Nazz's Kool Kidz Klub Application 4; You Stop That Right Meow

"Please, don't. It doesn't need to end like this," the human pleads. A shot. Two ensue after a brief pause. The barrel of a smoking gun. His killer stands rigid. Observing, calculating. His eyes, deep brown, heaven-bound, gasping for breath as he lay on the floor. A scar lining the bridge of his flared nostrils. Jaw, jutting on an irregular axes. A thick crimson spewing from all three orifices. Two to the chest, one to the left thigh nearing the femoral artery tract. The killer takes a knee and grasps the hand of the dying man, lest he suffer the same fate as the killer's kin, and spend his dying moments in solitude.

A coin over each eye, feet protruding from the gap in the rolled up carpet. Blood on the killer's gloved hands. "Like water under the bridge," the Cleaner utters. A coy smirk, the flashing of teeth. A hint of mischief in his eye. The killer nods his head in affirmation. Through the front door. The maid standing. Frozen, frightened. Two to the chest, one to the head before she can scream. Sirens. Down the stairs, discard the weapon. The gloves into the fire-barrel outside.

Gone with the wind.

Anger. Pacing. The Master having been wronged by one of his own kind. "A blasphemy! This one claims that it will settle for nothing less than the spilled life-essence of that which would blaspheme!" Several nods of his head, the servant opened his eyes once-more. Such a fickle thing, his master was. Ordered was he, to carry out the will of the Master. To extinguish one life in hopes of preserving another. Good, he was called, but perfection was necessity. Every element in it's place, his talent justifying his actions. With little more than a nod of his head the servant left to carry on with his work.

Dark, soul-less eyes. The crack of gunfire. Again. Again, and once more. Bio-luminescent waves depicting screams of agony. Splatter. Crash, as the end-table toppled like a spinning top as several tendrils grasped it in an effort of self-preservation. The servant pressed his boot to the gushing corpse of the creature. For his art, a certain cruelty was required. They dared call him mad, "Are not all artists?" he mused. Two more shots. Several onlookers. One human. Deep brown eyes, scar lining the bridge of his flared nostrils. Jaw, jutting on an irregular axes. Several children of Arashu. Down the stairs, through the front door.

Gone with the wind.

Bakra held out her hand to meet with that of the servant. Dark eyes, touched with a centre of green. Frills, delicate as the sea encompassing the Summit. A breath washing over his neck, warm as the sands of Rakhana. He rests his chin on her shoulder before the human becomes visible. Deep brown eyes, scar lining the bridge of his flared nostrils. Jaw, jutting on an irregular axes. Gun clenched tightly. The servant attempts to pull away, locked in-place by a lover's tender embrace. He cries out and she releases him. A shot, two, three. Bakra falls to her knees, reaching for her lover's hand.

Racing to the balcony, several rounds fired towards the fleeing assailant. Staggered breaths, a limp on his right leg, splotches of blood on the marble floors. Several more shots. Quiet. Not even the dying breaths of a lover fading -- having already faded before his return. Screaming and hollering. Held back by two pairs of hands. The servant threatens his colleagues, but eventually recedes. A glance cast back to the empty balcony.

Gone with the wind.

Sometimes in April. "Who are we," the servant wondered, "- if not beasts of no nation?" Looking down toward his dying master. Fearing, doubting, dreaming. "Perhaps 'who' is derogative," he figured. "'What', perhaps. Tools," he acclaimed internally. The jelly-like substance of his master's tendril within the rough palm of his hand. The feeling of sorrow collecting within the breast of the child of Arashu, no longer Whole. He would become a tool, an instrument, used to exfoliate his soul and make-Whole again the schism created by the loss of life.

"This one will not forget its attendant's sacrifices. It is eternally grateful, and thanks you for your servitude. It would consider the dept repaid and washed away."

A slave to his passion, the artist rose. The singer without a voice, the dancer without legs. With little to live for, save the euphoria of performance. He would find He who stole the lives of both his beloved and his master. He would perform one final time, for death was cruel, but it did not have to be ugly.

With that notion, he stayed with his master until he drew his final breath before setting out. On his own path for the first time.

Gone with the wind.