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ladybug_archiveBlurb of the motel scene with the assassin, which insisted on being written.
The heavy breathing could be heard throughout the dark, seedy motel room. The shadows of furniture were cast on the pale walls, lit only by the moonbeams shining through the dirty window. A weapon clicked, another moonbeam catching the glint of a gun as it was loaded. Trembling, the figure in the shadows brought the silver revolver to the level of his shoulders, the barrel pointed around the corner at the door.
He was coming.
He, the unnamed assassin who had pursued him from Domino City. He, the killer who had forced him to never let down his guard, to be ready to flee in a split-second. He, who had already made more than one attempt on his life.
He, who had ended David's.
Duke Devlin gritted his teeth in the darkness, his emerald eyes flashing as he gripped the gun in his gloved hands. He would pay. If he was expecting Duke to roll over and be killed, he was going to be sorely disappointed. Duke would fight. He would fight and he would win.
And he would do it all on his own. He would never allow anyone else to help him with his quest to stop the ones who had tried to murder him. He had relied on David and now David was gone. It was his fault; he never should have dragged his hapless store manager into this mess. He had known the risks involved and had tried to defy them. He had always possessed that defiant streak. But now, because of it, an innocent person had lost his life.
"David . . . why did you go there?" he whispered under his breath. "Why did you try to find out whether they knew you were really on my side, not theirs?" It had been information they had needed, but getting it had been too risky. Duke had tried to stop him, to chase him down to the meeting place . . . but it had not been any use.
"Get out of here, Ryuuji!" David had screamed when Duke had arrived in the high-rise hotel room. "He's after you, too. The jig's up!"
And Duke had not even had a chance to react before the bullet zipped past him, striking David in the heart. He had crumpled to the floor, instantly dead.
The killer had emerged from the bathroom of the suite, his ruddy and scarred features twisted in a cruel sneer. "You're next, Ryuuji Otogi," he had vowed, raising his sniper rifle to take another shot.
Duke's eyes had burned with grief and hatred. "You'll never get me," he had vowed in turn. He had kicked a wheeled cabinet in the assassin's direction, knocking him off-guard. It had only given him a headstart of several seconds, but he had used the time to run through the patio doors and over the side of the balcony. He had been forced to jump down to balcony after balcony as he made his way to the ground floor, the hitman in hot pursuit.
His heart had never stopped racing as he fled. He still did not know how he had even got away, that time or any of the others. There had been so many close calls over the ensuing days. . . . So many times he could have ended up like David, shot and killed, his quest at a hopeless end. . . .
But he had not survived the car explosion only to be killed now. Oh no. He was going to live. He was going to defy every one of his enemies and make them regret that they had not been able to finish the job. He was going to give them Hell.
The door creaked, bringing him to complete attention. He stared with bloodshot eyes as a strip of light from the corridor appeared and widened across the floor and the wall. A rough, well-built figure stepped inside, letting the door shut and lock behind him.
"The hunt has taken longer than usual," rasped the cold and evil voice of Duke's nightmares. "You've played the game well, Ryuuji Otogi, but this is the final round. Why not give up now, before you're blown to bits like Duke Devlin or shot in the heart like David Tanaka?" He sneered, his yellowing teeth standing out in the darkened room. "What you're trying to do is pointless. You'll never bring down one of the most successful smuggling operations on the West Coast."
"I'm not going to die." Duke's voice was cold as well, hard as steel. He stepped from around the corner, the gun held firmly in his hands. He was no longer shaking. Now that the wait was over, their last encounter begun, a sense of finality had taken over his senses. He was going to end this. He was not going to run from this man any more.
He just looked entertained. "A lot of them say that. They think they're smarter than me. But my line of work is very psychological. A large part of it comes from studying people---their habits, their emotions, their strengths and weaknesses. And I determine exactly when and how to strike based on what I learn."
His cruel smirk widened. "Do you know what David said to me, right before you ran into the room?"
Duke held his ground, his eyes narrowing further. The creep was trying to psych him out, to rattle him and make him lose control. Could he sense how close to the edge Duke was right now? If he was as good as he claimed, he probably could.
"He told me you would defeat me." He was not holding the sniper rifle tonight---only a black revolver. He held it level with Duke's forehead. "He fully believed it."
"It's the truth." The gun clicked. Was he going to have to fire first? He would do it if he had to. This standoff could only end in one of three ways, all of them involving death. Either both of them would fall, he would fall, or Duke would fall. It would not be him.
But he held his fire. "You intrigue me, Ryuuji Otogi," the killer mused. "You appeared only after Duke Devlin's death, claiming to be named in his will as the one who would accept Devlin's mantle upon his demise. But in your native Japan, where you insist you and Devlin met, Ryuuji Otogi disappeared two years ago. A obituary ran for a day in a little-known Tokyo newspaper before it was pulled. What was happening during that gap? More importantly, how were you resurrected?"
"I don't have to tell you anything," Duke retorted. "If you're so smart, then figure it out yourself."
"I already know." The assassin smirked again, clearly proud of his deductions. "Someone placed that obituary to discredit you. After all, your story to the school you left was that you were transferring to where your cousin lived. You couldn't tell them the truth, which was that you were only in Japan then for the purpose of investigating a crime against you. Once it was solved, you believed there would be no further need for your secret identity. But of course, just in case, you wanted to leave it open for the future. One of your still-free enemies took advantage of that and ran the obituary. He wasn't expecting you to learn of it and force the paper to quietly withdraw it."
"'Secret identity'?" Duke challenged, ignoring the rest of what had been said. "So you're saying I'm not really Ryuuji Otogi?"
"Ryuuji Otogi never existed," he hissed. "You and I both know that you are Duke Devlin. You did a good job with your cover story and your altered appearance. You even managed to fool your former friends. But I am smarter than they." He peered at the boy, who was still clutching that gun as if it would save him. "You are more trouble than my employers believed, to have escaped that car bomb. I must say, I wonder how you did it."
Duke's expression only grew more cold. He would not confirm or deny these comments.
"Not that it really matters," the hitman continued. His own gun clicked. "This time there will be no mistakes."
The revolver fired at the same moment Duke leaped out of the way. The bullet dug into the wall, raining bits of plaster and splinters of wood on the floor. Duke fired in retaliation as he jumped, sending his attacker stumbling back in surprise. His sleeve was torn near the shoulder, revealing a spot of crimson where the lead had grazed his arm.
Duke landed on his feet at the start of the path leading to the door. His own shoulders quaked for a moment as he gripped the gun, then steadied. He had snapped.
"I told you, I'm not going to die!" he screamed. "I don't care what I have to do to stay alive and bring down you and everyone you work for. I'm going to do it. And I'm going to make every last one of you regret each criminal act you've ever committed. You'll pay for what you did to David. You'll pay for what you did to me!"
Just as he had done in the fancy hotel suite, he kicked over a chair and sent it flying at the assassin. Then he leaped to the side, firing again while he was occupied with the troublesome furniture.
This bullet missed. The killer turned, firing two rounds in rapid succession aimed for Duke's chest. On an adrenaline rush, the teen dove out of the way of the worst of the assault. One of the bullets tore across his cheek as they passed each other, leaving a trail of red dripping down the right side of his jaw.
Now he was pulling the trigger mindlessly, desperately shooting in the general direction of his enemy as he ran. Was he hitting his mark? He did not know. But he was keeping himself from being attacked again. Bullets drilled into the furniture and the walls, missing him by inches. Then he gasped. One of them had reached him. He collapsed to the floor, his right leg throbbing without mercy.
The hitman sneered, raising his gun as he stepped closer to the fallen form. "There," he said, obvious satisfaction in his voice as he beheld Duke gasping in pain. "For the fight you've put up, I applaud you. Very few have ever managed to actually strike me. But there's nothing more you can do. Your life should have ended weeks ago. This time it's for real."
The sound of the final bullet echoed all around them, ricocheting through the cheap motel room. Then, as Duke stared with wide, disbelieving eyes, the large body of the assassin crashed to the floor. Blood was pooling from between his eyes, quickly seeping into the dirty carpet.
Duke's heart was pounding in his ears. For a moment he had forgotten to breathe. Suddenly he gasped, wheezing as he gulped the precious air. The gun slipped from his violently shaking hands, clattering on the floor next to him.
What had he done? How had he done it? The man who had been about to kill him was now laying dead on the floor. He did not even remember raising the gun or pulling the trigger. But obviously he had done it; there was no one else here. His revolver was smoking, emptied of the last of its bullets.
And the wall around his heart began to crack. There had been no time to grieve over David because of his urgent race to stay alive. The hired killer had chased him from city to city, forcing him to constantly be alert and attentive. He had barely eaten or slept. Anyone could have been in his enemies' employ, watching his every move and waiting to call in and let the assassin know where to strike. There had been a very real danger, more than before, that every night would be his last. Tonight, as he had waited for the killer to come, part of him had feared it would be his final hours. And he wanted to live. He wanted to live. . . .
So much so that he had been forced to kill someone else to do it. And even though the man had been evil, even though Duke had hated him with every fiber of his being . . . even though it had to be done, now he just felt so empty . . . so horrified. Blood was everywhere, blood that was not his. It was sickening. He had never killed anyone before, had never even thought of it. How had that man lived with himself, killing every day for money?
"What's happened to me?!" he cried, heedless of the blood running from his cheek and his leg. "God . . . oh God . . . what's happened to me?! What am I becoming?"
He slumped back as he sobbed, running a gloved hand into his tangled hair. He did not even know why he was crying. For the losses suffered on his quest. . . . For David. . . . For the realization of just how badly damaged his spirit was. He had locked that knowledge away, but now it had to come out. There was no way to hide it any longer.
"I can't do this," he choked out. "I can't do this alone . . . !"
But there was no one to help him.
And at that moment, he had never felt more like Duke Devlin was dead.
He could never be that person again.
The heavy breathing could be heard throughout the dark, seedy motel room. The shadows of furniture were cast on the pale walls, lit only by the moonbeams shining through the dirty window. A weapon clicked, another moonbeam catching the glint of a gun as it was loaded. Trembling, the figure in the shadows brought the silver revolver to the level of his shoulders, the barrel pointed around the corner at the door.
He was coming.
He, the unnamed assassin who had pursued him from Domino City. He, the killer who had forced him to never let down his guard, to be ready to flee in a split-second. He, who had already made more than one attempt on his life.
He, who had ended David's.
Duke Devlin gritted his teeth in the darkness, his emerald eyes flashing as he gripped the gun in his gloved hands. He would pay. If he was expecting Duke to roll over and be killed, he was going to be sorely disappointed. Duke would fight. He would fight and he would win.
And he would do it all on his own. He would never allow anyone else to help him with his quest to stop the ones who had tried to murder him. He had relied on David and now David was gone. It was his fault; he never should have dragged his hapless store manager into this mess. He had known the risks involved and had tried to defy them. He had always possessed that defiant streak. But now, because of it, an innocent person had lost his life.
"David . . . why did you go there?" he whispered under his breath. "Why did you try to find out whether they knew you were really on my side, not theirs?" It had been information they had needed, but getting it had been too risky. Duke had tried to stop him, to chase him down to the meeting place . . . but it had not been any use.
"Get out of here, Ryuuji!" David had screamed when Duke had arrived in the high-rise hotel room. "He's after you, too. The jig's up!"
And Duke had not even had a chance to react before the bullet zipped past him, striking David in the heart. He had crumpled to the floor, instantly dead.
The killer had emerged from the bathroom of the suite, his ruddy and scarred features twisted in a cruel sneer. "You're next, Ryuuji Otogi," he had vowed, raising his sniper rifle to take another shot.
Duke's eyes had burned with grief and hatred. "You'll never get me," he had vowed in turn. He had kicked a wheeled cabinet in the assassin's direction, knocking him off-guard. It had only given him a headstart of several seconds, but he had used the time to run through the patio doors and over the side of the balcony. He had been forced to jump down to balcony after balcony as he made his way to the ground floor, the hitman in hot pursuit.
His heart had never stopped racing as he fled. He still did not know how he had even got away, that time or any of the others. There had been so many close calls over the ensuing days. . . . So many times he could have ended up like David, shot and killed, his quest at a hopeless end. . . .
But he had not survived the car explosion only to be killed now. Oh no. He was going to live. He was going to defy every one of his enemies and make them regret that they had not been able to finish the job. He was going to give them Hell.
The door creaked, bringing him to complete attention. He stared with bloodshot eyes as a strip of light from the corridor appeared and widened across the floor and the wall. A rough, well-built figure stepped inside, letting the door shut and lock behind him.
"The hunt has taken longer than usual," rasped the cold and evil voice of Duke's nightmares. "You've played the game well, Ryuuji Otogi, but this is the final round. Why not give up now, before you're blown to bits like Duke Devlin or shot in the heart like David Tanaka?" He sneered, his yellowing teeth standing out in the darkened room. "What you're trying to do is pointless. You'll never bring down one of the most successful smuggling operations on the West Coast."
"I'm not going to die." Duke's voice was cold as well, hard as steel. He stepped from around the corner, the gun held firmly in his hands. He was no longer shaking. Now that the wait was over, their last encounter begun, a sense of finality had taken over his senses. He was going to end this. He was not going to run from this man any more.
He just looked entertained. "A lot of them say that. They think they're smarter than me. But my line of work is very psychological. A large part of it comes from studying people---their habits, their emotions, their strengths and weaknesses. And I determine exactly when and how to strike based on what I learn."
His cruel smirk widened. "Do you know what David said to me, right before you ran into the room?"
Duke held his ground, his eyes narrowing further. The creep was trying to psych him out, to rattle him and make him lose control. Could he sense how close to the edge Duke was right now? If he was as good as he claimed, he probably could.
"He told me you would defeat me." He was not holding the sniper rifle tonight---only a black revolver. He held it level with Duke's forehead. "He fully believed it."
"It's the truth." The gun clicked. Was he going to have to fire first? He would do it if he had to. This standoff could only end in one of three ways, all of them involving death. Either both of them would fall, he would fall, or Duke would fall. It would not be him.
But he held his fire. "You intrigue me, Ryuuji Otogi," the killer mused. "You appeared only after Duke Devlin's death, claiming to be named in his will as the one who would accept Devlin's mantle upon his demise. But in your native Japan, where you insist you and Devlin met, Ryuuji Otogi disappeared two years ago. A obituary ran for a day in a little-known Tokyo newspaper before it was pulled. What was happening during that gap? More importantly, how were you resurrected?"
"I don't have to tell you anything," Duke retorted. "If you're so smart, then figure it out yourself."
"I already know." The assassin smirked again, clearly proud of his deductions. "Someone placed that obituary to discredit you. After all, your story to the school you left was that you were transferring to where your cousin lived. You couldn't tell them the truth, which was that you were only in Japan then for the purpose of investigating a crime against you. Once it was solved, you believed there would be no further need for your secret identity. But of course, just in case, you wanted to leave it open for the future. One of your still-free enemies took advantage of that and ran the obituary. He wasn't expecting you to learn of it and force the paper to quietly withdraw it."
"'Secret identity'?" Duke challenged, ignoring the rest of what had been said. "So you're saying I'm not really Ryuuji Otogi?"
"Ryuuji Otogi never existed," he hissed. "You and I both know that you are Duke Devlin. You did a good job with your cover story and your altered appearance. You even managed to fool your former friends. But I am smarter than they." He peered at the boy, who was still clutching that gun as if it would save him. "You are more trouble than my employers believed, to have escaped that car bomb. I must say, I wonder how you did it."
Duke's expression only grew more cold. He would not confirm or deny these comments.
"Not that it really matters," the hitman continued. His own gun clicked. "This time there will be no mistakes."
The revolver fired at the same moment Duke leaped out of the way. The bullet dug into the wall, raining bits of plaster and splinters of wood on the floor. Duke fired in retaliation as he jumped, sending his attacker stumbling back in surprise. His sleeve was torn near the shoulder, revealing a spot of crimson where the lead had grazed his arm.
Duke landed on his feet at the start of the path leading to the door. His own shoulders quaked for a moment as he gripped the gun, then steadied. He had snapped.
"I told you, I'm not going to die!" he screamed. "I don't care what I have to do to stay alive and bring down you and everyone you work for. I'm going to do it. And I'm going to make every last one of you regret each criminal act you've ever committed. You'll pay for what you did to David. You'll pay for what you did to me!"
Just as he had done in the fancy hotel suite, he kicked over a chair and sent it flying at the assassin. Then he leaped to the side, firing again while he was occupied with the troublesome furniture.
This bullet missed. The killer turned, firing two rounds in rapid succession aimed for Duke's chest. On an adrenaline rush, the teen dove out of the way of the worst of the assault. One of the bullets tore across his cheek as they passed each other, leaving a trail of red dripping down the right side of his jaw.
Now he was pulling the trigger mindlessly, desperately shooting in the general direction of his enemy as he ran. Was he hitting his mark? He did not know. But he was keeping himself from being attacked again. Bullets drilled into the furniture and the walls, missing him by inches. Then he gasped. One of them had reached him. He collapsed to the floor, his right leg throbbing without mercy.
The hitman sneered, raising his gun as he stepped closer to the fallen form. "There," he said, obvious satisfaction in his voice as he beheld Duke gasping in pain. "For the fight you've put up, I applaud you. Very few have ever managed to actually strike me. But there's nothing more you can do. Your life should have ended weeks ago. This time it's for real."
The sound of the final bullet echoed all around them, ricocheting through the cheap motel room. Then, as Duke stared with wide, disbelieving eyes, the large body of the assassin crashed to the floor. Blood was pooling from between his eyes, quickly seeping into the dirty carpet.
Duke's heart was pounding in his ears. For a moment he had forgotten to breathe. Suddenly he gasped, wheezing as he gulped the precious air. The gun slipped from his violently shaking hands, clattering on the floor next to him.
What had he done? How had he done it? The man who had been about to kill him was now laying dead on the floor. He did not even remember raising the gun or pulling the trigger. But obviously he had done it; there was no one else here. His revolver was smoking, emptied of the last of its bullets.
And the wall around his heart began to crack. There had been no time to grieve over David because of his urgent race to stay alive. The hired killer had chased him from city to city, forcing him to constantly be alert and attentive. He had barely eaten or slept. Anyone could have been in his enemies' employ, watching his every move and waiting to call in and let the assassin know where to strike. There had been a very real danger, more than before, that every night would be his last. Tonight, as he had waited for the killer to come, part of him had feared it would be his final hours. And he wanted to live. He wanted to live. . . .
So much so that he had been forced to kill someone else to do it. And even though the man had been evil, even though Duke had hated him with every fiber of his being . . . even though it had to be done, now he just felt so empty . . . so horrified. Blood was everywhere, blood that was not his. It was sickening. He had never killed anyone before, had never even thought of it. How had that man lived with himself, killing every day for money?
"What's happened to me?!" he cried, heedless of the blood running from his cheek and his leg. "God . . . oh God . . . what's happened to me?! What am I becoming?"
He slumped back as he sobbed, running a gloved hand into his tangled hair. He did not even know why he was crying. For the losses suffered on his quest. . . . For David. . . . For the realization of just how badly damaged his spirit was. He had locked that knowledge away, but now it had to come out. There was no way to hide it any longer.
"I can't do this," he choked out. "I can't do this alone . . . !"
But there was no one to help him.
And at that moment, he had never felt more like Duke Devlin was dead.
He could never be that person again.
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no subject
Date: 2009-10-01 12:27 pm (UTC)The exchange between Duke and the smuggler was really intense... o.o
And poor Duke, finally breaking down... **hugs him**
no subject
Date: 2009-10-01 12:39 pm (UTC)I don't think the assassin was a smuggler himself, just a killer they hired. o.o Their conversation was interesting to write. I wanted to give the creep some personality instead of having him be a cardboard villain.
**hugs him too.** ;____;
Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2009-10-01 11:37 pm (UTC)Baw at being so tense in the beginning, and having to keep his guard up 24/7!
And the assassin finally showing up!
And having to kill him or be killed!
And
And feeling that Duke Devlin was dead...
;___;
Currently thinking incoherently. Will sort out brain by the time you reply.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-02 02:08 am (UTC)It was really intense and sad, to write him so strained by everything that he's at the point of snapping. Originally I think there was just going to be the shootout, but then when I wrote, it turned into this conversation with the assassin first. And then when they exchanged the first shots, Duke snapped for real. I could have had him become numb and cold and deadened when he killed the assassin, determining that if that's what it took, he'd do it. o.o But I wanted him to break instead, the weight of his world finally crushing him.
Though of course he eventually got up and continued his quest, feeling empty inside. ;___;Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2009-10-02 07:40 am (UTC)....Though in a way, I wonder if it was better that it finally ended at the hotel. It almost seems that any longer would have either pushed Duke over the edge or caused him to slip up. ;___;
no subject
Date: 2009-10-02 08:14 am (UTC)And it was definitely a good thing that it ended. o.o Once he was able to pull himself together again, he was able to better focus to bring down his enemies once and for all, something he couldn't concentrate on while running for his life against an immediate threat.
Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2009-10-02 08:49 am (UTC)**nods.** Sounds like his enemies had better watch out!
no subject
Date: 2009-10-03 06:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-03 09:25 am (UTC)