MMF

Medicball's words were taken at face value. Without a second glance, the assassin lowered himself through the glowing field and promptly walked out of the workshop. His steps were only slightly unsteady. It seemed he had somewhere to be. Or perhaps it was just him.

----

'''Apartment Complex'''

He stopped at the kitchen first. Rummaging through the rows of shelves, Kiritsugu remorselessly appropriated several salt-cellars, stowing them away in his coat. Then he headed upstairs to his room. Or rather, their room.

He passed through the Bounded Field he had set up over the doorway last night, the prana shimmering over him like a gossamer curtain. A lackluster job, but it would suffice on this small scale. He would know the instant anyone other than himself entered here. Of course, that included the detective.

Dresden would appear any second. He could feel it.

It was a simple room, one of the smaller units. Bunk bed, desk, wastepaper basket. Gray curtains draping the duststreaked, white-framed window like some listless glove. The pasty yellow wallpaper peeled and clashed horribly with the thick gray carpet.

He didn't particularly care about the surroundings. He had already appropriated the desk. His briefcase was on it.

Walking over, Kiritsugu flipped it open, before removing his Contender and stowing it away in its rosewood box with care. The Calico was replaced less ceremoniously, and the unspent shells were placed in their appropriate grooves. He shut the briefcase.

He turned left and walked into the bathroom. A white sliding door, old and creaky, let him in. It was damp and dark, with a shower at one end and a streaked bathtub at another. He flicked on the light switch, illuminating the room with sputtering yellow.

Searching the cupboards above and below the tiny sink with the same courtesy as he had the kitchen, Kiritsugu finally pryed out a large red tub. Running the tap, he filled it with water before placing it on the floor, in the middle of the bathroom.

He removed his coat and shirt, placing his tie on the towel rack and the salt-cellars by the sink. Dumping the clothes in the water, he emptied the cellars into the tub, one by one.

It would help loosen the bloodstains before he put them in the wash. He had no change of clothes.

Kiritsugu stood shirtless and watched the fabric bob. His body was lean and marked with scars, along his back and chest and arms. Not the heroic scars, but the ones that would make ladies wince and turn away. There was nothing attractive about his physique. It was too hard and battered for that.

If anyone had been there to pay attention to his chest, they might notice that two of his ribs were missing. White lines marked where they were meant to be. But they would have to pay close attention, and there was nobody there, at any rate.