Crosswalk
TW// BLOOD, VIOLENCE, EYE TRAUMA
Cathal kept his head down against the wind as he walked. It whistled into the eye holes of his mask like icy nails.
The man turns his head, as if some slumbering part of his hindbrain screams out that something is wrong. Cathal can just see the glimmer of eye-white as he closes the meager distance between them.
Breath clouded out and was torn away from him in fogging gasps. He could still hear his heart pounding in his ears, even as his steps were measured and even.
The alley is dark and wet with black ice. His target’s head cracks against the frozen brick wall as Cathal slams into him from behind. The man tries to scream before a hand is over his mouth, impervious to sharp vampiric fangs.
He had to move away from the site. Any direction would do. It didn’t really matter.
This is a high-risk target. It isn’t often that an Ocularis is selected for Removal. He has to be quick. He can’t let him see his mask, in case others are watching. Cathal slams his head into the wall again. The man groans. But there’s a flash of bright metal, a knife, as he struggles to turn towards his attacker. Cathal didn’t look up as he stepped into the street. He knew nobody would be driving now that the blizzard had deepened. Even the streetlights had gone dark. He banks on the man being too stunned to aim, and he was right. The knife swipes into his coat and snags, missing his skin. Cathal puts one hand over the Ocularis’ eyes and shoves him back against the wall, a knee coming up to drive into the vampire’s gut. The man wheezes and slumps. Unexpected headlights lanced over him and Cathal’s head snapped up, too late.
Cathal rips the knife out of his target’s hands. He spreads the fingers of his hand over the vampire’s eyes just enough to allow the blade through.
A horn blared at him, tires skidding against ice and slush. Cathal tried to leap away, too slow, the van striking him broadside and sending him flying away and into the snow-covered asphalt.
The vampire screams. Cathal silences him quickly with a jab to the throat. The alley falls eerily silent. The knife flashes and glitters as he stabs into his target, over and over, wherever he can reach. The Ocularis slides limply to the ground, face clotted with blood. Cathal realizes his arms are covered in it, sticky and cloying. He slips the knife into his pocket, steps back once, twice. Then runs.
A wheeze finally escapeed him. Snow eddied over him as the sound of a car door opening registered. He blinked. Nothing was broken. He was just winded. He could still walk...
