Fire and Brimstone.

-PART 5: AFTERGLOW-

Dean rolled off of the woman, keeping a hand splayed out across her firm stomach. He panted slightly, beads of sweat cooling across his naked body in the chill air of the hotel room. The hooker lit a cigarette, inhaling, and then blowing smoke out of her nose. Dean stared up at the ceiling, bags under his eyes. Outside, the sun was setting over the Lowell cityscape, the sky a pleasant shade of deep reminiscent orange. He gazed out of the window for the moment, before climbing out of bed and tugging on his clothes. He sat on the bedside to pull on his combat boots, and looked back at the prostitute, who was under the covers now. She stared right back at him- a pretty little thing, about four years his junior. She smiled faintly, and he had an inkling that it wasn't because she was payed to. Dean stopped at the door before leaving, turning to her.

"Thanks," was all he said. He tossed a gleaming cred-chit on the table by the door, and walked out.

By the time Dean arrived at his target's location, night had fallen. The tenements he had landed at were dimly lit, shadows encroaching all around him. He felt a cockroach crunch under his boot as he stepped in to the entry hall, and grimaced. He checked his weapon one more time, pulling the contraption out of his jacket pocket.

"Cobra," was all the aged dealer had said when he had sold the weapon to Dean the day prior. It was some sort of telescopic whip- a handle made of stainless steel, with a bronze pyramid at the end. When you pressed down on a button and gave it a flick, three flexible telescoping segments came out of the griptube, the pyramid at the end, giving the weapon reach. A brutal, lethal flail, and good for silent takeouts.

The job was simple enough- a ganger and his lackeys had taken up residence in this tenement block, shaking down the locals. The impoverished victims had pooled their resources to pay for the man's death, and Dean had accepted the job with something akin to gusto. One of his more "noble" jobs- a sort of community service. Dean grimaced at the thought, gripping the Cobra tightly, and entered the nearest elevator.

Emilia had rejected him. He'd shown up at her door, and when she answered, she pulled a gun- told him to go far , far away. Tears had welled in her eyes, but her anger had overridden her grief. She had been ready to blow his brains all over the concrete, and so he'd left. He got his full memories back two days later, and the agony, both emotional and physical, was unbearable. He became reclusive for two weeks after that, hiding out in one of the various rooms in Selvion's mansion.

But now he was back, body if not soul- and he had a reputation to uphold. He watched the number climb on the grimy glass of the floor-counter: 4, 6, 10. Finally it reached 20- his target's location. The door slid open, and he stepped in to the filthy hallway, inhaling the familiar scents of piss, blood, and ambrosia. Graffiti of gang symbols and obscenities lined the walls, and Dean read them disinterestedly as he stalked down the hall to his target's apartment. A light flickered overhead, clearly on it's last legs, as Dean knocked on the door heavily.

"Fuck you want?", was the response. "I told those motherfuckers the deal's off."

"I'm just here to talk, chum. Come on out."

Dean listened for a moment, then heard the distinctive noise of a ballistic being cocked back. He cursed, and dove to the side as a hail of bullets ripped through the door. The fire continued until the clip seemingly ran out, and Dean edged along the wall. He could hear men arguing hurriedly inside, apparently distracted- he took his chance, and swiftly kicked in the ruin of the door. He extended the Cobra as the men inside turned, apparently surprised that he had lived. He counted three- not sure which was the leader, so he'd kill all of them to make sure.

Taking advantage of their surprise, he leapt forward in to the living room where the men stood- swinging out with the cobra in the same motion. The sharp pyramid took one of the gangers- the one who had fired the Uzi- in the temple, tearing through it and destroying the man's skull. Dean yanked the thing out swiftly, brutally, and flicked it to get rid of any excess flesh or bone stuck to it. The remaining two men cursed as their friend slumped to the floor, gun falling from his hand.

"Should've come out," he said, eyes gleaming dangerously in the half-light of the apartment. One of the men reached for a machete on the nearby coffee table, but Dean lashed out with the Cobra again, tearing in to the ganger's wrist. He followed up with a kick to the head, knocking the man out- but the assault had given the remaining target time to grasp the nearest weapon: a sturdy chair leg. Dean grunted as the piece of wood smashed across his back, shattering, and dropped his Cobra. He turned to face his attacker, and leapt at him, slamming in to the bastard and propelling the two of them across the room. Dean dragged the man to his feet, then smashed his head through a nearby window. He followed up by forcing the ganger's neck down on to a shard of glass left in the frame, and left him there, gurgling and choking as blood spurted from his neck freely.

Dean limped back across the room, leaning down and picking up the Cobra. He smashed in the final ganger's head, then left quickly. In the hall outside, a neighbor peeked out of his door, saw Dean exiting the ganger's apartment, and mouthed the words "thank you". Dean nodded in return, and walked down the hall in to a waiting elevator.

Hours later, he stood on the balcony of the ritzy hotel, the hooker from earlier long gone. The city spread out before him, a labyrinth of neon and steel full of filth and criminals and greedy rich bastards. Life here was what you made of it...

And what Dean made of it was death.