OOC: (Since your partner seems not to be planning on showing up, I shall play with you. You did not describe the surroundings at all, nor where you stand, so I shall take the right and liberty to manipulate such to my pleasure. I hope this is satisfactory. I was bored halfway through this, which was less than half-assed to begin with, so it isn’t all that grand, grammar-wise or post-wise. I’m the psychopathic serial killer, and you are the agent trying to stop me. And this… is New York.)
The wind blew violently in a series of powerful, capricious gusts, a shrill whistle, as rained poured down from the heavens on this dusky midsummer’s day. Nothing but clouds could be seen of the sky above, and each drop of rain that hammered the ground below created the oddly rhythmic sound of splash against puddle. Water slithered noiselessly through the streets, slipping into the gutter drains as if drawn to there by some supernal forces, as if beyond control. The air rumbled restlessly as each and every bolt of lightning shot aimlessly across the milky grey skies. With each sonic boom, with each crackle and roar, the grey lit up with a brilliant flash of light that encased it entirely, without exception to when or where. Although the wild weather gave rise to sullen moods, torrential downpours blotting out the very light from reaching this world, a bleaker individual might be thunderstruck by the sheer beauty of this scenery. Here, no matter how melancholic the atmosphere, a certain man could rest at ease amidst the whimsical thralls of nature and her ilk. Where some may be banished to the darkness, exiled to far more distant shores, others lodge purposefully therein. One man’s warm, inviting hearth was another man’s Eternal Hell.
Some lesser men may seek out comfort in the temporary pleasure of the company of another on a day such as this; but he worked alone. Camaraderie was never a taste of his. It had always been as such. It had always been that way. Always. Forever. A weaker, more submissive man, a meek little being not fit to bridge his descent across the wet street, would perhaps be consumed by loneliness. Gazer had no such inkling of weakness in him. He vehemently spat upon such pitiful ideals that people cannot live alone, for if one could not understand another, there was no conversation to be had. One could know without understanding, but one could never understand without knowing. It was a reasonably obvious creed, and one that most refused to admit was true. The questionable merry-making that other people concern themselves with, twisted faces portraying a person much different from the true character beneath—all just feigned activities of a society that will not accept difference, pathetic pretenses. To plunge into such pointless bravado would be the height of stupidity. Such existed only for sheep and marks, the victims and those who are just begging to be scammed of everything they have, or slaughtered like farm animals. Though fascinating to toy with, it was not a scene suited for one such as him. Giving bittersweet grapes to the self-important rich of the world was always a promising pastime, however.
For a moment, he almost became entranced by it all, lost in the confines of his own dark thoughts, the similar overtones that had always spurred him into doing impulsive things once again playing with his mind, that desire… to kill! The same urges that had once gotten him into such trouble a lifetime or two ago. Yes, to entertain the notion that he possessed even a modicum of sincerity, integrity, or genuine emotion was a conception only a moron would grasp straws at, but it happened… now and then. Every once and a while, someone believed his deceit so much that they refused to see reality, that they thought it was the real him. In comparison to one of these so-called normal people, Gazer was definitely an entirely different entity, the black sheep, except with sharp fangs. However, no matter how any may protest to otherwise, any creature that met perfectly with the definition of normal was nonexistent.
Standing atop the roof of a large building complex, clad from head to toe in heavy winter clothes, a black raincoat encasing the entirety of his form, hood pulled carefully over his head, Gazer assumed a prone position. Sitting aside the long suitcase on the ground to his side, the man flipped the lid open, and removed the sniper rifle inside. He relaxed his body, steadied his breathing, and released all tension from his nerves and muscles, peering through the crosshairs at the man on the street below, the man who was hunting him. Then, he fired a dangerously accurate warning shot at the ground beside the man. He could have easily blown a hole through the agent’s head. However, where was the fun in that? This was a game, after all.
Home 
