There was a subtle romance to the action and feeling, there really was.
1-2-3
1-2-3
1-2-3
It was difficult to describe it to the outsider, to the layman on the street that would, undoubtedly, frown upon him for the action. It was understandable and he didn't resent them. They weren't unwashed masses that didn't 'get it'. They simply never experienced the thrill and feeling of it. The subtle art of it.
1-2-3
1...2...3
1-2-3
1-2-3
There was another attempt to break free and it was quickly stopped again. All the training in the world wouldn't save him. One could argue that it all led up to this moment--and even if someone could say that this was no act of the gods--well, he wouldn't argue. It was, to him at least, more an act of men--you simply either were prepared for a moment like this or you weren't.
1-2-3
1...2...3
1-2...3
1-2-3
This man wasn't. He could feel that now, as if everything else didn't say as much. As the powerful arms tightened, locking inexcoribly tighter, the pulse could be felt, the breathing was stopped and the heart struggled in its now broken rhythm. Actually, now that he thought about it, no--this wasn't art. Not really. Maybe math and a sheer set of numbers. A formula that led from the beginning to this end result.
1-2-3
1...2...3
1...2...3
No, this was a job--just like any other--that relied on simple math. This man had trained, according to what his assailant had figured, approximately five years in the art of pugilism. So, by that logic, he, his assailant, who had trained for almost three times that, would be the most obvious winner. This guy was good--but his assailant was simply better. Speaking of math..
1...2-3
1..2..3..
It had been a good run, his assailant supposed. Five years of training, of making oneself better. He could appreciate the philosophy of it. After all, how many other lives had this man defeated with his own 'numbers'? Ah, but he was letting himself get philosophical again, wasn't he? He really didn't have time for this.
1...2...3...
1...2...--SNAP.
The body was dropped from the man's arms, the assassin flexing his fingers as he stood up from the hold he'd locked onto his 'fellow' assassin. "See now, I went and started mentally meandering." He looked down at the man on the ground, the mask on the man's face denoting him as being one of the 'Faces of Mercy' or some other silly nonsense like that. "I've got work to do and you got me turning killing into math. For shame."Â
He turned and started away, leaving the fallen pugilist and assassin of five years dead, his neck snapped and body lifeless--maybe one of his fellow Faces would find him, who knew? The assassin with the superior number of years had someone to find and he couldn't do that if these Faces guys did it first.
"Always hated math."
1-2-3
1-2-3
1-2-3
It was difficult to describe it to the outsider, to the layman on the street that would, undoubtedly, frown upon him for the action. It was understandable and he didn't resent them. They weren't unwashed masses that didn't 'get it'. They simply never experienced the thrill and feeling of it. The subtle art of it.
1-2-3
1...2...3
1-2-3
1-2-3
There was another attempt to break free and it was quickly stopped again. All the training in the world wouldn't save him. One could argue that it all led up to this moment--and even if someone could say that this was no act of the gods--well, he wouldn't argue. It was, to him at least, more an act of men--you simply either were prepared for a moment like this or you weren't.
1-2-3
1...2...3
1-2...3
1-2-3
This man wasn't. He could feel that now, as if everything else didn't say as much. As the powerful arms tightened, locking inexcoribly tighter, the pulse could be felt, the breathing was stopped and the heart struggled in its now broken rhythm. Actually, now that he thought about it, no--this wasn't art. Not really. Maybe math and a sheer set of numbers. A formula that led from the beginning to this end result.
1-2-3
1...2...3
1...2...3
No, this was a job--just like any other--that relied on simple math. This man had trained, according to what his assailant had figured, approximately five years in the art of pugilism. So, by that logic, he, his assailant, who had trained for almost three times that, would be the most obvious winner. This guy was good--but his assailant was simply better. Speaking of math..
1...2-3
1..2..3..
It had been a good run, his assailant supposed. Five years of training, of making oneself better. He could appreciate the philosophy of it. After all, how many other lives had this man defeated with his own 'numbers'? Ah, but he was letting himself get philosophical again, wasn't he? He really didn't have time for this.
1...2...3...
1...2...--SNAP.
The body was dropped from the man's arms, the assassin flexing his fingers as he stood up from the hold he'd locked onto his 'fellow' assassin. "See now, I went and started mentally meandering." He looked down at the man on the ground, the mask on the man's face denoting him as being one of the 'Faces of Mercy' or some other silly nonsense like that. "I've got work to do and you got me turning killing into math. For shame."Â
He turned and started away, leaving the fallen pugilist and assassin of five years dead, his neck snapped and body lifeless--maybe one of his fellow Faces would find him, who knew? The assassin with the superior number of years had someone to find and he couldn't do that if these Faces guys did it first.
"Always hated math."