the final words

"Good night, father."

A thunderous crack resounds through the quiet night. Azra watches, cold, unfeeling, as a father he never knew falls to the ground, dead. Blood pours from the old man's new wound, pooling around his head.

Retribution, at last.
____________________

Azra stares forward, sitting on the side of his bed. Stillness reigns over his body. Thoughts run through his mind- It recalls rehearsals done by his body, all orchestrated perfectly, all to serve his purpose of killing. He is still, however, for such was his designated protocol between missions- Remain still, and do not move from his quarters. He must wait here until he is needed for a new mission, a new target, a new life to take. He will remain here until then, a scapegoat to the murder done in the sinful, sinful hearts of his masters.

Azra is but sixteen years of age. According to Father Linnaeus, whom he ought to be grateful for saving his life, he was of sound mind and body. Short, toffee-brown hair covers his head, curling just slightly at the tips. Father Linnaeus trimmed his hair, so only a few bangs framed the boy's face, with the back of his hair only reaching halfway down his neck. His eyes, with the same toffee-brown as his hair, lack the idealistic gleam of a child.

He must be a very good boy, he reflects, for he thinks much about others- The other children of the orphanage, much younger than him, now patrolling the halls of the orphanage below the attic that he rests in. The skittering, scuttling steps of children trying their best to walk quickly but quietly, and evidently failing at both, fade away into the night- In their place, the slow, heavy, and confident steps of a man with absolute power sound through the halls below. He knows those footsteps well. Only Father Linnaeus walks so, here in these desolate yet noisy halls.

Azra's head turns to the left, back to the crinkled, tear-stained napkin with the scribbling of multiple children. It was, at the least, an admirable effort at rendering the message nigh-undecipherable. Azra had been trained in deciphering messages, however, and so it was easy to understand their encryption method, and bring to light their true message- A plea, or so it goes.

His next target: Father Linnaeus.
____________________

Joanna, Azra's beloved pistol, lies in his lap. With the gentle touch of one handling delicate porcelain as to make sure no blood stained its pure white visage, he picks it up. Joanna is but a semi-automatic pistol, with a hair trigger that he maintained well. An angel's wing and various verses lay etched along Joanna's slide, and a shocking amount of notches rest along its grip.

Azra takes out a knife, and lays down one more notch in the pistol. He then racks the slide, catching the bullet from the port. He holds it up to his eyes- The bullets had been a novelty model based off of .45 Re-LayeR rounds, and a purportedly once-famous gunsmith had been commissioned to make these for his use. The bullet features a hollow-point bullet with a high-explosive payload, set to detonate shortly after impact with a victim.

He slips into the form-fitting material of his bodysuit- A second skin to cover up the scars, the bruises, and the beatings he received for being inadequate, whether that be from a lack of or an excess in his capabilities. The suit also hides well the whims of his nightly visitors- Father Linnaeus visited him mostly, but sometimes it would be his 'friends' and investors.

This may not be his body, but with this second skin, it becomes his once more.
____________________

Azra walks slowly- He places his heel down first, then rolling his feet forward, making sure to walk on the outer edges of his feet. Short strides keep his movement to a minimum. His feet instinctively avoid the creaky spots in the wood flooring- A motion engraved in his body, executed in the dark of night.

Such measures need not be taken, of course. Father Linnaeus likely could not hear Azra over the hymn he hums to himself, over the self-important stomps along the floor. Father Linnaeus only stops in front of the mirror at a fork in the orphanage's hallway to examine himself, to gloat and preen. After adjusting his clothes one last time before turning in for the night, the old man spots the familiar gleam of Joanna, drawn and ready. His eyes follow the iron sights that gaze, unfeeling, into the back of his head, down the slide, down the impassive form of his eldest "son", his greatest doll, his finest tool, his most loyal dog... In his last moments, he sees Azra's faintly-gleaming, golden eyes, eyes that every victim before him had once faced, and then--

"Good night, father," Azra states in his usual, monotone voice, eyes unblinking as he pulls the trigger.

A thunderous crack resounds through the quiet night. Azra watches, cold, unfeeling, as a father he never knew falls to the ground, dead. Blood pours from the old man's new wound, pooling around his head.

Retribution, at last.

Azra feels nothing. He feels nothing at all, watching as the man he once recognized as his father lies dead. A flash of relief, of anger, of sorrow, of HATRED- vitriolic, all-consuming- flew by him when he pulled the trigger, but now he feels nothing. Linnaeus was merely another mark, one requested by the children. He could not refuse their pleads.

He lets his breath out, gingerly pulling out the remote detonator from his pocket- A small little tube with a red button at the top, covered with a clear plastic cap. He pulls the cap off, holding it between his index and middle finger. He glances at a window outside, where the moonlight illuminates the children- all twenty-three of them. He recognized the incoming vehicles. They played their part in this act, leaving his "presents" in every corner of the orphanage, ever ready to leave their past behind. He pauses again, looking down at the detonator in his hands.

He walks out of the orphanage through a door on the opposite side from the other children, presses his thumb down on the button, and runs.

Azra feels empty. He feels completely, utterly empty, running away from what little remains of the orphanage he once knew as home. Shame and guilt assail him, scrabble at his feet- Linnaeus's voice pulls Azra down into the abyss with him, reminding the boy of how little he means, now that his father no longer lives. The detonator remains in his pocket, a reminder of the past he chose to destroy, of the nebulous now he runs towards.

Where is he going? With whom shall he find shelter in? As befits his nature as a shadow, he must find a light to hide behind. Karrakis... That is where he will go. Who will guide his hands? Oh, how they itch and tremble and HUNGER.

Truly, the playthings of the devil.