It was truly unfortunate; Mirelda was naive. The first to answer, and subsequently, the first to die. "Wha—" She never finished her sentence, for she burst into blood. It was swift, silent, and painless. She was horrified. Crow caught a glimpse of her face before she died.
Her eyes unfocused, but sharp, and her jaw clenched. For the Admiral Cunningham, who stood beside her, he felt pity. His suit had been covered in blood after all. Not even viscera was left behind by her death.
The room fell silent. Then, once more, a shock coursed through Crow's body. It traveled from his finger tips all the way to his nose. The taste of copper was fresh on his tongue.
Again, the mysterious voice sang, soothingly this time: "Hey, you!"
He almost responded. But the next victim made his jaw clamp shut. "Who was that?" In the next second, the poor soul who spoke erupted into a puddle of blood. Again silent, swift and painless. By now not one person remained calm.
People shoved each other carelessly as they pushed past trying to escape the room, but at the door was Meshed Freeline. She rose and stretched like oil across a canvas. Her body transformed like water rippling outwards, and covered the door and its frame. With no hope of escape in sight, everyone in the room froze in fear.
Inevitably, they would be picked off one by one— maybe even twice at a time. "Hey, you!" The voice asked once more. Another answered, and another died. Crow's eyes narrowed as he felt a subtle vibration coming from the depths of his throat. His neck turned stiff. If that voice speaks again, I'm next. I can already feel myself answering to a question that hasn't been spoken yet.
Crow paused, waiting for the voice. Nothing came. He stared directly at Meshed Freeline's new amorphous form. This won't do. He reached into his pocket, and slowly drew his revolver. I'm calm. Too calm.
Raising his gun, he pointed the barrel at Meshed Freeline. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of her oil-like body. Quickly pivoting, he redirected the barrel to his neck and tightened his grip. Feeling the cold steel of the revolver, Crow inhaled sharply. Then his finger fell upon the trigger, soft and precise— Bang!
Blood splattered onto the wall, and Crow's body fell limp as it crashed against the floor. The room fell silent. Even Meshed Freeline's rippling motions hesitated. "I-is he… dead?" One person said, "Did he commit?" Spoke another.
Oh. This…. bad— a burning sensation pervaded Crow's throat. Darkness overtook vision, consciousness held tight, attempting to take hold of its position, but ultimately faded away. The rising of his chest slowed, and then halted.
Crow's fingers no longer wrapped along the handle of the revolver, and it lay beside what could only be called his corpse.
Behind him, Kaine watched as the life faded from Crow's already pale skin. Blood continued to spill without fail from his neck. Kaine gasped, or rather feigned a gasp. "Disappointing," he muttered under his breath. "Crow Merrow amounted to nothing in the end."
He held no sorrow in his heart, and faced the situation at hand instead. "The voice will return soon. Any Resonants, gather around me at once!" His voice echoed through the conference room effortlessly. They snapped out of their stupor. Four people ran toward him, and formed a square formation around him. A fifth, Admiral Cunningham, took position directly next to Kaine.
From behind them, came a tapping sound. Slow deliberate taps off the wall. The major general knew who it was without having to look. Nostradamus Elixir.
"You sacrificed him to confirm a condition, general?" The masked man mocked. "He sacrificed himself," Kaine corrected him. "You're the voice, no?"
Nostradamus Elixir just shrugged. The tapping stopped. He walked in short, strong beats, and approached the general. And yet, his movement was interrupted by a woman. She wore a grey labcoat and blue gloves. A very stereotypical outfit. She shouldn't have tried to stop him.
"Hey, you," his voice was low and soft, almost gentle. Something pulsed through the woman, compelling her. Not anger, not frustration— but a subtle attraction, a small desire to respond aroused her. Anger contorted her face.
"Sto—" This time a short pop could be heard as she exploded into a puddle of blood. First, the crimson shot up, spewing from the ground like a geyser, and then like raindrops it fell and stained the floor, forming a small, dirty puddle.
Seeing this, the general knew he had to act. Kaine motioned towards the man. Cunningham stepped forward. Loud, proud steps proved the Admiral's confidence. "Is this all?" Nostradamus stifled a chuckle. Once they were face to face, Cunningham wasted no time.
His fist flew out, once, twice, thrice— but each attack was evaded. They whizzed past Nostradamus's mask each time, as he side stepped them with ease. "Not bad, not bad, Admiral. But… Would this satisfy your son?" The words had an edge to them.
Cunningham gritted his teeth, and in a slick motion swept his leg out in a wide arc. He knocked the masked man off his feet, but with a taunting snicker, Nostradamus sprung off the floor.
"You don't have the spark," Nostradamus said. A knee collided with Cunningham's thigh. He did not grunt, nor did he groan.
His arm lashed out like a whip, and struck the man's face, shattering that damned ivory rose-cross mask. Nostradamus's head cocked back, and then lurched forward. Long blonde hair concealed his face, but through the strands a bloody smile was visible. Blood ran down his face, dripping from both nose and mouth.
"Hey now, thats more—" A piston-straight jab smashed Nostradmus's ribs. He groaned, the grin finally wiped off his face. His eyes widened as Cunningham's fist appeared. It struck once more, making Nostradamus's head snap back. He fell off his feet and hit the ground hard.
Admiral Cunningham, stood atop the man, and promptly mounted him. His fist slammed into his face five times in rapid succession. If people weren't watching before, all eyes landed upon the Admiral's victory by now.
The Admiral raised his fist once more, but stopped. "What's wrong?" Nostradamus's expression was serious. He was too calm, too composed. "I see. You forgot about her," Nostradmus smirked. It read: I know something you don't. "You brought fists to a gun fight!"
Bang!
Cunningham staggered, almost falling onto Nostradamus. A hole found its way through his chest— dead center. "Ah," a pained gasp escaped his lips. His arms relaxed and strength left them. He swayed from side-to-side, failing to regain true balance.
Perhaps this is the end. My end. A single cold thought penetrated him. I never was half as good as Victor, ha! He glanced down, only to catch a glimpse of satisfaction on Nostradamus's face. Cunningham let his eyelids fall, then sighed.
No!
A scalding hot flame erupted from inside the Admiral. Not a physical flame, not an illusory flame— but the flames of passion and honor. "I have no honor! I lack pride!" Cunningham declared.
The air around his fists did not heat up, but the very essence of burning conflagrated his being. "Searing Strike…" Kaine noted, "An interesting move."
Nostradamus's mouth held agape, all confidence drained from his face. The Admiral gazed into his eyes, righteous fury projected through them. Two hands coated in pure white flames, gripped Nostradamus's throat tightly. It did not burn him, no it immolated the very essence of which his soul was built upon. Hiss! The blonde man clawed furiously at the hands tightening around his throat, the white hot scalding sensation melting his trachea.
Behind them, on the slick oily surface of the door, Meshed Freeline retracted the arm that fired the gun only moments before. As it merged with the wall, the gun fell quietly onto the floor.
Now, Nostradamus's eyes bulged. No longer left with the strength to fight, he let his numb limbs rest. He almost accepted that this would be his fate, that there really was no way to escape. However, the grip on his neck was released. A rough, wet, cough rang out.
Admiral Cunningham's eyes— once filled fervor and fury— now regressed to two hollow sockets. He fell forward and hit the hard wood floor with a dull thud.
"The price of passion," Major General said coldly. There was no need for Kaine to check the Admiral's body. He could tell from one glance: He's dead.
The General's eyes swept across the room and landed on Crow's corpse. His icy cold gaze focused on Crow's hands. Nothing.
Just as he was about to turn his gaze, a cough was cut short. On Crow's person, the pendant's key began to hum. Heat passed through Crow's body as the key touched its chest. For a moment, Crow's finger twitched. Rigor Mortis? Thought the general.
A smile crept up Kaine's face. No, if anything— Fate's chosen. Haha… Mother, aren't you really too cruel?