From the Cradle to the Grave

Paper leapt into the air and whirled around his face and the faces of all the others around him, people, blinded people.

The suede trench coat he now wore came down to his ankles and the collar concealed his face while his fedora cast shadows over his eyes. He felt the comfort of his pistol against his waist. He massaged the holster with metal fingers and tried to bite back his smile. He did not enjoy his work, not like others did.

The sounds of pedestrians filled the air, people conversing about the happenings of the day, about the assassination of Marshall Joven Sixen, how the world stood teetering on the edge of a conflict that would ravage and rape Mother Earth until she could no longer fight back.

With his human hand, his hand of flesh and bone and red blood, he tapped his headset, waiting for the confirming signal on the other side. Another train passed by, and Dante tried his best to cloak his startled expression when he saw his reflection in the window. It could not have been a human face that stared back at him. Those deathly pale eyes, those gaunt cheeks robbed of all color, the pale tight-lipped mouth draped in severity. No. That was a monster's face.

One of the windows had been opened and he averted his gaze as the train rolled to a stop. The conversations and scuffle of boots against pavement grew more frenzied as the pedestrians boarded the train, pushing others out of their way with discreetness, none of the arrogance and violence that one would encounter uptown.

Dante looked to his right and heard a beep in his headset. Settling his fedora, he looked around at the cabin, at the lights that flickered on and off, light and darkness. He passed on and did not react when he saw Asia's face painted on the wall in garish greens and reds and oranges and browns, as if the painter had wanted to bring beauty from where there was none, and succeeded. From the pools of dirt and grime and blood smeared on the wall, fiery red hair sat on bronzed shoulders and framed a face with daring, green eyes.

He averted his gaze, pulled his fedora closer over his eyes.

Walking along, he passed into the next cabin and arrived at the back of the subway train. Nothing. His headset shot into his ear a flurry of beeps and blips, alerting him. His target was near.

He readied the pistol that hid beneath his trench coat. No. He realized his metallic hand had gripped that pistol. His other hand had wrapped around his shining wrist, as if to stop it from reaching the gun.

Calming himself, he took a seat on one of the last whole cushions and waited. The beeping grew more frenzied with each passing moment, until a black woman rose from her seat and took her briefcase from the rack above her head. Mahogany curls bounced on her shoulders and stunning blue eyes took Dante in with just a glance. She turned around and stared out the window.

A need pulsed within him. Each second he spent staring at the woman, the target, cold hit his bones, froze his marrow, crystallized the oil that flowed within him. He needed Asia. He stared at the woman and, once again, saw Asia's face, bright and horrific in the same instant. He rose and took a seat beside the woman. She smelled of roses and gun smoke.

He felt his sanity leave him and everything sped up and slowed down at the same time. He felt as if he were dragging his limbs through rushing water and moving with quick efficiency at the same time.