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The Passing of an Age


Vocenae
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Vocia, Vocenae

 

It was dark inside the suite, very dark, but the man had no trouble seeing the over-indulgent artwork, or the Celestan noble-woman passed out on the massive sofa in the living room.

 

He made his way through the kitchen, down the hallway, and paused outside the master bedroom. He would have only one chance at this, and it had to be quick. But that was his way of doing things, and just why he was hired, he was quick, he was clean, and he was effective. He grasped the door handle and turned it slowly, mentally cringing as the tiny gears clicked as they turned, but he heard no other noise. The door slid open silently, and the man slid into the bedroom.

 

There was his target. He was asleep, as was suspected, and was nearly spread eagled under the silk bedsheet. The target was in his early thirties, with closely cropped black hair and a handsome face, but the man did not care. He drew out his knife, the steel blade glistening in the dim light as he neared the bed.

 

In most cases he would have used his pistol to simply put a bullet into the target's skull, but not this time. Not only did it have to be quick and silent, he had to make it seem like it was domestic murder, so the use of a common knife was required. He hovered over the target, silent and ominous as death itself, before plunging the knife down into the target's throat.

 

The target jerked awake and tried to yell, but the blood had already began to flood his throat. The man continued to stab the target in his chest, at important vital areas, but also in random areas, to help make it seem like the killer was just randomly striking. The target flailed helplessly as the life drained out of him, and tried in vain to stop his assassin. The target was dead within three minutes, and the man double checked to make sure of it.

 

He left the room of the corpse and crept back into the kitchen, where he pulled a small peice of paper out of one of his many pockets and set it on the table. The second major part of his mission complete, he re-entered the living room, where he slowly and gently slid the bloodied knife down against the noblewoman's throat, and then dug a messy, uneven line across it, making sure to hit the jugular veins, but taking care to make it look like a suicide. Like the last target, the woman was awake and struggling instantly, but the life bled out of her quickly.

 

His job done, the man placed the knife in the noblewoman's hands, and walked into the bathroom, and climbed out of the small window. All he had to do now was pick up his paycheck. He wasn't worried about the police, his client had assured him that there would be no problems, and that the whole thing would be written off as a tragic case of domestic homicide and suicide.

 

He slid past the lax security and down to the streets of the capital below...

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OOC: Please do not reply to this thread until I give the OK. BJE, please see the Condemned thread if you would like to read more along the line of the first narrative.

 

Vocia, Vocenae

 

The Assassin blended into the capital's nightlife easily after stashing his 'work' clothes in a isolated dumpster several blocks from the target's suite. He would return after receiving his paycheck for them. He hailed a taxi, and ordered the driver to drop him off near the Red Light District, a block from his client's location.

 

The trip was long, as the taxi had to travel from the high-class, new area of town to the Old Town, where the prostitutes and dives were plentiful on almost every street corner, and if one looked hard enough, they would find the pimps, mobsters, and thugs that hid in the darkness. But none of this bothered the Assassin. Most of his clients chose the Red Light Districts because the law avoided them like the plague, and gave them safe haven to go about whatever deed they needed done.

 

The taxi finally slowed to a stop, and the Assassin paid the driver, then got out. He began walking towards the meeting area, ignoring the ladies of the night, and the occasional drug dealer. It took him little more than eight minutes to reach the dirty motel where his client waited, but the client himself did not arrive for several more minutes. The Assassin had decided to leave when the client finally arrived.

_________

 

"You're late"

 

"Hardly, I had to make sure you weren't followed."

 

"You don't trust me? And here you paid all that money..."

 

"I don't trust anyone, least of all some greedy killer."

 

"Oh, I'm sorry, was that supposed to be an insult? The money, now."

 

"Of course."

 

The Client slid a peice of paper across the table. On it were the numbers and password for the bank account that had been set up for the job.

 

"There's a hundred thousand Enous in it, as we agreed upon."

 

"Good, so unless you have another job for me, I believe our business is concluded."

 

"Indeed."

 

His Client rose from the table, and exited the small motel room, leaving the Assassin alone in the grungy room.

________

 

The General drove away from the Red Light District, heading for the airport. The Assassin had been worth every penny spent, and now the plan had come full circle. The selected cops would arrive at the Suite after the undercover agent made the phonecall, and the officers would go through the proper motions, and would finally release the identities and motive behind the deaths.

 

By this time the General would be back in Arco, far removed from the tragedy with a perfect alibi if anyone came snooping. And the last loose end would soon be tied up in an unrelated 'accident'.

 

And then, after all the crying and pathetic weeping, would he be able to steer the Imperial Republic back on the road to destiny.

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OOC: I gotta quit running out of material for these things so quickly.

 

The police had played their part, and had finally announced that a national tragedy had occured while the nation had slept. The public reaction was what the General expected, when the names of the victims were finally released to the public.

 

The Adjutant, the Imperial Republic's favorite son, the nation's unofficial leader, the man who had pulled Vocenae out of the pit of isolation and into the international arena, was dead. Killed in his sleep by his unstable Celestan ladyfriend. His death rocked the nation, a shockwave of grief and sadness descending through the streets of every town into every building, leaving only a small minority unaffected by its invisible touch.

 

The General, having long since Arco, made the proper calls to his other co-conspirators, one half-way around the region, and the other lurking in a unknown airfield in the northern mountains. The plan had been carried out, and it was time to move in and re-take control, to make the nation strong again. He would make the proper motions, say the right things, and assert his influence over the fragile house of cards that was the Imperial Council. Soon everything would be back to the good old days, but there was one final hurdle in the way, and he knew exactly how to deal with it.

 

Vocenae couldn't go without representation in the CIS, afterall...

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