Description: A 15 year old Duo Lon encounters the assassin Angelo at a Miami mafia meeting, four years prior to the present day! The young Flying Brigand seeks to test his skills against the world outside of his only home, but finds his pride too much for his talent to support! Everybody's wearing aviators!!
Miami. The heat of summer, four years ago.
Angelo is sat across from three very large men. Two are large in the sense that they have a great deal of muscle and easily top six and a half feet tall. The fact that they are squeezed into suits only makes them look faintly ridiculous. The third, is sat in the middle, and is large in the sense that he is extremely wide. His jowls wobble when he speaks. He, is wearing a half-open shirt and a large golden chain. All three of the men are wearing aviator sunglasses. In this part of town, this particular outfit could not be mistaken for anything but what they are; mafia.
The club itself is discrete, low jazz plays in the background, and the air is smoky, the lights dim. Even as the sun is going down, the heat is held at bay only half-successfully by the air conditioning. There are perhaps two dozen people scattered throughout the club, most of them wearing the badge of one criminal cartel or another, but a scant few, like Angelo, stand out as ... something else.
Angelo is going through a transition stage. He's not wearing a hooded jumper, instead, he's wearing a very wide-brimmed, dark red hat. Just wide enough to obscure his features, even moreso in this smoky environ. He's also wearing a dark trenchcoat, despite the heat, and his arms are propped up along the bench seat as he listens to the prattling of this ... ignorant man.
"You got some guts to show your face round here again, freak!" The gangster spits, his features turning a deeper shade of red. "You didn't complete the contract, I oughta have my boys here teach you a lesson! Why the hell should I let you offer ta work on a second?"
Angelo sighs, and bows his head a little lower. "First of all." He says, accentuating each word sharply and clearly. "I do not 'show my face', anywhere."
He leans forwards, and taps his finger on the table, sharply. "Second of all. I hae explained, it was not ... time, for that man to die. I have returned your money. I always reserve the right to withdraw if that is how I feel. You knew this."
A second, louder tap.
"Thirdly, and finally, you dulwitted walrus, if you wish me to kill your men, I will gladly do so, and take you with them. But if you wish anyone else to be killed, you had better allow me to come forwards."
His eyes glint under the hood, and the shadow of a smile can be seen on his darkened features.
"Because there is nobody else in this town who could see the job through."
A third, final tap, and there is a pained groan, as the wood of the table splits, and finally dies. Neatly cut into two, equal pieces.
The sharp crack of splitting wood draws several astonished murmurs from the gathered criminal element. Already, those men valuing their lives over an already shady deal are leaving. Fully a dozen men - slinky, dark, subtle, buoyant - beat it, and leave only the most notorious lawbreakers present. Fully all eyes are riveted to Angelo and the large man he's been speaking with. The large man is wide-eyed, jowls quivering with rage, spittle dribbling from his bloated lower lip. His retainers glance to one another, hands reaching for the weaponry at their hi-
There is a reedy, struggling cough from the far corner of the room. Wide, worried eyes slowly shift their focus - soon they are all upon the five gentlemen in its far corner, one seated, four standing in a protective perimeter around him. They are all almost emaciated in their figure and form, but the four men - bodyguards? - bear an efficiency of movement that precludes any dismissal of their ability. The one they guard, smaller (A child?) continues coughing for a moment, but does rise to his feet shortly.
If his retainers possessed an efficiency of movement, his bearing is enough to make them appear as drunk, palsied oxes by comparison. Recovered from his fit, he glides between them and across the club floor, stepping into the light some few feet from Angelo and the mafiosos, a long braid slung over one shoulder.
Sheepish, he smiles.
"I'm not used to this sort of smoke. Nonetheless, I am offended by your prospective workman's assumption. I will accomplish any task you require. I need no money."
Duo Lon's sharp, predatory eyes regard Angelo while he speaks. He is -fifteen-. -So presumptuous-.
Underneath the brim of his hat, Angelo's eyes are drawn to Duo Lon's. There's a look there. Something he had seen every day he had looked in the mirror for the past lifetime. Angelo is not a man who assumes anything, least of all when it comes to the appearance of people in this business. Yes, the boy is young, and he's clearly not used to the atmosphere of the club...
But those eyes...
Angelo stands, smoothly, and gloves of red leather creak as he cracks his knuckles. The mafioso doesn't know what he should do, spluttering incoherently in his fury. It would have been disappointing- though foreseeable- if Angelo had needed to simply kill his way out of the club. Now, though, it seems that there is a far more interesting contender standing before him.
"You are an interesting young man." Angelo says, letting his hands fall to his sides after he's a little more warmed up. "I should warn you, however, these men will not appreciate your work. They are not interested in beauty, or the art of it, only the outcome."
His voice is quite solemn, as he looms over the younger assassin. Allowing the spluttering of fools and the nervousness of bodyguards- even though weapons have sprung into their hands- to fade into the background. For Angelo, there is only himself, and this intense young fighter who has stepped into his presence.
"Think very carefully, before you gamble your life for the honor of working with them, boy."
Duo Lon is certainly not impolite, but even in his youth he knows when Adults are speaking. This is one of those times, though the juxtaposition of Angelo to himself prompts a bit of a startling discovery. It's something Angelo might see in those compelling eyes - a flicker of youthful uncertainty, something almost instantly replaced with a practiced, comfortable ice.
Duo Lon -still- has trouble believing that so many people outside of his hometown are such livestock. Angelo's apparent godhood simply makes that point further established.
It brings the young Hizoku to a more guarded position; gracefully, he sweeps his left foot behind his right, and presents Angelo with a side-profile, a jutting, prideful chin. Thin, made-up lips curl into a small, understanding smile. 'Commoner', is the unspoken preface, the laughing rejoinder in his features, his imperceptible sneer.
"Work is a means to an end, not art. Life is useless unless you do as you wish with it." The men that had accompanied the youth do not move from their spots, shadowed as they are in the corner. They do not move at -all-. In comparison, the mafia boss and his men have fully pulled out their guns, though they're not pointing them anywhere just yet. The mafia boss is saying something about wanting some goddamned respect or attention.
"You're ignoring your host."
Soft, chuckling laughter issues from underneath the brim of the hat. Angelo's amusement is not mean-spirited. Duo Lon's wisdom is, truly, inspiring. It was so rare to find a young man who cared at all about the larger questions of life. But although Angelo couldn't agree with the boy's particular evaluation, there's definitely some truth to the words! What point is there to life if one doesn't live it in accordance with one's will?
"Yes, quite right. Quite right." He says, cheerfully.
"You, Sir." Angelo says, pronouncing the word 'Sir' to be synonymous with 'scum' in the way that only the very well bred can, "Could do far worse than to simply employ this boy. I would be fascinated to see how he would fare."
And then, his attention is turned back to the young man. "However. Assuming that the young gentleman would like to prove himself worthwhile, and perhaps ... make up for my earlier rudeness, I suggest that you put a price on my head."
He spreads his arms out to his sides, and looks back to the fat man again. Amusement sparkling on every inch of his posture. "After all, at this point, I find you so offensive that if I'm not killed, you most certainly will be. I would hate for the young man to pick up the bad habit of ignoring spurned employers."
Quite right. The evaluation breaks the practiced iciness of Duo Lon's expression, and permits a small, grateful smile to shine through for a scarce moment. It is immediately recovered, replaced with an even -murkier- countenance; certainly Angelo's young acquaintance is berating himself right now.
It's just so rare for the young man to hear -anybody- say he's done a good job. Such is a life of high expectations and impossible ideals.
So he simply waits while Angelo speaks with the mafiosos, glancing from one, to the next, to the next, hands folded before his hips, fingers at -- quite frankly, his fingers are at upsetting, rigid angles, tucked into one another in an intricate, uncomfortable fashion.
The mafia boss sneers towards Angelo, rocking back in hsi seat, looking towards his companions, back towards Angelo. He sneers again, clearly upset at the correction from the hitman, from his -lesser-, but nonetheless: "Heh. Two dollars for your head on a fucking stick, Angelo. We'll see if our little albino Chinaboy can't deliver. Howzit sound, kid?" Fat lips split to expose perfect, large teeth. He's probably got a great dentist.
Duo Lon glances to the side - his gaze sweeps the floor for a moment. Then he's freeing his hands, bringing both to a rigid, knife-like posture that emphasizes the set of razor-sharp nails at their end. He leans his weight forward to a sickening extent - his right ankle rolls forward, then *snaps* as it apparently shatters to bend his foot completely inwards.
The Hizoku meets Angelo's eyes. "Somebody's bound to die tonight either way."
COMBATSYS: Duolon has started a fight here.
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Duolon 0/-------/-------|
Angelo is quiet, for a few, long moments. He lets the mafia boss say what he will; two dollars is an insult, but, Angelo hasn't exactly been the picture of politeness here, so he can hardly complain about that. It is the teenager's fighting style that mesmerizes him. Did he really just snap his own ankle? That seems ... extreme. Interesting, very, very interesting.
"Many people will die tonight, Duo Lon." He says, smoothly.
"The question is... will it mean anything?"
And then, suddenly, Angelo blurs from where he had been standing, moving with quite astounding speed. His hand lashes out, not for Duo Lon, but, instead, for the collar of one of the mafioso's thugs. The large man looks, momentarily, stunned. Then, he looks downright terrified.
As easily as if he were hauling a sack of potatoes, Angelo swings the huge man around. Swinging him forwards, and letting go in a tumble of limbs and flailing muscled thug. Angelo doesn't stop, of course, instead, he's already rolling to the side. He /expects/ Duo Lon to avoid the thrashing idiot just as surely as he would, but it seems like a good way to test his defenses.
The jazz music in the background is turned up, subtly, by the barkeep. The door is locked. Anything that happens inside, happens inside. The police certainly won't be poking around. The staff are already starting to resign themselves to another long night of washing blood from the floors.
COMBATSYS: Angelo has joined the fight here.
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Duolon 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Angelo
COMBATSYS: Duolon dodges Angelo's Huge Thrown Object.
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Duolon 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Angelo
The words bring a smile to Duo's face. His eyes widen appreciatively at the blare of music, the locking of doors. Fighting is sacred here; this is new to him. Those eyes remain wide while Angelo simply *vanishes*, but between the shouting thug and hideous bustle of 260 lbs of muscle moving like that, it's easy enough to determine where Angelo has vanished. The Hizoku stands still for a long moment, spindly fingers touching to spindly thumbs, anxious, passing time -- and just as the shadow of that bodyguard overcomes Duo Lon's slender frame, he's slipping sideways, imperceptibly. It is quite literally like a marionette's strings have been cut, only to regain tension in time for Angelo's opponent to catch his ragdoll form 'pon one suddenly stiff arm.
Recovered, Duo slithers from his place, eyes hardening, focused entirely on Angelo despite the hulk sailing into an auxiliary bar behind both combatants. Briefly, the youth's form is coated in dusky energies -- and then he is gone.
He reappears before Angelo as a small, shadow-formed missile, fully half the adult's size and likely a third his weight. Clawed fingertips *GRAB* at the hitman's front, where that impact's momentum might drive Angelo off of his balance - only to be pulled back into Duo Lon's thrusting shoulder.
COMBATSYS: Duolon successfully hits Angelo with Weakened Reinforced Power Lean.
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Duolon 0/-------/-------|==-----\-------\0 Angelo
Angelo is surprised by exactly how Duo Lon reacts. Not that he dodged, that was expected. The fact that he almost seems to teleport, that takes him by surprise. Angelo starts to pull backwards on instinct himself, but his front is snared regardless, and he finds himself being driven painfully into, and over Duo Lon's shoulder.
It seems the younger fighter has the initial advantage.
Springing back up to his feet, Angelo doesn't let himself stay down any longer than he has to. Stepping forwards, his hand is wreathed in sickly brown energy, held flat, his eyes narrow... and he actually crouches, to try and mitigate some of the height difference. He'd never actually tried to kill a teenager before, but he was already starting to see some advantages to the lighter and smaller frame. Curses.
His hand comes thrusting forwards, but, at the last moment, he rolls forwards, cancelling his initial strike, and instead aiming to slash down hard at the back of the young ninja's leg. He has no idea how much this will actually effect his teleportation, but hopefully making a good attempt at hamstringing the young man will at least cause a momentary falter, some further chip in that chill demeanor.
Right now, Angelo himself is too focused to say something; utterly intent on the fight at hand. Which has to be a mark of respect, doesn't it?
COMBATSYS: Angelo successfully hits Duolon with Angel's Trumpet.
- Power hit! -
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Duolon 0/-------/------=|==-----\-------\0 Angelo
*CRASH* goes the beefslab into that auxiliary bar's drinks display.
Duo Lon takes a moment to eye his environment after Angelo is sent sailing over one shoulder. It's simple naivete that wills this distraction; youthful impertinence may have a fair hand as well. Nonetheless, the splendor of Miami's seedier underlife takes him by the chest, and even as Angelo is getting to his feet, his opponent is bewildered, distracted. A beginner's mistake.
- The man over by the bar, hitting on a woman half his age, malice in his eyes, poorly disguised fear in hers.
- The mafia boss' clear inferiority to both himself and Angelo - what dictates his power?
- The clear ambition of everybody in this room, their obsession with money, their failure to adhere to edict.
- It's all excruciatingly confusing.
"Mm-? Ah!!" Angelo's attack glides across Duo's leg like a razor over parchment, cutting through the silks of his pants as easily as it does the flesh beneath. It sends the Chinese assassin to a knee, face briefly contorted into pristine pain, but this, as with many of his mistaken 'gives', is quickly replaced with a more somber, fighter's expression. Nonetheless, there are cracks in his expression. A permanent wince tugs at his features.
"...Hngh!" He's coming to his feet in a spectacular fashion that ignores whatever pain he must be feeling - spindly arms whirl into the floor and propel him upwards, feet-first. Long legs are spread, and slippered feet slam one after another into Angelo's chest and head for a full 4 strikes before Duo Lon flips again, to land on his 'good' leg and bring the 'bad' foot down afterwards, gently, somber, stoic as he was in the beginning.
COMBATSYS: Angelo counters Weakened Transmigration Stomper from Duolon with Light Kick.
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Duolon 0/-------/---====|===----\-------\0 Angelo
Angelo has learned, through hard years of experience, that it is only by maintaining awareness of the /pertinent/ facts, that a fight can be brought to a satisfactory conclusion. That being, a conclusion where you do not wind up bleeding out on the floor of a grotty club for the dignity of a fat gangster.
So whilst in other circumstances, he might want to savor the jazz, or the scent of tobacco (he doesn't smoke, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy the smell, does it?) or even mourn the loss of his wine, carelessly sacrificed for a dramatic statement mere minutes ago ... right now, there is only the boy, and him.
He knows he hurt Duo Lon deeply just now. He can't miss that fact. The way Duo Lon rallies is a testament to his skill, and the fact that he presses the attack is admirable. Unfortunately, it is also ill-advised. In his distracted state, Angelo can see where Duo Lon is coming, and as the ninja raises his leg for the first kick at Angelo's chest, the hitman is leaping into the air...
For a moment, one hand snares Duo's leg. This doesn't last long, as Angelo uses his momentum to bring himself around, and crash his shin painfully into the side of the younger assassin's head. Breaking the forward momentum, and sending him spiralling away.
Landing, neatly, Angelo straightens himself up, and tucks his hat down lower over his head. "You have an interesting style. I haven't seen it before." Angelo compliments the boy again, kind of. Before he adds. "You have me at a disadvantage, however. You know my name. What is yours?"
The leap has Angelo's opponent startling, mid-attack. He wasn't -expecting- the other hitman to have such reflexes. -Nobody- did, outside of the Hizoku village. The way the older man's calf slaps into the side of his head is thusly more of a dull, distant pain than anything else - the Hizoku retainers know the look on their young charge's face. The wide eyes, the parted lips.
Shock. There is not a single good thing in this world that is not spurred by pain. Ron will be pleased.
Duo Lon goes sailing into the auxiliary bar, to slam head-first into its already shattered display, very much like a spider sent hurtling into a wall, all long limbs and flapping, fancy clothing. He lands atop the downed thug, small frame quivering, unseen as he's hidden. He bites his lip, if only to keep the sharp insults from leaving his mouth, ruining his image and honor...
And rises from the bar, slowly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
"His name is Hutu Dan Xiaohai. Kill him if you like." One of the four shadowy figures from the corner speaks, his voice more evocative of dried paper scraping against itself than anything close to humanity.
"Tch!!" Duo Lon's expression contorts, rage and humiliation combined into an exquisite, teenaged mess. He vaults the bartop fluidly, landing once again in that awkward, broken-ankled stance, and narrows his eyes, expression dimmed, -furious-.
A blast of dark, icy chi erupts from the floor behind Angelo's feet, angled towards the backs of his knees.
COMBATSYS: Angelo blocks Duolon's Weakened Reinforced Satan Step.
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Duolon 0/-------/---====|==-----\-------\0 Angelo
Angelo senses, more than sees, the attack as it comes in for him. Stamping backwards, his own energy flares against it. Dark chi burns against the back of his legs, but it is not a clean hit. This, despite the ... irritation that Duo Lon's wardens bring out in him. Yes, he was holding his own against the shadow warrior. But this is hardly because Duo Lon's performance is lacking. The boy is magnificent, and these individuals would toss away his life so carelessly?
Angelo tuts, and straightens himself once more. This time, he cracks his back, and raises his head. Underneath that shadowed rim, dark eyes glint down at 'Hutu Dan Xiaohai', and show, not anger or fury... but excitement. Genuine, unrestrained joy for this moment; to be face to face with one so young who could not only match him, but threaten to exceed him!
"And snuff out this remarkable talent?" He asks, flexing his fingers, "Sir, you are blind. No, I will not kill the Spoiled Brat. Such a waste of potential... do you not understand that this boy is one of the few, one who, may validate the existence of this worthless chaff."
One gloved hand is waved carelessly in the direction of his mafioso 'employer'.
"Idiot. You may as well ask me to tear out my own heart. No. Boy, I will not kill you today. Although, that is not to say that you are going to walk out of here as healthy as when you walked in."
COMBATSYS: Angelo focuses on his next action.
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Duolon 0/-------/---====|==-----\-------\0 Angelo
As genuine as Angelo's words may sound, they ring false to Duo Lon. His expression strains and crumbles beneath the onslaught of supposed 'kindness', and once again, fingers touch to thumbs in an habitual show of irritation. The men Angelo speaks to do not bother gracing him with a response; Angelo would know, it is quite unlikely that they were actually speaking with -him-, despite outward appearances.
When Angelo says that Duo's life isn't even in danger, it prompts the young assassin to glance, furtively, towards his handlers in the corner. While no words are exchanged, one simply shakes his head - it is brief, and easily missed if one is not paying attention. Sighing, the Chinese boy brings his attention back to Angelo, and allows himself one quivering breath. He steps forward, and begins a hobbled run; every step he takes with his left foot is the slightest bit stunted, but this does not prevent him from dropping to a knee at the end of his approach, does not stop him from lashing out one slender leg in a vicious one-two of a rising, penetrating sweep kick-to-roundhouse.
"Hmgh!"
COMBATSYS: Angelo counters Weakened Storm Rack from Duolon with Bleeding Heart.
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Duolon 0/-------/---====|=======\-------\1 Angelo
Angelo fails to recognize the sign of irritation in Duo Lon. Instead, he is mostly glad that the young man presses the attack again. Unfortunately, that hampered leg does seem to be slowing him down quite a lot, buying Angelo the time he needs to consider his options, and, when the ninja comes in low for the sweep, to step back a single pace.
The ninja passes up, and Angelo's hand hammers out. All five fingers clenched into a claw not unlike the ninja's own style. The force of the blow is made worse by the fact that it, unerringly, finds Duo Lon's heart. Perfectly executed, the smashing attack ploughs into his chest, knocks the kick upwards well and truly off course, and disrupts, momentarily, the flow of blood around the body.
For all that Angelo had said he wouldn't kill the boy, this doesn't change in the least the fact of the matter, which is that Duo is fighting a man whose art is designed purely to kill. Each stroke is utterly deadly in its own way. Perhaps, it would have been more accurate to say that Angelo would not /try/ to kill him deliberately. But there's no way in hell that he is going to hold back. To do so would be to insult the young man.
It takes him by surprise, and sets four heads to shaking in disgust. The mafia boss' shoulders quake with nervous laughter - at once, he is delighted with -his- man's performance in this (and naturally, Angelo is the mafia's man right now), even if that same man is threatening to kill him before he leaves. Duo Lon spends the next several seconds considering much about the fight as its progressed so far, thoughts propelled by the sudden, sharp pain in his chest, the wracking deprivation radiating from chest to limbs. "Tchch...!!" He goes -limp-... and then sails five to seven feet away, to land on his back, perfectly still.
His breaths come as ragged things, far too slow to merely suggest an athletic lifestyle. As one, the four figures at the room's corner begin moving; they glide across the floor, fueled by purpose, deliberate in their manner. One, massive, with horns. Another, whip-thin, bald save for the pony tail at the base of his skull, with dead eyes. A third, slender, feminine, objectively gorgeous save for the dullness in her eyes. The fourth is as large as the first, but his head is distorted, oblong, his features permanently grimacing.
It is the ponytailed man who speaks. "This fight is over with." Again, the sound of decay rasping against decay. "Name your price, assassin, you have earned it." Pupilless eyes manage to flash once, in warning. The horned man moves to pluck Duo Lon from the floor, and simply slings him over a shoulder.
COMBATSYS: Duolon has left the fight here.
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Angelo 0/-------/-======|
Angelo lets his hands fall to his sides as Duo Lon fails to get up. There's one uncomfortable moment where he has to wonder if he is going to be set upon by four mysterious ninja. If this was their trainee, then he wasn't going to enjoy that experience. But, it soon becomes clear that this is not what is going to happen. Instead, he finds himself smiling. The laughter of the mafia boss really is an amusing thing. To hold another's life in your hand ... there isn't a soul in the club who could stop him taking that as he had said he would. But somehow, it feels ... unsatisfactory. What would snuffing out that life prove, now? Other than the fact that he could do it. Something which had already been proven beyond reasonable doubt.
He tugs at the brim of his hat, pulling it down lower over his features. "Very well." He says, amusement tinging his voice. He knows better than to ask for the name again, as tempting as it is, there was probably a reason he had been given an insult instead. Although that could have been just to rile up the boy even more. It would be rude to ask a second time.
"I believe the bet was for two dollars. You may keep his head, however, so long as it remains attached to his body."
He turns his head, and raises one hand to point at the mafioso. "And you." He says, with a hint more amusement tickling in his tone. "You can live. And I will kill your target, for free."
Why this sudden burst of generosity? Well, in a strange way, the walrus-faced mafia man had been responsible for the fight to begin with. He had, in some way, validated his existence. Who is to say what fighter might step forward to stop him the next time he decided to threaten taking his head?
It speaks to those shadowy individuals' presence, what happens next. The tall, rangy, bald one simply... nods, in reaction to Angelo's request, and places his directionless gaze squarely upon the mafia boss. There is a silent exchange, the slightest huffing from the bald one, and the mafia boss is placing two American dollars on the table before him, waving his men to put their guns away.
"Two dollars, square, just like I promised. Listen, Angelo, about that bet... that kid was somethin' else. You sure you don't want a few grand?? He -hit you-, see? Nobody hits my Angelo. I'll buy you a new jacket if you want it, right? Just say the word, we'll put it on my paycheck, forget about it, water under the bridge, yeah? Non ci sono probleme, hah!" He slaps the table, small eyes bulging within his piglike features, clearly desperate.
Angelo speaks.
"...-Oh?? Well, sure, but that's what friends're for! Now, listen, come here, Angelo, let me show you this guy, this cazzo, show you where he lives, where he -sleeps-. I'm glad you're thinkin' this over again, I am."
The room is drowned in the scent of fear. It should be familiar to Angelo.
Duo Lon and his shadowy retainers aren't around to share the small victory with the assassin.
Log created on 16:17:04 01/28/2011 by Duolon, and last modified on 00:41:18 01/31/2011.