alluring about him, one could never trap him inside a net of anything. He was a vagabond, the definition is possibility.

This time, the ceiling above Tailsman became his method of entrance. He slowly formed into being there, completely unnoticed. His body was part of the shadows, flowing and writhing into beautiful existance. It was not disturbing, and horrifying. These shadows were the shadows you wanted around you, the comforting darkness which turned everything into romantic imagry. If one looked upon Murk, lying upon the ceiling, it was as if he was always there. It was not shocking, just fascinating. Not like a monster in the corner of your eye, more of something you had put down and forgotten about, a quirky little something which made you say, "Oh, I forgot about you. You look good there old freind."

Murk spoke, making Talisman aware of his presance. His voice which played with words, poetry in all things.

"Talisman. So good to see you again. That is how people normally greet another, someone who provides good company. But how long until it becomes bullshit? I look around and see people saying things they don't actually mean. Good morning. I'm OK. Are you alright? Anarchorisms from the previous generations, learnt from the previous society. But don't worry. I never was part of society, I don't really follow trends of speaking. I like to keep my words true to what I am thinking. So, I guess I have to say....it is so very good to see you again Talisman."

He smiled from his gravity defying position, giving me her those fascinating red eyes to gaze upon. Gave her his regular clothes which were always shadow grey, various shades of. Those strange smooth lines upon his face which she suspected went across his entire body, they certainly went on his hands. That much she knew. His hair remained untouched by gravity, but it was always a long mess which made him look so carefree and more dashing.

Murk did not like looking at mirrors, but when he did out of interest, he enjoyed the fact that he was not like most others. (http://www.casualvillain.com/gallery/dashing.html)

She felt him coalesce, was comforting pressence becoming clearer, more distinct, but she kept her overt attention elsewher, setting the plate full of omelet down before an empty chair, then moving to her tall backless barstool.

it is so very good to see you again Talisman."

The mona lisa smile never changed, as she listened to his greeting but light danced in her eyes, as she met his crimson gaze. A gaze that caused her breath to catch ever so slightly in her throat.

"And I know you would never say it if you didn't mean it Murk. Come down, be totally mundane for a moment, let me introduce you to another unexpected guest."

She wanted to, as always, take a brush to his wild mane. He was certain it made him look dashing. Talisman hid other thoughs behind a smile that suggested everything and nothing, of secrets kept but unfailingly hinted at.

"Or if my omelets have lost their allure, come down and take a shower. I can smell the alley on you." The scent was very faint, but it would bother him immensely that she noted it...and perhaps, this time she might get a glimpse of him unclad. She wondered as well, what he would make of the discovery that she carried a clean set of his clothes where ever her wandering took her. Even now they hung, clean and pressed, in the back of her closet, wating for a moment of need.

Murk rolled his head around in it's socket, spiralling it around in mock deliberation. His hair remained as it should, completely unaffected by the true gravity, but completely unaffected by a comb too. After a full rotation, he streached his arms wide and yawned.

And he was on the floor, back to normality. He commented on Talisman's keen sense of smell. "Perfume de Alley, for those who want the rugged "take me in and love me" image. I can imagine it now. Lines of men knocking on women's door with their hats in their hands, with tearful eyes to gain approval."

He brushed his hair back, feeling the smooth fabric inbetween his fingers. His nails were noticably odd, but them being completely black. Not with dirt, but by the nature of them. They were like oynx, shining, soft and beautiful.

"I am sorry but I must decline on your offer of food. My stomach has been acting strange of late. If I would have thought delicious food would cure it, I would certainly accept your offer of a remedy. But sadly, no food remains within me for very long, and I don't want to be insulting to your new guest...or your floor. Speaking of which..."

Murk peered over, looking for a moment at the stranger. His eyes judged him immediately, curiously. Like a character annalysis in a book, he liked the sound of him, thought he knew the type. He proceeded on with the conversation as if the other man was in another room and could not hear a word.

"What is the story with him then? Another lover?" Murk asked, with a sly smile upon his lips. He knew that he would get some sort of reaction from that, but it was half truth. It could very well be another lover. But somehow he doubted it. Unless she was now into men who were injured, and carried weapons.

"Perfume de Alley, for those who want the rugged "take me in and love me" image. I can imagine it now. Lines of men knocking on women's door with their hats in their hands, with tearful eyes to gain approval."

That brought a belle of genuine laughter from her

"So that is going to be your marketing approach?" She shook her head, the mona lisa smile back in place, though her eyes were shadowed with concern as he spoke of recent illness.

"What is the story with him then? Another lover?"

The flinch must have been imagined, or perhaps a small gust of early dawn wind making it in through the open french doors ruggling her feathers and giving an illusion of movement. Then she was laughing again, though now her eyes were shuttered.

"No just another victim of traumatic memory loss."

Murk would understand well the bitter undertones that sharpened her words. She doubted that he would ever forget their first meeting, all the long ages ago. Talisman knew she wouldn't. She might be willing to trade nearly every other memory to regain the ones she'd lost, but not that one, it was too precious.

Murk was only jesting in his usual manner. But he always walked a fine edge, which he knew himself. He never worried about it, just contemplated it during the long hours of sleepless nights. How could you sleep when you have so much to think about? Murk never meant to hurt her, but never wanted to step in the opposite direction too much either. Just enough to be friends.

"Interesting. Very interesting. I can imagine why you picked him up them. Another one to add to our little family, our little pretence of home? Or just similarities which mean nothing, beside complicated his affairs and getting him out the door? What was the tale behind him then. Who, what, where, when." Murks spoke softly, his mind in thought. His hands stroked that small length of hair on his chin, the brown threads being the same as his head, unkempt yet strangely handsome due to it.

Talisman stomped hard on her emotions, hiding them deep. Murk wasn't intentionally trying to hurt her, or so she wanted to believe. How ever his manner all of a sudden bothered her beyond bearing

Who, what, where, when."

"Murk!" Looking apologetically at the Argonian. "Don't treat him as if he's some novel for you to pick up, pick through then set aside." She couldn't explain Murk, he was as he was and as elusive as the wind. Talisman decided on a name for the Argonian then and there.

"Unless you really hate it, until you regain your name, how about Hunter Azul. Hunter blue..." She indicated his scars, and her eye locked with his for a moment, deepest amethyst meeting crystaline sapphire

Murk shrugged casually, used to that tone of voice, that berating of his attitude. He still had that suble smile upon his lips, pleased with having something interesting to consider, to mull over.

"I just wanted to know his story. How am I supposed to interact with one of your new friends if I know nothing on how you met him? Or would you prefer me in the dark over your companions?" Murk said smoothly, without a bitter hint. Just playful nature. In all the time that Talisman knew Murk, he never once gave her an angry look, a bitter ending to his words, a hateful discussion of a subject. Slight irritation she had seen, but that was only over those who completely disregarded the world of experiance and failed to appreciate things they had.

The Argonian finished the omlet, silently sliding the fork back onto the plate & the 9mm back onto the table... Murk, as he was known, had startled him somewhat in his method of making himself known...

"Azul? Hell, why not... It's better than 'Hey You'..."

He stood up from the table, seemingly bringing the Glock with him out of habit. Since he'd come to, it hadn't been more than an arm's length away...

"Pleased to meet both of you, my name is Azul Hunter..."

Azul reversed the two names, making the title seem a bit more modernistic...

The streets below lay quiet, especially in a certain section of town. Another pair of DDF soldiers moved down the streets, sweeping the less desirable parts of town for any signs of extremeist insurgents. Two of their shift hadn't reported in for some time, and they'd gone to investigate.

The scene that greeted them as they turned the corner was grusome indeed. Four civilians, probably returning home from the night shift, lay dead amongst two DDF soldiers who where missing their weapons. A distress call was sent out, an investigation team called for, and the area blocked off.

The evidence was curious: Several 5.45mm brass casings littered the area, and a Glock model 20 was found near the body closest to a nearby alleyway. What was most curious was the fact that the pistol had fingerprints on the grip, trigger, slide, and slide release. Argonians, lacking fingerprints, didn't leave such markings. Apon comparison to a species database, the prints came up human. A human with an illegal Russian-made assault rifle...

"I just wanted to know his story. How am I supposed to interact with one of your new friends if I know nothing on how you met him? Or would you prefer me in the dark over your companions?"

"I'm sorry Murk, that was unkind of me" She said softly,penetently, giving him her full attention. Gazing into his rubiate gaze she could have fallen, willingly, forever but she wrenched herself back as the Argonian stood

"Pleased to meet both of you, my name is Azul Hunter

Talisman grinned at him, pleased that he accepted her stab at a name

"Welcome to the ranks of 'those who's memories go only so far back' Azul."

Quickly she explained to Murk and Azul how she had found the Argonian in the alley, omitting nothing that she'd observed. "Far more blood than just his, I'd have to say at least a couple, but while the bodies were gone it really hadn't been 'sanitized' - and it wasn't as if I scared any one off in mid clean up either."

She picked up the plate with the now cold omelet she'd made for herself and began eating. Between bites.

"Azul, both Murk and I have some small experience in trying to regain memories...not that we've been entirely suscessful though" She snorted more than half exasperated by those past failures "We've got a fair amount of basic information about you, to start. I've never been in the military, but I have a fair amount of knowledge about military and covert ...things. Your clothes- basic black, no maker's marks- not even removed ones -so, definitely not off the shelf. The remains of web harness- better made than the stuff put out for public consumption. The gun speaks for itself...and the way you handle it, and know about it, just reinforces my impressions. And..."

Without any 'telegraphing', a long leg lashed out in a sweep, meant to take Azul's broad claw tipped feet out from under him. Not that it would have susceeded, but his reaction would be telling.

Dekker was halfway to his meeting point when a cluster of law enforcement & military personnel grabbed his attention by the nuts. The number of body bags was hard to ignore, at least in an urbanized setting. Gangs hadn't had the time to get established, so it wasn't a hit. Someone had gunned down several people in short order, then vanished...

"This idn't good... Don't look like insurgent work, either. The military would have spotted them a mile off & popped 'em on sight..."

The mercenary inched closer, sticking to the shadows until he'd gotten behind the barriers. Two militarily-dressed Argonians where getting ID'd before their trip to their final destination, most likely a furnace or funeral pyre. From his limited expeirence with dead Argonians, they didn't like to bury their dead. Burning was the preferred method...

"Two military-types DOA, the rest have gotta be civilians. The rest of the motherfuckers I've seen patrolling have been in battle-buddy teams. Guess there where some witnesses when the fucker pulled the trigger on the troopers & he didn't mind leaving a mess to protect his identity. By the size of the entry wounds & the fact that there were exit wounds on chests of the armored bodies led him to believe an assault rifle had been involved, small-caliber & high muzzle velocity...

'A five-fifty-six or a five-forty-five... Hard to tell without any brass. Either they caught him by surprise or bagmen that are worth a damn are getting hard to find. Why he had an assault rifle is beyond me...'

Dekker looked a bit harder. The exit wounds were on the front panels of the armor...

'Motherfucker shot 'em from behind...'

He'd have to look into this later, he was already about to be late for his appointment. The cheif trainers of the Argonian military had trained in RDPMC programs before returning home to share their knowledge. Hell, he'd trained a few himself, therefore there was a special place for the fledgeling nation in Dekker's battle-hardened heart. No-one shot his troops in the back... No-one...

"I just wanted to know his story. How am I supposed to interact with one of your new friends if I know nothing on how you met him? Or would you prefer me in the dark over your companions?"

"I'm sorry Murk, that was unkind of me" She said softly,penetently, giving him her full attention. Gazing into his rubiate gaze she could have fallen, willingly, forever but she wrenched herself back as the Argonian stood

"Pleased to meet both of you, my name is Azul Hunter

Talisman grinned at him, pleased that he accepted her stab at a name

"Welcome to the ranks of 'those who's memories go only so far back' Azul."

Quickly she explained to Murk and Azul how she had found the Argonian in the alley, omitting nothing that she'd observed. "Far more blood than just his, I'd have to say at least a couple, but while the bodies were gone it really hadn't been 'sanitized' - and it wasn't as if I scared any one off in mid clean up either."

She picked up the plate with the now cold omelet she'd made for herself and began eating. Between bites.

"Azul, both Murk and I have some small experience in trying to regain memories...not that we've been entirely suscessful though" She snorted more than half exasperated by those past failures "We've got a fair amount of basic information about you, to start. I've never been in the military, but I have a fair amount of knowledge about military and covert ...things. Your clothes- basic black, no maker's marks- not even removed ones -so, definitely not off the shelf. The remains of web harness- better made than the stuff put out for public consumption. The gun speaks for itself...and the way you handle it, and know about it, just reinforces my impressions. And..."

Without any 'telegraphing', a long leg lashed out in a sweep, meant to take Azul's broad claw tipped feet out from under him. Not that it would have susceeded, but his reaction would be telling.

Reflex took over... The blow took his feet out from under him, but he rotated as he fell, transitioning into a backward handspring that left him standing with his knees bent & aiming down the barrel of his 9 milimeter at his assailant...

"What the Hell was that?"

Realizing he was aiming a loaded gun at the person who'd saved his life, he swiftly lowered it, the muzzle now aligned with the floor...

Murk watched as Talisman proceeded with her revealing of evidence. Just as she had predicted and assessed, this man knew how to handle himself with reflexes. This was his own story all over again. Murk knew abilities he had never been taught, languages which he had never known the origins of until he had asked and did research upon.

He chuckled in a low manner of pleasure as he saw the warrior proceed with his automatic responce, a responce which had no doubt saved this man's life on more than one occasion. The confidence in which the movement was undertaken represented countless drills and an amount of practice which represented a determination and a requirement to rely on his own abilities. Murk knew that if you did not know your own capabilities and be able to rely on them, your goals were compromised. You could not rely on them, and so you could not rely on yourself. And if you could not rely on yourself, how could anyone rely on you? Not that Murk wanted to be relied upon.

"That was training kicking in." Murk informed simply, a small smile of satisfaction upon his lips. This was going to get interesting, for a few obvious reasons. The events which Talisman described were not the events which a normal civilian was caught up in, and considering that reaction the warrior produced...someone was no doubt after him. Or there was a very fine reason why he had these abilities, and he was highly dubious of his own personal hobbies going so focused into self-defence.

"What the Hell was that?" Azul demanded.

"That was training kicking in." Murk informed simply, a small smile of satisfaction upon his lips.

Talisman stood unmoving until the barrel of Azul's 9 milimeter was no longer aimed at her. Then she relaxed her own ready stance, and smiled at the handsome Argonian, nodding to agree with Murks answer.

"To the point of natural, automatic. Lets go sit in the living room and explore this further in comfort"

Leading the way she flopped gracefully down on her belly upon a thick pile of floor pillows, uncareing that the paraeo's shortness now left a long line of thigh, and more than a hint of the curves of her ass, showing for a moment. Then her wings relaxed, their broad feathers hiding her body beneath them. Elbows propping her up against the pillows Talisman rested her chin on the back of her clasped hands, and regarded the two men.

The pile of pillows was, as she normally placed it where ever she made her residence, next to a comfortable lounge chair, of the sort that Murk fancied. She never minded hinting that she enjoyed it when he stroked her wings, it had been several years - far too long in her estimation- since he sought her out. She was never quite sure how he found her in her perigrinations about the world. Murk just arrived at his whims, and on his own schedule.

God how he wanted her.

She plagued him, plagued him with that fine body of hers, that sweet voice and luring smell. He was completely engaged in it, but gave few signs of his internal anguish. All Murk wanted to do was lose himself into her, release this tension which was straining beneath him. His instincts told him that he should do so, he should indulge in this sense experiance, to lose himself in that glorious nature that was her. How easy it would be...

But something frightened him also. This too he did not reveal in any flicker of the eyes or curling of the mouth. To Talisman, all she would see was his usual posture, his usual tone and aura of control, of being completely flippant. It was this flippancy, with withdrawal from the world which made him untouchable. If he let himself love her as his heart wanted to, his mind might snap. What would remain?

He had often thought about it in an idle manner, but the issue was rearing up to him full force. He quelled the conflict within him resisting the sweet thoughts. It would not do to reveal them here. He was not sure of this subject, so he remained withdrawed to them. The only sign that Tailsman saw of inner conflict or thought was his left hand playing with a silver pen of his. He was rolling it between his long fingers, absent mindedly, agitatedly. His body curled within the chair which Talisman knew he enjoyed curling into like some strange lazy cat.

She was playing a game....or was she? Murk never knew, but he played along anyway...a dangerous one which played with his emotions eroticly.

Azul followed at a distance, the semi-auto still in hand, his claws retracing old marks they'd left before on the polymer frame. Murk had made an interesting observation, something to the tune that someone, or very possibly something, was after him. This thought spawned a thousand others...

'Did I screw up in the past? Am I some AIS rogue agent? Did I find something important?...'

The possible scenarios where nothing short of endless. His navy-hued eyes drifted to the pistol in his right hand...

'There's always a way out...'

Azul shuddered at the thought, not to mention the mess he'd leave for the kindred soul who'd taken him in. He shrugged it off as another instict whoever had trained him had sledgehammered into his memory. It wasn't uncommon for special agents, if he indeed was one, to have self-termination protocols in place for hopeless situations.

Those eyes of his followed the exposed flesh on his hostess' leg up to its origin. She was attractive, yes, but human women, the standard or the winged variety, had never been his ideal mate...

'How the Hell do I know that? I don't even know my name, much less which specie of female I'd rather share a bed with...'

Still musing over this and many other questions, he seated himself on the sofa nearly every Grayrock apartment seemed to come standard with...

"First thing's first... Who do you two think I might be?"

The night was gracefully still, the Argonian on the rappel line uttered a prayer of thanks to God, then continued with his descent towards the apartment balcony he'd been instructed to enter from. Another of his squadmates would enter from the balcony as well, but he was rappelling down the opposite side. Three more where creeping slowly down the hall towards the front door. Two more had roped down to cover the kitchen and bedroom windows. He wouldn't escape this time...

"Delta zero-two, report status..."

The voice of his team leader was quiet in his ear-hole, the headset situated on the outside of the Underarmor balaclava they all wore. Black fatigues & tactical vests dotted with grenades was the uniform of the night. Each black-ops shock trooper carried an MP5SD5A3, a fixed stock 9x19mm submachinegun, spraying hollow-point Hydra-Shoks at 900 rounds per minute. The integral surpressor made the thing as quiet as death itself, making it a perfect assassination tool when fitted with a Trijicon Reflex combat optic. Sidearms where the custom-bought Glock 19's, lacking external markings, except outfitted with surpressors & laser aiming systems. The SMG's had had the same treatment, lacking every external marking minus the labels on the selector switch...

"Delta zero-two reports in position..."

"Delta zero-three reports in position..."

Both black-clad troopers dropped to the balcony like two-legged spiders, quickly bringing their weapons to bear on the door, which had remained slightly ajar...

"Delta zero-two reports negative on breaching charge, door is open..."

"Delta zero-one to zero-two. Copy negative on breaching charge. Standby for go-code yankee..."

"Delta zero-two copies..."

The assassins had reached the front door & where silently picking the lock as the seperate teams exchanged hushed confirmations over their radios.
Delta 02 & Delta 03 had moved out of any direct line of sight while the main team prepared for entry...

"First thing's first... Who do you two think I might be?"

"I think that you are more than special forces, and quit looking at that pistol as if its your last resort." Talisman snapped. She'd seen the momentary look, so bleak yet accepting, and seen it before.

Then the wind sent tendrills through the partially open french doors and Talsiman was moving without conscious thought. Amethyst light limed her, and more sprang forth from her hands. The scent of Argonians, and weapons, where none should be. The Shards of energy sizzled through the interviening space, unimpeeded by the windows, and impacted against one of the Argonians on the balcony. The bloom of force shattered his ribs, sending them to tear lethal holes in his lungs and heart, the wierdlying energy destroying his nervous system additionally...to say nothing of the fatal end of the fall he took as he spun backwards over the balcony railing.

"Down!"

"I think that you are more than special forces, and quit looking at that pistol as if its your last resort."

Murk was about to inject his own personal witticism into the conversation, when the more alert Talisman took matter into her own hands. The energy flared and Murk grinned as he felt it course around him and impact with whatever was out there. He was the first to admit that he enjoyed the thrill of combat, the dance of violence which produced such intresting possibilities.

He flowed into the situation, for everything was adapted to with ease and grace by this shadow skinned day-dreamer. He adapted so well into any situation that came his way one could speculate with some seriousness if he had the ability to see into the future. Murk certainly seemed the eccentric to be in a tent and give out fortunes to desperate people.

"One expects further mysterous company when current company is so beleaguerd by false memory." Murk whispered softly, his posture not changed by the recent turn of events. He had no need. With those words uttered, he dissolved into the wall, a trail of dark cloud left behind as he did so. Murk had faded from view, but Talisman knew that he had not fled the combat.

He had just gotten himself into a better view, a better and more interesting position in which to partake himself in this test of who was the more skilled in violence.

"Shit"

"Whats up?" Kennian asked. He had been laying on the couch, sore as all hell. A bullet from the 92 he held in his hand had richochet, and his his side. It only grazed, but it was a deep graze. He has tied an undershirt to it, so the bleeding stopped, though it was more painful than anything.

"They are pissed at me, because of your fuck up."

"Its not my fault!"

"What about killing 2 soldiers, and four others on the street?"

"I did what I had to. Should I have left witnesses instead? The police would already be here, if it had been the case."

Ivan got a sour look on his face. He agreed with kennian, but his ass was still on the line. "Look, there is a slight change of plans. We cant risk them being on lookout for chellians now, so they arranged a car to come pick you up. Its from an anonymous company, for VIP's. Dont let him see your guns, and dont answer any of his questions. Its pre-paid.

You will be driven to a meeting in a bar. You are to meet with an insurgent leader, his codename is hellfire. He will be wearing a black suit, and a blue sports watch. Find him, and give him the suitcase. He will hand you a card, which will have the number of an anonymous bank account. The uppers wouldnt tell me how much money it was worth, so it must be a lot. Anyways, he gives you the card, you give him the suitcase. He has the key, supposedly.

Anyways, I doubt you want to use any of the crap you picked up from those soldiers, and I dont have any 5.45 ammo. Grab a couple guns from the back if you want. I'll hold on to your AK, just until you finish the mission, and get back here." Ivan said, pointing to a walk-in closet.

Kennian had been here before, and knew Ivan has a large number of guns. Ivan quickly ran to the door, which had an electronic lock on it. Nothing too special, but your average robber or cop couldnt get in. He put in the code, and opened it.

Kennian walked in. The collection had grown. Quite a lot. He saw a great selection of american, russian, and european arms, as well as a couple other ones, including a few chellian military weapons. He grabbed a short M-14 SOPMOD, and a Makarov PM. He slipped the makarov into his concealed holster in his jacket, and the M-14 into a bag, along with some T-shirts, his cell phone, and spending cash. He put a number of extra magazines in as well. He hoped the rifle wouldnt be needed. It had already been a long day as it was.

--------------------

A telephone call, and Kennian walked outside of the safe house. A car, not beautiful by appearance, was parked in front. Kennian entered the back, with bag and suitcase, and the driver began going. Ignoring the driver's small talk, they made their way through the city streets, as the bar was quite further than he expected.

The violet light that limed her was fainter now, the shards being drawn directly from life force. Normally she'd pull first from the necklace of crystal talismen she wore, but she'd not put it back on after her earlier shower.

"Damnation!" Talisman swore softly. She was tired as it was, and her first attack had drained her more than she might wish. She would have to be very carefull with that she had left.

Delta zero-three had the strange sensation he was falling, not from any equilibrial balance issue, but from the fact that his last visual image was the balcony he'd been standing on five seconds earlier was spiraling away from view.

Zero-two spun out from his concealed position, bringing the red-dot reticle of his combat optic to bear on Talisman's chest. Two shots, unsurpressed, rang out & zero-two dropped to the concrete surface with a pair of 9mm's in his skull, one having entered through the left eye & the other just below it...

'Six rounds left...'

Azul thought to himself, comtemplating if he should rush for the submachinegun or hunker down & pick them off as they came. The main assault force broke down the door, the gunshots having alerted them to the fact that something hadn't gone according to plan. The resulting crash forced Azul's decision, sending him in a headlong dive for the weapon on Delta zero-two's corpse. Delta zero-five crashed through the kitchen window, leveling his weapon. Azul snatched the muzzle & arced it away from himself as he spun around to deliver a punishing elbow to the top of the skull that had D05 face-planted in the carpet. The amnesic Argonian finished his kill with a Bruce Lee-esque stomp to the throat. The magazine on the surpressed MP5 was full, and the bastard had plenty of spare ammo.

Azul launched the weapon to Talisman, followed with the corpse of the fallen black-ops trooper. He'd taken the Glock & two of the spare magazines from the body, now holding a pair of mismatched pistols. He opened fire on the main assault team as Delta zero-four slid quietly into the apartment through the bedroom window...

Murk was in his element. He had gracefully slipped out of reality and immerged into a new place of the reality he had left. He ripped his physical body through one of the walls nearest another member of this assault team, catching him off guard. All the uniformed man could do was turn his body in responce, his gun ready to be pointed towards the new foe. His colleagues beside him did the same, but in a fluid experianced manner that Murk expected.

Murk slid in from the wall, his two legs span around in a full 360 degree clockwise motion, causing the gunman to fall on his back in shock. When Murk had finished this manuver, the gunmen were already firing in rapid sucession at him.

The bullets hit nothing, his body once more vapour dissipating into the floor. Murk had faded from view just as fast as he had come into the fray again, his swift assaults causing much confusion and irritation to those who he attacked. Under normal circumstances, Murk would have had time to indulge in psychological warfare and traps of his own making. But this was not the situation to do it in, not with Talisman in this scene.

Murk formed once more in the opposite direction he had recently sprung from. He was elevated due his choice location on various piece of furniture, his legs spread out in a catlike posture. His dirks in his hands, he propelled them towards the downed target.

The two slivers of shining metal hit the target gracefully and effectively. One slashed across his right wrist, causing blood to splash around him, and the other planted itself deeply within his skull. The eternal muse looked at it with interest as he did so, observing the wonderful colour of blood in the light.

This attack was not without a counterattack however. Murk would normally never had performed such a bold and quick move with so many targets around, but this was not normal circumsatances. One of the assault squads pointing his machinegun squarely at him and squeezed the trigger, releasing a flurry of precise bullets.

Murk evapourated into black mist again, but not before two bullets thudded painfully into him. He recoiled into the walls, fading from view to recover.

This was getting interesting indeed, Murk thought.

The soldier's head shuddered three times in quick succession, then he toppled backwards after Azul's third shot impacted squarely with his forehead. A thin tendril of smoke curled up from the surpressor on the end of the Glock. The surpressed weapon contained thirteen rounds.

He was sure Murk had been hit, although he knew not how badly. Such things where in the back of his mind as he crouched behind the sofa as a wave of gunfire from the remaining member of the main team forced him behind something. They clearly hadn't expected something like Murk or Talisman to be in his company, otherwise they would have simply bombed the apartment...

How he knew that, he'd never know, but it made more sense than wasting lives attempting to kill him & his fellows with good-old-fashioned bullets.

Delta zero-four quietly drew a bead on the back of Azul's head from his position in the bedroom, his finger tensing on the trigger...

Delta zero four never got a chance to complete that tensing of his trigger finger. The three round burst from the H&K MP5 Talisman held hit his wrist, his hand and the H&K he was aiming at Azul's head. The wrist, and hand spasmed wildly, blood and bits of bone flying, and the H&K was no longer held- the force of the 9 mm's impact against it would have wrenched out of Delta zero four's hand along, and with that hand no longer capable of hold the smg...

Talisman looked at the H&K in her hands in utter astonishment for half a second. She hadn't fired one in several years, and that only one afternoon at a friends private range. She apparently had remembered the weapon better than she hoped. She send another burst into the Argonian's body, watching him fall at the same time that her own body arced in pain as rounds from the last remaining invader ripped through her.

She couldn't find the energy to stand, and crumpled to the floor, dropping the H&K

A roar emanated from the ceiling where the assailant fired his burst at the angel winged woman. It was a roar of frustration and passion, a battle cry of most primitive nature. It was disturbing due to this reason, the vocal cords which usually produced smooth and elegant words and expressions now rumbled in fury. This was most uncharacteristic of Murk. Unprecedented.

His arms were outstretched, his hands long and reaching towards the head of the one who assaulted his only friend, his only companion. They stretched out, straining and forcefully extended those black stone nails of his gleaming with his own blood from the wounds he had previous clutched at. The wounds were clear and obvious. Two bullets had entered his right leg, one had entered his lower chest, and one had pierced his left shoulder. But such wounds were ignored and shrugged off. Nothing mattered. Murk didn't care.

Murk was pummelling him with his fists and knees, delivering forceful blows to his enemy. He did not know if he was alive or not, but he knew he was responcible. His opponent because the image of everything he despised and reviled in the world, a figure of his most rightfully deserving hatred. Gone was the resignation, the musings, the quaint expressions and contemplations of colour and texture. His instinct took over, defending the one thing he knew to be precious when all around him things looked false.

Murk's vision was clouded by the mist, violence becoming his body. He threw himself upon his opponent, and he knew that was not in control. He didn't want to be. He wanted to lose himself in this rage, this fury which was oh so real. He wanted to relieve the pain of the thought of watching her die while he did nothing. Someone was to blame for this. Murk had lost sight of the situation. Not knowing if there was only one warrior remaining, or dozens, he fought against them.

Pain hit him numbly from his old wounds or his new wounds, he did not know. Pain was a past thought and concern. He did not care. He tore apart with his fingers, smashed with his palms, pummelled with his elbows, ravaged with his knees, hammered with his legs, devastated with his fury. His mind was receding, his instinct taking dominance. He blacked out, his body moving on it's own against the one who attacked Talisman, and any others in the building.

Unknown to Murk, he was screaming while he did all of this. A war cry of profanities in a language he did not know. Cursing his enemies in that warped dialect which sounded like a hound growling and barking in sick reverse. Also unknown to Murk, was that his eyes were flaring black. A horrifying black which expelled from his eyes as if it were furious fog.

Feeling something slip...Murk tried to gain control...see what was going on...he tried...his eyes fluttered. The black receded...his vision returned. He felt numb, disorientated. As if he had just snapped back into a new reality. His hands were wrapped around the uniform of the dead man, bloody and completely unrecognisable. He felt the blood from him, and from himself, all around his body. On his hands, on his legs, on his chest, on his face, in his hair. Both matted and slick in places.

He hissed and heaved as he breathed in and out....his ability to speak and react to the world still not completely his own.

He didn't care. He was lost for the moment, inside of himself.

"Murk..." Talisman coughed, fighting against the darkness and pain, her voice so faint as to be almost unheard. "Murk, no.."

She reached out to him, her lips shaping a word 'beloved'. Manageing to get to her knees, though the room whirled around her. She couldn't heal herself, but the violet light reached out and swept over Murk, leaving him whole if still in pain. Then she was crumpling back unconscious

Azul wasn't quite sure how to handle this... Talisman was hit, badly by the look of things. He had to leave. Now. Azul shrugged into his fatigue shirt, and one of the bloody assault vests, slinging the MP5 over his arm. The surpressed Glock sat in the hip holster, the one he'd woken up next to now sported the same bells & whistles as the one he'd snagged from the dead soldier...

"I have to go. Call the ambulances, she needs help..."

Azul threw Murk the cordless phone, then looked towards the balcony, seeing the rappel line swaying softly in the wind. He vanished shortly thereafter...

As Azul slid down the line, someone else was climbing up the opposite one. Black-clad & built more solidly than Azul, his saber bumped against the outside of the highrise as he hauled himself up, hand-over-hand. Apon reaching the balcony, the G.I. Spec 1911 was swiftly in hand. He crept slowly into the apartment, stepping over Delta Zero-two's corpse on the balcony's floor. The place smelled of blood, great quantities of it. The young hunter had been there as well, and done in a few more of his countrymen while he was at it. Zero-two was missing his assault vest & weaponry, probably taken by the Argonian he was trying to track down.

The decor suggested a female residence, as did the heavy odor of various purfumes & feminie scents that permiated the living space...

"Dammit... He has moved on... Made quite a mess, too..."

The rage fluttered away from Murk's mind, the instinct being replaced by cold calculation. It operated bluntly, fumbling over some of the details but powered on regardless.

"We are leaving."

Murk looked at his hands through his focusing eyes. They were slick with the blood from the man he had just pummelled, and savaged beyond recognition. he felt the liquid oozing in his palms, dripping slowly off his coat. He looked like a blood bank had exploded near him, and he had received the full payload of the vital fluids.

He took off his coat swiftly, and turned it inside out. He felt his wounds stick to his coat, the blood acting like some morbid glue. Looking at it, there were three blood patches where his body had been hit. Murk's mind started to understand pain, as he felt the sensation warp into being, slowly but surely. It made him slower, more conscience of his slow movements.

"Now." Murk remarked, and expertly wrapped his coat around his waist. He had to find something else to carry her in. To get her away from this dangerous situation, to get her away from this scene of carnage. A hospital would take too long.

Stepping over the body which he had recently destroyed and made inhumane in appearance, he snatched some of the curtains. He used one to clean his hands slightly so that he would not leave blood all over Talisman when he took her away. With the rest of the curtains, he took them and went over to Talisman.

"Listen. Just...hold on. Just hold on. Everything is going...going to be fine." Murk softly said, as he wrapped the soft curtains tightly around the wounds that Talisman had. He was not confident it was the best thing to do...but it was all he could think of.

"Let's go."

Murk took Talisman up in his arms, holding her body with some strain. He was still weak on his knees, and his own body ached in the test of endurance. His own blood was still trickling out of him, and the metal was still lodged deep within various parts of his body. Every moment he wanted to fall down and give up.

But Talisman was too important to give up.

With a effort of will, Murk closed his eyes and summoned up his abilities. He faded from view with Talisman in his arms in a cloud of black smoke. It was slower and harder to perform than usual due to the strain on his weak body.

He teleported from roof to roof, each time it got more difficult. He fell down more than once, but Talisman never hit the floor. He fell to his knees, groaned in pain, gritted his teeth in determination and summoned up his natural abilities once more.

But strength of will can only go so far. Murk's final teleportation was on top of a rather tall building, a industry building of some sort. It was quiet and secluded, and overlooked all of the city from it. This was where Murk had no more strength to carry on. The failure on his part to continue his journey frustrated Murk intensely, his own abilities which had never failed him had just failed one of his good friends. His only friend.

He laid Talisman down with heavy hands, putting her gently down upon. So peaceful...the wings spread underneath her, her hair around her like that. So calm.

Murk collapsed beside her, his shallow breathing filled with bitterness from his own obvious failure. He choked out his words to Talisman, even though he did not know if she could hear him.

"I am...so sorry Talisman. I can't do it. Please....hang on. Just...don't die on me here."

"I am...so sorry Talisman. I can't do it. Please....hang on. Just...don't die on me here."

But some part of her did hear him, how could she not, he was what made her whole, her compliment, and perfect partner - even if he didn't realize it. And it dragged her back from the safe haven of unconsciousness. She found the strength to open her eye and try to move, but she was so cold, so tired...but Murk needed her.

She managed to sit up, the drapes wound about her acting as compresses. Her hand trembled as she placed it upon her beloved, and forced the light that lived witin her to stretch out thin ephimeral tendrills. Any other would be damaged by that light, save for him- whom it healed.

Talisman had never been shot before, though in her long life she'd taken her fair share of wounds from more primitive weapons. She'd no idea that they would hurt so much, and she was not able to control the tears that flowed down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry Murk, I wish I could make it not hurt" Her voice was a ragged whisper between tears.

The mysterious tracker watched as the pair vanished into thin air, not at all surprised. In his long career he'd witnessed such odd phenomena, most of which had been employed against him with the intent to do him harm. The pistol returned to its resting place under his left arm, where it would be avaliable if needed.

The place was riddled with bullet-holes, roughly 10mm in diameter...

'Indicative of a 9x19mm round...'

Argonians in assault gear lay scattered around the apartment, shot where their armor offered no protection: The face. The one near the balcony was missing an eye & had a hole above the mangled socket. Energy scorings had blackened the drywall around the balcony doors, which would explain the black-clad trooper that had landed fifteen feet from him as he tracked the scent from the alley & prompted the investigation of the apartment in the first place. There'd been some sort of assassination attempt here, and it had failed miserably. Judging by the mangled bodies, the ones that hadn't been shot, it had been a violent struggle... One corpse near the door had a silver knife lodged in his skull.

Placing a scaly foot across the cadaver's chest, he pulled the weapon free...

'Unfamiliar design... Clearly custom & quite old...'

A low growl escaped from his clenched jaws as a thin trickle of crimson leaked down his hand...

'And still quite sharp...'

Perhaps it was a clue? He wasn't sure. The blade went into his belt, stashed for later examination...

Azul's chest was heaving, adrenaline the sole force keeping him moving at his current rate of speed. Look. Scan. Move. Move. Move. His mind was running at a thousand miles a minute, instinct taking over as the seconds ticked away. There was no-one on the streets at this hour, and the wailing crescendo of police sirens sceamed in the distance... Talisman's neighbors had called the law after those two gunshots from his service pistol most likely.

Movement was short, in quick sprints towards his next covered or concealed position. A cruiser blew past, missing him by scarce inches, then skidded to a screeching halt twenty feet down the road. Uniformed officers threw themselves out the doors, drawing .45 caliber MK23 pistols & aiming them his way...

"Drop the weapon! Do it now!"

The screamed command didn't reach Azul's fin-ears. He was already spraying subsonic 9mm's in their direction, peppering the squad car across the rear end. His shots hit something vital, whether by luck or subconcious skill, it didn't matter. The results where nothing short of pyrotechnic, the vehicle rocketing into the air a few feet, flipping forward. The officers where blown to the side, one getting off a few shots in Azul's direction. The harsh impact of something heavy smacking him at a high rate of speed sent Azul spinning to the pavement, the second bullet zipping swiftly overhead.

He lay there, feinting death. One cop was down, severely wounded by shrapnel. The other was trying to claw his way to his feet. Azul was aware of footsteps running up to him, then a booted foot rolling him over. When Azul reached the face-up position, the policeman was staring down the barrel of his SMG, while Azul had the muzzle of the forty-five in his face. The amnesic fired first, tearing the uniformed kevlar vest with close-range rounds. The impacts threw his attacker off of him, but otherwise didn't do permanent damage.

Azul was on his feet, sprinting away as another well-aimed shot caught him in the back, slinging him forward like a rag-doll. The well-made assault vest had caught both rounds, but hadn't dissipated the impact at all. Rough asphault tore at his scaly features, as he half-rebounded, half-bounced to his feet & continued with his headlong rush towards the nearest dark alley...

Murk smiled weakly, pain thwarting his attempts of being his usual self. His thin lips parted in a thin smile as he spoke the words, "Do not worry yourself over Murk. It is Talisman that needs the attention." Murk occasionally referred to himself in third person when musing over something. Perhaps he was trying to reassure her that he was stable, but he was certainly not musing at this point.

Murk was propped up beside Talisman, his arm curled around her as he tried to offer some support to her. His hand went to Talisman's own, which were planted firmly upon the curtains which pressured the wounds. He sighed and looked up into the sky for a moment, collecting his thoughts and energies.

"Give Murk some time. Just hold on a bit longer. Murk will handle this." He sighed out, his fatigue evident despite his deepest wish that he was not. His body refused to move, the aches and pains wanted to drag him down. But Talisman's healing light had given him some strength to carry on, to try and call up his talent once more. As he did so, his internal monologue kicked in with sharp criticism.

Can you handle this?
Can you save her?
You can barely save yourself.
Pathetic.
You failed.

Murk's left hand went to his brow, to try and reduce this criticism, to calm his nerves. His hands physically shook from the turmoil he was facing, both physical and mental. He just wanted everything to be back the way it was. Here he was with Talisman, unsure if he could save her, unsure if he could even save himself, and unsure of the emotions he felt when he was so close to her, in such intense conditions. He felt...completely different. He felt part of the world, something which he had always avoided. Murk couldn't entirely understand it, it was not rational. His lifestyle abhorred such intimacy, such concern for others. But his nature...his instincts somehow embraced his concern for Talisman.

He refused to let go of this concern. It was the only thing that mattered.

The remaining cop called for back-up from his hand-held radio, and soon helicopters where circling the city, searching for the mysterious man in black.

Chopper Metro Zero-Three sped towards the last known location, stopping to make a pass over the apartment building they'd had a call on earlier. The suspect they where pursuing matched the descriptions of five other DOA's in the apartment in question, one of the bodies was missing his equipment & weapon.

After his pass was complete, Metro Zero-Three turned off towards the rest of the city, the spotlight mounted on the bottom of his craft passing over a pair of huddled masses atop one of the larger office buildings...

"Metro Zero-Three to Dispatch, I've got two people on top of the Kelseth office complex, going in for a closer look..."

The chopper made his pass, shining his light directly on Murk & the wounded Talisman, the displaced wind from the rotors ruffling their hair & clothing...

"Metro Three to Dispatch, I've got what looks like two wounded, requesting medical chopper..."

A medical helicopter from Grayrock University Hospital was lifting off & en route five minutes later, ETA another five...

Azul had slowed his pace, staggering to the dark corner of a dumpster & collapsing in a panting heap...

"The SMG wasn't a good idea... At that speed they'd have never noticed the 9-mil or the body armor..."

He'd been followed, but not by any authority figure. The ominous crack of an assault baton being readied for use snapped his head towards the opposite end of the alley...

"It is good we finally meet... I have many questions to ask you..."

The car stopped. Kennian looked out of the tinted window of the sedan, and indeed, a bar was awaiting him. Getting out, the smell of the place immediatly hit him. The smell of cigarettes and marijuana fumed out of the place. A good place as any, I suppose.

Kennian grabbed his bag and the briefcase, and walked into the bar. It was lively; The bar must have been full, with over four dozen people. However, the only people with suits were at the far end of the bar. He was glad he didn't have to go looking; the sooner the night was over, the better.

The men must have noticed him come in, as they were motioning him to come. "You must be the chellian runner! Sit, sit. Let me get you a drink. Waiter!" Yelled the man at the unopposed end of the table. Kennian shook his head, and sat down. "Im not thirsty."

"Don't be foolish. We have things to discuss, and the only thing scarier than an armed man is a sober man!" The man said, kennian shooting him a look. "My name is Capin, these are my bodyguards. What is your name, son?" Capin said.

"Look, Capin, this is a small job and I'm not your son. Can I get the card?" Kennian said, as the waiter brought him some vodka. Kennian nodded to the waiter, and pushed the vodka away from him, lest he be tempted to drink from it.

"Fine, fine." Capin said, putting the card in front of kennian. After quickly checking the number, Kennian handed Capin the briefcase. A smile grew wide on Capin's face, as he took out a key and unlocked the case. Kennian could not see into the case, and had no wish to anyways. Kennian got up.

"Ohh, don't leave. This is perfect, absolute perfection. Let us celebrate!" Capin pleaded, as Kennian began to walk away. "No." Kennian said coldly, as we walked out of the bar. An SUV presided outside the bar, where two humans waited, facing the bar. They checked a picture, and waved to kennian.

Kennian walked to them. One flashed the Eff, the other opened the back door for Kennian. He hopped in, and looked around. There were three inhabitants, other than himself. All human, probably chellian. One in the back carried an Mp5-10, as well as an Aks-47 and a Steyr aug, presumably for the two outside of the vehicle. He was seated next to a Chellian Lieutenant, as he carried the two chevron star on his collar. He knew many of the Green and White mafia were ex-military, but he had never met an officer.

"Kennian, I presume you have the card?" The main said, kennian quickly handing it to him. "Good. You did a good job today. Keep it up, and you just might get promoted. We'll call you when we need you again." The Lieutenant said, as the car, which had been driving down the street, halted. The door was opened, kennian was lightly pushed out, and then the car sped away.

Jesus christ. They leave me out here, armed, and suspect for murders? Couldn't give me a fucking ride to Ivan's? Jesus christ, im going to have to walk there...

Kennian thought about putting his M-14 in his jacket, readied, and decided to go for it. He headed into a dark alley, not quite looking down the way, and found a dumpster nearby to slouch against. He began to open his bag, when he heard someone running down the alley, and then a faint voice.

Talisman lay deeply unconscious, but somehow very aware of Murk's presence. Her body stabilized, even if no healing occured.

The night's sounds were faint this high up, and the sounds from the alley near by could probably not have been heard even if she had been conscious

The medical chopper sped towards the office complex, hovering just off the edge of the building...

"Can you walk?!"

The Argonian EMT was screaming over the incessent thumping of the rotors, motioning for Murk to walk to the chopper if at all possible. He didn't relish the idea of having to leave his secure perch & risk a fifty-story nose-dive into the pavement below...

The light within was little more than a trick of the eye, and the vast- but spreading at only a trickle now as there was little left to bleed out- pool of blood was cooling. The drapes were sodden through and Talisman's wings, spread limply as death approached, were equally soaked.

Her heart was larger and stronger than a humans, but it could not punp what was not there, and the organ spasmed, the regular compression reaction stalling against a chamber nearly empty of life fluid.

Her skin was as pale as her wings had been, and her breathing faltered. Her eyes never opened as a skeletal hand reached out to take hers

Dekker had been running down the street with his forty-five in the low-ready for the past fifteen minutes... Gunshots had rung out somewhere nearby, and that had piqued some natural curiosity on his part...

"This place is fuckin' nuts..."

This was followed by a string of other colorful phrases as the ex-SEAL charged forwards, his head on a constant pivot in search of the source of the disturbance. The burning police car up ahead seemed like a good bet...

The sound of the chopper hurt Murk's ears to endure it, the bright light of the spotlight scorched his eyes. But the idea that he might not have to get Talisman out of this situation on his own was relief enough. He thanked whatever spirits were watching over her. He shook his head at the lizardman’s request, and made a hand gesture which was quite understandable. His finger pointed downwards, his movements indicated that he was meant it. He needed someone to help Talisman. Now.

“She needs help now! Get down here, I cannot move her!” Murk shouted weakly, wondering if he was even heard. He looked at the deathly pale Talisman, and was beginning to panic. He was frustrated by this entire event, and he was being pushed to the limit. He gripped her tightly, trying to offer whatever comfort he could. The dark skinned rogue was near to breaking down at the evident near death state of Talisman.

”Don’t die on me! Hold on! Talisman, don’t you dare die on me! I don’t want to be alone!

”Don’t die on me! Hold on! Talisman, don’t you dare die on me! I don’t want to be alone!

Some part of Talisman heard the cry that was wrenched from the depths of Murk's heart, and though it was not what Talisman had dreamed of hearing for countless years, it was enough to catch her and hold her.

However death would not be shrugged aside without a sacrifice. She could not sacrifice the one she had loved without reservation for the whole of her conscious existance, but the sacrifice had to be something equally valued...

Her wings crumbled into dust, as a single tear slid down her cheek,

Death retreated, frustrated.

And a part of heart broke

The medical helicopter took up a position overhead, sending a rappel line straight down out either side. Paramedics fast-roped down to the wounded duo, followed seconds later by a double-litter carry device.

With Murk's assistance, Talisman's barely (?) living body was secured, followed by himself. With their cargo secure, the paramedics gave the good-to-go signal & were pulled into the relative safety of the chopper. Within minutes they were back at the hospital, Talisman was being wheeled quickly to emergency surgery to attempt to preserve her.

"Doctor, we're losing her!"

"Quickly, get her on the table!"

There was a sharp tingle of cold steel against her back, followed by the sweet stupor of morphine and the resulting darkness as the procedure began. Murk was in better shape, and was wheeled to the ICU for immediate treatment. They were in good hands, the Grayrock University Hospital was the best in the nation at this point...

A sea of black was prodded by blunt needles of noise, the surrounding globe of unconsciousness was being drained slowly by the pestering world of the living. It teased Murk for remaining so lazy, for refusing to return to reality. This place was comforting, a hollow comfort, but a comfort none the less. Murk bathed in the nothingness, allowing the living world to tend to his wounds. He heard the ripples of the sound going on around him. From doctors observing him he thought dully.

Gunshot wounds....blood loss....Blood type, definitely not human. Or at the... of course I....a slice of human....something unknown. Increased immune and regeneration rates....fascinating I agree... Came in with....is downstairs. He should be fine, but I don't know about her...still operating on...

Mentioning of Talisman made the needles sharper, more poignant and urgent. They managed to painfully pierce the shell of black, to reveal shades of grey...then blinding light. Light of the real world, bright hospital lights. They punctured Murk's world, and forced him back. He allowed those needles to enter his world, to enter and purify the darkness with reality. Concern sobered him from his escapism.

"Oh...he is waking up. How are you feeling Mister...?"

The male doctor asked the patient his name. Until this point, he was an unknown.

"Murk. Just...Murk." he said weakly, his eyelids slowly fluttering open and his voice low and weak.

"I see. Now Murk you will have to keep calm." The doctor began his explanation of what damage he had taken and how he was being treated. He made no mention of where he was, or indeed if there were any guards outside those off colour curtains around him. The doctor was factual and delivered his report swiftly. The speed of the report was matched by his departure, as he scurried away to tend to another patient.

Murk remained within his bed, trying to get his limbs moving. He felt pain numbly return back into his perceptions. Such was the price of trying and succeeding in moving your hands. One limb at a time he thought...Murk would walk again very soon.

There were indeed several guards outside, but not to prevent anyone from leaving as much as anyone else from getting in. Seven Argonian Metro-Policemen had been stationed at the hospital for protective and investigative purposes...

The operation would last several hours, touch and go the entire time, for it was that the main artery running down Talisman'a torso had been damaged to the point of near non repairability by the rounds that had ripped through her.

The bullets had missed her spine, but there was extensive damage to various internal organs, and the blood loss had been massive. She would spend months in the hospital and there was a good chance she would need additional operations. The doctors discovered that like Murk she was only superficially human, but accepted type o blood with no complications.

Back in that alley...

He'd been followed, but not by any authority figure. The ominous crack of an assault baton being readied for use snapped his head towards the opposite end of the alley...

"It is good we finally meet... I have many questions to ask you..."

"Hey missster" Piped a small voice form the depths of a pile of crates. The shadows were too deep for even the keenest of eyes to make out more than someone small, or tightly crouched filled the nitch. The voice wasn't Argonian, and not human, or elvin... "When you're through with him, could I have ssome of hiss things? I'll do look out and yell if ssome oness coming."

Khat knew that speaking up was dangerous, but hunger gnawed so desperately. And even torn bloody clothes would fetch something if you knew where to take them. 'Besides this heap has a back route out, and I'm super fast' Khat had argued internally and decided to take the risk. Khat didn't need to see what was going to happen, it was a common enough occurance in Khat's small world.

Azul leveled the sub-machinegun at the baton-wielding hunter before him...

"It seems you're a bit out-gunned friend. I'd put that down and face the wall..."

There was a second cracking noise...

"Pipe down, youngling... This is not meant for your eyes..."

Azul made the laugh-sound at the opposite end of the alley...

"It sure won't be... One last time, pal... Put the sticks down..."

The figure catapulted himself forward in a handspring, transitioning to a frontal flip that put him directly in front of Azul, his eyes wide with amazement. Reflex took over, squeezing the trigger, but the muzzle was controlled by a strong, whip-like thing that had wrapped itself around the barrel, sending sub-sonic 9x19mm's screaming in all directions.

Both hands free, the mysterious warrior was pummeling Azul's head & neck with powerful strikes from the steel batons. The bolt on the MP5 clicked, it was empty. Azul let it go, drawing the silenced Glocks & spitting intermittent fire at his attacker, dizzy from his beating. Both were slapped aside with strikes to the inner wrists, then torn from his grasp by blows to the backs of the pistols. Azul was finished with a powerful drop-kick to the chest, sending him sailing into the reinforced steel frame of a dumpster...

"Now that you are more inclinded to listen & less inclined to try to kill me, perhaps we can make some progress..."

A pair of softer crackling noises signaled the stashing of the batons on wherever the highly skilled hunter kept them on his person...

"You are an Argonian Intelligence Service Special Agent, in case you were wondering. Our new government finds it nessecary to train people like yourself to root out people like myself, the rebels who resist the new ways. Like Foehunter in the Marshes, fighting the democratic troops. I wage the wars within the urban areas, where I am most familiar. You might know me as Whiptail, most do. You yourself are known as Arakesh Quickclaw, once a proud vampire hunter. You now hunt your old quarry only if assigned the task..."

Azul, or Arakesh, or whoever he was, was finding this a bit much after nearly having his skull bashed in...

'I hunted what? Vampires? Weird... And I have a name, Arakesh Quickclaw, Special Agent Arakesh Quickclaw...'

He interrupted the hunter, Whiptail as he called himself...

"OKay, I get the point..."

Whiptail dealt him a sharp punch across the bridge of the snout, bringing a growl from Arakesh's bleeding mouth...

"You will wait your turn, forgetful one... I was once your mentor, a teacher of sorts in our peculiar line of work. I believed it would be nessecary to tell you this information after I erased it from your memory. You are being hunted because you failed in your objective: Eliminate me. Your finger hesitated on the trigger, and you let me draw my own weapon & fire at you.
We seperated, shortly afterwards your comrades appeared with automatic weapons and tried to kill you, but you killed them instead. Very fine shooting, I will also add. In my rage, I struck you down & left you for the authorities to find, for attempting to kill me, but now we are both in the same situation. In hesitating, you have led them to believe that you still consider me an ally, like it was before this war began. Will you return to the old ways?"

Azul felt like he'd known the Whiptail for some time, and bits and pieces were beginning to return to him, like leaves in a stream. It all made sense now...

"You bet. It won't be much different than what I've been doing..."

Whiptail turned towards the source of the voice...

"Come out, youngling... I will not harm you, rather I will locate you some food & a place more comfortable than an alleyway, where bad things happen..."

Khat had ducked into as small a ball as possible when rounds started flying indescriminately, but uncurled when they stopped. The fighting was interesting to watch but what happened after made Khat's whiskers and ears droop.

'So they know one another, and the hurt one's been mind wiped?' Khat listened wonderingly. Khat knew what fear of that was like, for Khat had fled from the 'first place' to escape from beinging a mindless puppet, as Khat's litter mates had.

"Come out, youngling... I will not harm you, rather I will locate you some food & a place more comfortable than an alleyway, where bad things happen..."

Khat sighed, now faced with another dangerous choice. But the mention of food...though the comment that bad things happen alleys made Khat chuff, bad things happened everywhere, no place was truly safe. Khat shrugged and slowly slid out from the protection of the pile of crates.

Khat (http://www.atddm.com/Khat.jpg) stood five foot at best, even tuff tipped ears barely clearing that, and fur that might be soft sliver white was a gritty gray and stained in other hues in places. Khat hadn't had the energy to keep clean, and some of the staining was from festering wounds, though none were serious. Rags were tied thickly about Khat's paw feet, but holes had been made to accomodate the retractile claws hidden beneath the once silky fur. The overly large ragged pseudo leather vest was tied closed with a belt made of a pair of discarded neckties that sported a small mass produced dagger in a equally cheap sheath.The long once plush fur hid the near starvation thinness only so much.

"I have nothing to trade for the food." Khat kept a wary distance. Though no one had - as of yet - seemed to be hunting for Khat, didn't mean that there wasn't - and there were plenty of other dangers as well. But hunger could be denied for only so long, and Khat ws a very practical little person.

Before Kennian had a chance to react to the sounds down the alley, bullets rang in his general direction.Jesus christ, he thought, what the fuck is going on?

Azul was finished with a powerful drop-kick to the chest, sending him sailing into the reinforced steel frame of a dumpster...

Shock came over Kennian. Gunshots, a couple of which nearly hit him, and then something slamming into the dumpster. He quickly pulled out his M-14, ready for whatever.

"Now that you are more inclinded to listen & less inclined to try to kill me, perhaps we can make some progress..."

Kennian came to the quick realization that it had been a person flung onto the dumpster, and that apparently he was still alive. He decided to let them finish their deal, and run off when he had the chance. He didn't want to fuck around with them. And then they started talking.

...we are both in the same situation. In hesitating, you have led them to believe that you still consider me an ally, like it was before this war began. Will you return to the old ways?

Shit, hunted? Kennian thought. It dawned upon him that these people might be valuable to the argonian government, and hence, to the Green and White. Anything for a promotion, he figured. But can I do it without getting beaten up, or killed? I guess its worth a try...

Kennian knew his M-14 was cocked, loaded full with ammo, and ready. It would take him a few tenths of a second to find someone to aim at, and from there, he hoped the shock would be enough to appraise the situation...

He slowly got his feet positioned, made the least noisey turn he could, then quickly stood, his M-14 aiming immediatly at Azul's head. "Stop!" Kennian yelled in english, through his thick chellian accent. "Or I'll blow your freaking head off!"

Whiptail beckoned the little feline creature closer. He had no intention of taking her anywhere himself, as he was a wanted individual for crimes against the established government. Arakesh, Azul, or whatever he referred to himself as now, would most certainly do so...

Whiptail turned to leave...

"Stop! Or I'll blow your freaking head off!"

The black-scaled Argonian stood slowly, knowing full well what might happen if he moved to suddenly. He raised his hands, covertly unhooking the catch on his underarm holster...

"I don't carry currency, and he is in no shape to resist so it is pointless to aim at him..."

It was a lie, Whiptail had around two thousand dollars in currency on his person, but this criminal didn't need to know that. His accent was unfamiliar, which pegged him as a foreign member of organized crime. Most Argonians considered it an honor-code violation to participate in such things, but things were changing with industrialization...

"Yeah... Uh, what he said..."

Arakesh's left hand was creeping towards the fallen Glock somewhere to his left, his right trying to quietly gesture for Khat to run as fast as she could to somewhere safe. This might get ugly...

"Lower your weapon, I have no conflict with you..."

Whiptail's tone was one of annoyance...

Whiptail beckoned the little feline creature closer. He had no intention of taking her anywhere himself, as he was a wanted individual for crimes against the established government. Arakesh, Azul, or whatever he referred to himself as now, would most certainly do so...

Whiptail turned to leave...

"Stop! Or I'll blow your freaking head off!"

The black-scaled Argonian stood slowly, knowing full well what might happen if he moved to suddenly. He raised his hands, covertly unhooking the catch on his underarm holster...

"I don't carry currency, and he is in no shape to resist so it is pointless to aim at him..."

It was a lie, Whiptail had around two thousand dollars in currency on his person, but this criminal didn't need to know that. His accent was unfamiliar, which pegged him as a foreign member of organized crime. Most Argonians considered it an honor-code violation to participate in such things, but things were changing with industrialization...

"Yeah... Uh, what he said..."

Arakesh's left hand was creeping towards the fallen Glock somewhere to his left, his right trying to quietly gesture for Khat to run as fast as she could to somewhere safe. This might get ugly...

"Lower your weapon, I have no conflict with you..."

Whiptail's tone was one of annoyance...

Kennian smiled. Things were going better than he had planned.

"I didn't ask you to talk! Now, we are all going to sit here until I say we go. I heard your Direzer, about how people want you dead. I could just shoot you now and get it done with, but I am nice, pas?" Kennian said. He knew it was risky, but he took out his makarov and exchanged it with his M-14 in one swift move. Then, with his free hand, he pawed for the cell-phone in his pocket, keeping a bead on Azul.

"Now, I am going to call up my friend, and you can have a talk with my bosses. And I know you have guns, one of you, so no funny buisness!" Kennian yelled, though in a quiet voice. He opened his cell-phone, and began to look for the ivan's number.

The stranger had made one possibly fatal mistake. He'd ingored Khat...and had no idea of just how far Khat could go in a standing leap. Muscles tensed to flee would use the stiffled energy to power the leap when the time was right

However Khat had changed intention about exactly where Khat would leap. It was really annoying to have another interfearing, and even more Khat was ticked about not smelling the other watcher. Though the stench from the dumpster was over powering and Khat really couldn't have smelled much of anything near that bin of refuse

The chance came when the stranger looked down at the screen of the cel phone, which if Khat could claim as a spoils of war would feed Khat for many days. Supressing the normal snarling war cry Khat wanted so greatly to make was not easy. However that would alert the stranger and that Khat knew would be a very bad idea.

Fifteen feet if it was a foot and all four limbs latched on to the man, claws going in instinctive shredding motions. Cloth flew under those sharp claws and blood began to well in the slashes that every bit of Khat's strength was going into making. The man couldn't see, as Khat was snarling into his face, and to detach Kahat would be no easy thing.

Arakesh finally got a hand on the Glock, bringing the polymer-framed semi-automatic to bear on the enemy in response to Khat's surprise attack. The little feline critter was handy to have, and he was relieved that she had not fled when asked to do so.

Whiptail had reacted faster, spinning into a low kneeling stance, drawing the unhooked forty-five on the way down. It was leveled, steady, and ready, but Khat constantly wandered into his sight picture in her constant moving & clawing. The muscular, black-scaled shadow flitted up to the rolling pair, grabbing Khat by the scruff & tossing her a few feet away, setting a large reptillian foot on the man's chest & snatching up the dropped Makarov with his dexterous tail, tapping the magazine release with the tip & rubbing the slide against his thigh to eject the chambered round before throwing the cheap russian automatic in Arakesh/Azul's direction.

The M14 would be another issue entirely. Although Whiptail wondered how the man had evaded police attention while carrying a three and a half-foot battle rifle around the city, he happened to be laying on top of it, pinning it to the pavement & preventing Whiptail from tugging it free with his tail.

The muzzle of the matte-black forty-five hovered a foot from the man's nose, hammer back and front sight-post squarely with the human forehead...

"Entering an engagement where you are out-numbered and out-gunned is a serious tactical error. You are not bounty-hunter, for you would have simply shot myself and this youngling on sight if your quarry had been Arakesh, but I do not think the government would sink so low as to employ such tactless thugs to do its bidding when they have agents like Mr. 'Azul' to accomplish such tasks in a much cheaper and more efficient manner..."

The foot on his chest pressed down slightly harder on the sternum, exerting great pressure on the ribcage...

"Which brings me to my next query: Who are you, and what do you seek to gain by capturing myself and my companions?"

Golden slit-pupiled eyes narrowed in contempt, glaring down at him in the dim light of the alley. He had evaded Whiptail's olfactory senses as well, a minor if somewhat alarming annoyance...

Khat rolled with the toss, and hid the fact that no matter how skillfully one rolled it still could hurt. Khat was too thin to have the necessary padding. Sitting up slowly Khat watched alertly, ready to assault the stranger again should the need arise. 'Though why I keep sticking my nose in..." Khat berated self internally...'Hunger makes necessity of risk' Khat concluded.

Both Argonian's had reacted with great speed and calmness - things which Khat approved of greatly. Khat was beginning to have faint stirings that had been long dormant. Khat had known little kindness in the past, just enough to know that it existed at all, but knew it was seldom extended to strange beings such as Khat's self

Kennian was still trying to make sense of everything, as the man pressed down upon his chest. All he knew was he was about to die, either from blood loss or a shot to the head. Anything to prolong his life would do, now.

"...such tasks in a much cheaper and more efficient manner..."

Kennian just groaned a bit. The sight of his M-14 protruded against his back, leaving a nasty impression and pain. He knew there was no way he could bring the sopmod to bear on these guys, so he just lay there, listening.

"Which brings me to my next query: Who are you, and what do you seek to gain by capturing myself and my companions?"

Kennian pondered about lying for a second, then realized it would do no good. He wasn't on any mission, he couldn't compromise anything to the GaW by talking. It might give him a few more minutes of time.

"Kennian... I was gonna turn you into my bosses, who might be able to pawn you off to the government for a price... I just wanted a promotion..." He said, looking into whiptails eyes. "I don't suppose you believe in live and let life?"

OOC: The Sopmod isn't a full length M-14, more like one of these, which can be even smaller than an M-4...

http://www.artifex.ws/images/m14.jpg

OOC: He must mean a Socom II or Socom 16 from Springfield, or perhaps Ruger's Mini 14. SOPMOD is military lingo for Special OPerations MODified, usually including a piticanny mounting rail for advanced combat optics, tactical lights, or tactical foregrips. Your rifle has a telescoping stock and pistol grip, but still has the 20in barrel common to all M14's aside from the aforementioned. An M4 has a 14.5in barrel, hence why its a carbine. Yours would be smaller than an M16, with the A2 fixed stock like the A3 and A4 versions have.

If you get a .308 smaller than an M4, you're going to have serious issues with noise, which is not good in a setting where police and military personnel patrol the streets. DPMS Panther makes the 'Kitty Kat', a micro-sized M16/AR15 illegal for civilian posession. Bushmaster 'pistols' accept full-auto and three-round-burst parts and are much smaller than an M4. Why you'd need something that small that's full automatic and .223 is beyond me when there are perfectly good sub-machineguns designed for that sort of purpose.

Personally, I'd have equipped him with either an M4A2, USAS-12, UMP 45, or MP5K. These are all smaller, powerful weapons that function well in an urban setting. The M4A2, with its .223 cartridge, packs more than enough stopping power and penetration for what you'd be most likely to face in the city, while the telescoping buttstock allows you to re-size it as needed. The USAS-12, which WA's DDF carry, is a fully-automatic shotgun based off the M16 internal design and chambered for a 12 gage shell. Combined with 00 buckshot, it is THE choice for room clearing in close quarters. The UMP 45, when the magazine was removed, is pretty concealable, and packs more than enough firepower. The MP5K is a handy, small SMG with a blistering ROF that is perfect for any sort of close range engagement. The TMP from Steyer or the FN Herstal P90 are also excellent choices. Machine-Pistols such as the Type R Beretta M93 and the Glock 18 pack the firepower of an SMG into a pistol frame, and are therefore also excellent choices.


Less costly alternatives are the TECH-9, Ingram MAC 10/11, IMI UZI, or the IMI Mirco UZI. The IMI Galil MAR is also a choice, albiet a poor one that isn't that durable.

-MS

OOC: He must mean a Socom II or Socom 16 from Springfield, or perhaps Ruger's Mini 14. SOPMOD is military lingo for Special OPerations MODified, usually including a piticanny mounting rail for advanced combat optics, tactical lights, or tactical foregrips. Your rifle has a telescoping stock and pistol grip, but still has the 20in barrel common to all M14's aside from the aforementioned. An M4 has a 14.5in barrel, hence why its a carbine. Yours would be smaller than an M16, with the A2 fixed stock like the A3 and A4 versions have.

If you get a .308 smaller than an M4, you're going to have serious issues with noise, which is not good in a setting where police and military personnel patrol the streets. DPMS Panther makes the 'Kitty Kat', a micro-sized M16/AR15 illegal for civilian posession. Bushmaster 'pistols' accept full-auto and three-round-burst parts and are much smaller than an M4. Why you'd need something that small that's full automatic and .223 is beyond me when there are perfectly good sub-machineguns designed for that sort of purpose.

Personally, I'd have equipped him with either an M4A2, USAS-12, UMP 45, or MP5K. These are all smaller, powerful weapons that function well in an urban setting. The M4A2, with its .223 cartridge, packs more than enough stopping power and penetration for what you'd be most likely to face in the city, while the telescoping buttstock allows you to re-size it as needed. The USAS-12, which WA's DDF carry, is a fully-automatic shotgun based off the M16 internal design and chambered for a 12 gage shell. Combined with 00 buckshot, it is THE choice for room clearing in close quarters. The UMP 45, when the magazine was removed, is pretty concealable, and packs more than enough firepower. The MP5K is a handy, small SMG with a blistering ROF that is perfect for any sort of close range engagement. The TMP from Steyer or the FN Herstal P90 are also excellent choices. Machine-Pistols such as the Type R Beretta M93 and the Glock 18 pack the firepower of an SMG into a pistol frame, and are therefore also excellent choices.


Less costly alternatives are the TECH-9, Ingram MAC 10/11, IMI UZI, or the IMI Mirco UZI. The IMI Galil MAR is also a choice, albiet a poor one that isn't that durable.

-MS

OOC: More and More often, highly converted M-14 Sopmod's are coming out with shortened barrels, folding or telescoping stocks, etc. They all fit in sopmod, but its not an incredibly descriptive name. I was talking about a short barrel, telescoping stock one. Do a search for M-14 sopmod, see what comes up(other than airsoft).

He carried the M-14 for a shit hits the fan situation. When people carry body armour, and heavy guns themselves, a .308 is much nicer than a .223, especially for someone good with guns(accurate). He carried a shortened one so he could conceal it until he needed it, not during using it. He didn't plan on shooting anyone, so his weapons werent meant for stealth.

I have him the makarov because its cheap, and the M-14 because its powerful yet small(how he has it). I am not a big fan of 9mm, and while .45 is good, I don't like it when others have body armour and whatnot. If I was going to give him a sub machine gun, it would have been an MP5/10. But I wanted a weapon with a punch, so I chose an M-14 Sopmod. We all have personal choices.

OOC: I love discussing weapons as much as any one here, but this is an RP darn it , and both of you are in it, so play !

***************************************

"Live and let live gets a body dead" Khat chuffed and managed to stand without swaying. Padding slowly over to where the dark scaled Argonian held the prisoner down, Khat crouched and began going though his pockets, tossing to the alley every thing findable. Finding a small wad of local currency Khat counted it quickly, and stuffed it into a fold of the necktie belt. Khat started to rise but the alley darkened briedly. Khat hunkered down for a moment and sight returned. hat stood, then stepped back so the Argonians could inspect what was left

"My share for what small help I was able to be" Khat announced firmly and turned to leave. The bills did not total to much, but it would buy more food than Khatt had eaten in many days. 'And it would be best to leave before they change their minds.' Khat thought, as another wave of darkness washed over him. The alley rose up to meet Khat.

Something thudding into a dumpster caught Dekker's attention, and he turned the corner into the alleyway with some apprehension, keeping his weapon low. The scene within the alley was confusing at best: An Argonian clad in black was slumped against a dumpster, while another black-scaled member of his race was shoving a large-bore automatic into a human male's face. There was some sort of cat-creature lying near the scene, but seemed out of comission for the moment.

The .45 in his hand came up, tritium front blade centering on the upper chest of the dark-scaled Argonian. In his expeirences, that breed was the more dangerous, and on top of that, they had a thing for large-caliber guns. The upper chest contained the heart and major blood vessels, and slightly higher was the throat and skull. The Argonian lack of a humanoid forehead meant that it would be difficult to get a bullet through the slanted skull for a clean kill, so the chest was the best choice...

"Freeze goddammit! Drop the fuckin' weapon and raise your hands above your head! Do it the fuck now!"

Adrenaline was beginning to seep into Dekker's system, despite his training and expeirence. It was something nobody could control totally, instinctive reactions to stress and danger. There was the typical heightening of the senses, followed with a slight wavering of the hands, especially when holding a large-framed automatic made from stainless steel...