Immoral Immortal : Part One

Click. Click.

The brief, fraction of a second that a flicking zippo gave off light was more than enough for a sharp eye to spot a target in the darkness, even from a fair distance.

Click.

Another flick of the lighter. The cigarette finally took, burning clearly through the darkness, dangerously bright. It lifted, as though whomever holding it lifted it towards their lips. The burning end sizzled, alerting the inhale, and -

Click

The spark of light fell to the ground, followed closely by a dull thud, indicating that the mark had taken the hit.

“Smoking kills, bud,” the man whispered, drawing him eyes away from the sights of his weapon, which he soon swished around on it's strap to rest on his back. With this, he slid from his perch in the tree branches, where he had been hiding for the better part of the night, and began to walk away. His first few strides were forced, his joints were stiff and his muscles ached terribly, but he carried on, knowing full well that it was only a matter of time before the other occupants of the structure realized they were a man down.

His ghastly eyes trailed along the wasteland before him, considering the long walk he would have to civilization. Or rather, the long walk he would have, providing his ride hadn't bailed on him and his mission.

He maneuvered expertly through the darkness, moving around objects and easily avoiding obstacles in his path, as though he could clearly see all of his surroundings. He carried himself quietly, at a brisk walking pace, his head held high and proud on his shoulders. There was no fear in his eyes of being caught for his act, nor was their fear of heaven or hell. He was already damned, that much had long been assured.

Upon contemplating the trivialities of mortality, he began to walk into thick grass, which only got taller as he went, soon turning into gnarled, leafless trees that lashed about in the breeze. He began to let out soft, click like noises with his tongue, releasing the noise every few steps until he was greeted with a response.

“I'm not a horse, you know,” came a small, meek voice as what appeared to be a large, and very glittery, butterfly flew from the hollow of a tree. It sighed, exasperated, before perching itself on the man's shoulder.

“Mm, you're more of an ass, Icarus,” he responded, a smirk playing on his slightly dried lips.

“Oh. Har har. Let's see who's joking when I make you walk all the way back to New York, you jerk. You know how far that is from here? You'd have to walk across an OCEAN, and you may be a man of many talents, but I've yet to see you-”

“Alright, alright. No more jokes,” he threw his hands up a little in submission, “just get us out of here before we get caught.” He stared at the pixie, whom simply stared back. Eventually he registered what the tiny humanoid wanted, and added a hasty 'please' to his earlier request.

“Since you asked so nicely, fine.” Icarus sarcastically uttered, waving his hand, a surprising amount of colorful pixie dust erupted around them, swirling in a spiral that engulfed both himself and his much larger friend.

There was a falling sensation, as though one plunged from a bridge in a dream, which was quickly accompanied by the heavy smell of alcohol, cigars and expensive escort women. As quickly as the powder storm had come, it passed, and they stood in a dimly lit room that was large, but held very few people.

Icarus immediately flapped off of his friend's shoulder, gliding towards a cluster of women and ogling at their scantly clad bodies.

The man with the rifle on his back had a different idea, however. He moved past the bar tender, whom immediately through himself to the ground behind the counter and began to pray for God to spare his life. He was paid little heed, as the man addressed a rather obese man sitting at a table with all the other men, seeming generally annoyed with his sudden appearance, and furthermore with the winged creature that flew amongst the women, scattering them and making them scream hysterically.

“Ever hear of being discreet?” The over weight man asked, scowling, he removed a cloth from his pocket, dragging it along his forehead before stuffing it back within his jacket, where his hand lingered briefly, as though he were contemplating something.

“I am discreet, when it's required of me, now is not one of those times, Tom, and I know you have a reputation for not paying up,” he pointed out, eyes narrowing as several off the men at the table whipped out handguns and pointed them at his head, his jaw clenched and he grit his teeth, one hand forming a fist.

“Don't you idiots! Put those damn things away,” Tom, or Tommy the Tyrant, as he was better known as, a man with an iron grip over the black market, which he ruled with his gang of gun totting thugs. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of cash and handing it over, “See, I always intended to pay you... Assuming you did the job...”

“I did... And I also saw you reaching for your gun earlier. Glad you rethought that, it'd be a pity for me to have to kill a cash cow such as yourself,” he pointed out, accepting the money somewhat eagerly and tucking it away. He lingered near the table for a moment, before clicking his tongue for Icarus to follow, at which point he took his leave, giving a little wave as he walked away, without so much as bothering to look back at the men, “Later, Tommy boy!” He called, just as he slipped out the door.

“Boss... Who the hell was that?” Asked the man sitting to Tommy's right, brows furrowed due to the fact that he was disappointed he didn't get to shoot the young, armed, man.

“That man... Was Taebien Hart...”