A hit was practically an art form â there was the angle of the knife, and the thrust of it and the weight (silver and black; palladium and anthracite; heavy, heavy, heavy), oh the weight, the resistance as it went through skin, and muscle, and organ, and nicked bone.
The soft feeling of a delicate throat trapped beneath an iron grip as the knife stabbed up in between her ribs â over and over. Perhaps the slash of anotherâs throat â before she could scream. Arterial blood colouring him red. Soaking into his shirt and spattering onto his face.
These people better be clean, he thought as the spray of blood hit dangerously close to his eyes â hitting his glassesâ lenses instead â his thoughts calm and clear.
Perhaps the art was in the stab into the softness of the firstâs neck, just under her jaw, as soon as the grip on her was released. She was already cooling, giving up on fighting any longer. But that second one⊠she was a fighter. She was still trying to breathe, trying to talk, trying to scream. Striker dropped the first body.
âYou shouldnât have placed yourself in so much debt,â he said, calm, quiet, and cold, cold, cold, âthat this is the only way to balance it.â He knew just how to measure his voice, so that the grumble of it would be heard only by those immediately in the room, rather through thin walls. Quick as a shot, he grabbed onto her spraying neck, crushing the rest of the airway that hadnât been sliced. He gave her the same treatment as the first â jabbing into her weakly fighting body, leaking lifeblood like a faucet.
He was an artist, and this was his medium. Creating balance in an unbalanced world. This was where he shined. This was where he found himself, his core, his own personal balance. The knife was wiped clean as best it could â put back into his pocket (it would be disinfected as soon as he got his hands on the chemicals).
Striker left the apartment after a thorough cleanup and a once over â cursing that heâd have to wear the blood on him for longer than heâd prefer. His extra shirt was just down the hallway, tucked away, but heâd either have to walk out shirtless (blood stained on his face, and hands, and in his hair) or just suffer with his blood-drenched shirt for a few minutes longer.
The voice that spoke to him when he left the apartment wasnât expected, and Strikerâs eyes snapped to her immediately â another one? No, the contact said just two women. â and he smiled at the comment. âYou offering me your shower then?â Striker wiped at the feeling of still cooling blood sticking to his face, if there were any left it was now smeared across his cheekbone, just under his glasses. âAnd your cleaning chemicals?â
There wasnât a reason to coldbox this person. That would simply⊠upset the balance of things. Easy enough. Simple balancing. âPlease?â
In the nearing 28 years that Frenchie had been alive, she didnât think she had seen anything like this before. Actually, she knew she hadnât seen anything like this before; itâd be pretty fuckinâ memorable if she had bumped into a killer right after he did his... Killing(s?). She wasnât quite sure how much blood could come from killing one person, seeing as she never really had to find that out, but judging by how drenched he was in that red bodily fluid, it seemed like it had come from more than one source. That and the fact that she knew the women in apartment 4E were practically inseparable â if he killed one, he wouldâve had to kill the other.
The contrast between the bright crimson and his stark white shirt was a lot for Frenchie to handle, and she was surprised she had even said anything to the man at all. It was one of those things where you didnât quite want to look at it, but you also couldnât quite look away either. It hadnât really registered in her head that this guy mightâve been an absolute fuckinâ lunatic, but she recognized his blood-spattered face as one of the Poisons. He couldnât have been that crazy, right? Perhaps it was just business, him killing her annoying neighbors, and as someone who found themselves having to do business all the time (though their definitions of the word were apparently very different), she tried not to make too big of an issue of it. So be it, that she had a small chance of getting mercilessly killed. Frenchie had just hoped that her blood wouldnât be on his shirt next â afterall, she was doing the guy a favor.
âYeah, totally. As long as you donât go all reverse-Psycho on me.â She lifted her hand holding an imaginary knife, making the classic screeching sounds from that one shower scene in that movie. Frenchie wasnât really the greatest in situations where she was truly uncomfortable, and the way that the blood on his face smelled as it began to dry and crust-up definitely was beginning to unnerve her. So she did what she always did in situations like these: make appropriately inappropriate jokes to at least try and lighten up the situation. At least as much as one can lighten up a murder as possible. Â
She nodded over at the other end of the hall, âI live over there at apartment 4C â come on.â Frenchie made sure to keep him at a reasonable distance, though not necessarily out of fear but more so out of a necessary pre-caution. Always the responsible one, that French; kicking people out of her club and taking care of others. Apparently now she can add to her resume that she helps murderers get cleaned up so they donât get caught. Awesome. When they neared her door, she turned to give Striker a look before unlocking the door. âTry not to get any blood on the floor, please.â
Upon opening the door to her dark apartment, she flicked on the lights to reveal a neatly-kept home. Almost everything in her apartment was white: the couches, the faux-fur carpets, cabinets. Perhaps it wasnât the smartest for her to allow the man inside, but it was already too late.  âBathroomâs down the hall, second door on your left. There might be some, like, manly smelling stuff under the sink as far as shampoo and body-wash goes.â She tried to keep the bathroom stocked in case she brought anyone over. With a shrug she added, âAnd I guess when youâre done weâll work on getting your clothes cleaned if theyâre even able to be salvaged.â
