Alstair paced around the cramped flat gray area he had decided was his living room when he had first returned to Vienda. To many galdori and even to most better-off humans it would be little more than a hole in wall. Its shabby furniture suited his build and he found it to be comfortable enough. An arm chair with a accompanying footstool as well a high backed chair faced the only real heat source in the apartment a small wood stove that also served as an easy stove top and still had the tea kettle from his breakfast upon it. Out the one small window opposing it he could look out into Vienda's streets and almost make out the Barracks a few blocks over when it was daylight not he could only see the looming shadows of the city. His bedroom was carefully locked behind a nearby wooden door next to his closet which was currently doing little more than holding his old battle attire from his days Mugroba. A small book shelf and an oil lamp were the only other furnishings and source of light in the room both looked to be hardly used though the lamp now had a guttering flame casting lurid shadows about the room. He had hardly the time to simply relax and take in a good story these days...

His front door was opposite his bedroom. Not a particularly great spot for it gave itself easily to an ambush, but it allowed for an easy escape in case of a fire at least. In his bedroom was little more than a barracks bunk setup for his house. He had also taken the time to carefully maintain his own personal weapons from a the years past and his spear from what he could only call his glory days was now reverently hung upon his wall in there. A small desk also had been placed at his bedside simply to keep a lamp in the windowless room.

Since his rather disgraceful handling he had taken the time off to build back his strength lost thanks to Amani and even from being part of the Seventen had left him getting soft. Each morning was a rigorous set of push-ups, squats, and even a little mental training to get a better control of his temper.

Now, as midnight approached like a slug making it's way across his room, he could only wait. He was thinking of what would be a better way to pass the night. He could not sleep for some reason tonight...on more than one moment caught himself itching to simply burn down the building around him and flee out of what he considered a bloated wretched city...

He banished such thoughts rapidly though. He knew better than to give into such a violent urge when he was already being tried for excessive force....

Seasonal rain beat down hard, lashed against Ivan's long raincoat like it could hear his mind. He didn't know quite what to expect of this meeting, but he had to make his peace with Alstair; the accelerating frequency of chaotic events made him certain of it.

The streets were deserted at the hour and on account of the inhospitable weather. He walked on, holding the hood of the cloak at its neck to keep the rain out. He could have been anybody. Why wasn't he? Why did he have to be in this position, stuck between a rock and a hard place, meeting with a man he merely loathed on a good day.
But no, it was time to end all that, to talk about the deal they had made, about upholding their word. After all, without his word, what was a man?

Ivan came to the door and knocked three times. Lights were still on inside; he didn't expect him to be asleep.

"Alstair, it's me, the Doctor. Open up, we need to talk."

Alstair paused as he heard the knocking. It took a few moments for him to grasp who was at the door. Paranoia was getting the better of him still. He was all too aware Dren or Amani could simply be fronting in the entryway ready to gut him.

"Come in." he said sharply, "The door is unlocked, Ivan. what brings you here on this dark and stormy night?"

He already could guess at what it was about. Perhaps the riot? Or maybe his latest mishap with his former allies? Or could it be about Ilythia...?

"Come to the door, I brought a peace offering. I need to speak with you about Ilithyia's....condition. Just talking, ok? No need to pull a knife or cast conflagration or destroy a town..."

He looked about the street. The only light that was on was Alstair's. Somehow he knew he'd be awake...
Ivan adjusted the bag slung over his left shoulder, faint "clink" sounds coming from within. It wasn't terribly heavy, but over the distance it had become uncomfortable. Perhaps it would be to his tastes..?

Alstair could not help but to pause as the mention of his onetime lover.

"Is there something wrong Ivan?" he asked as he opened the door and shifted his stance so that he stood in an almost butler-esque stance by the door gesturing for Ivan to enter. "If there is please do tell and no worries of me doing such a thing to you. After all, it would be in bad taste to kill the man who saved my life."

Alstair's mind was still working over what news Ivan could have brought to him and what possibly could be within the bag upon the former medics shoulder...

"Better men than you have tried."

He smiled and unshouldered the bag with his left and held it out towards him.

"No, it's cause for celebration actually! I brought some spirits, I figured you wouldn't have as healthy a collection as mine."

He reached back with his now free left arm to his small shoulder slung pack, made a little awkward by the overly long sleeves of his drenched raincoat, and pulled out a feather pillow.

"I even brought some bedding incase we get trashed. What do you say? Lead on, lead on, I'll tell you everything!"

Alstair smiled as he took the bag and moved over towards the small stove.

"You know me too well it seems doctor." he said with a small laugh, "And make yourself at home. It's not much but it was never meant to be. I had fully intended to either find a nicer place or simply leave Vienda for the country but, as you obviously know, things have been complicated as of late."

Alstair set the bag down with a clink and procured its contents setting them upon the only available space that would not ruin them that being sadly the floor...
"So why the celebration? I know I was court marshaled but I would hardly think you would be so petty to take delight in that." He said offhandedly setting down one of the gifts.

The pillow exploded, feathers projecting forwards and billowing around against the uncooperative air. The bullet ripped through almost silently, aimed carefully towards Alstair's centre mass; Ivan wasn't taking any chances. Not waiting to confirm the hit, he dropped the pillow and crossed his firing arm over his left, to stabilise the second and final shot. His left hand dipped into his now free sleeve, drawing the scalpel taped there. If guns failed, he would have to resort to performing battlefield surgery on Alstair once more.

The pillow muffled the shot very effectively; there was only a brief bang, startling to Alstair but inaudible to the rest of the street. The bullet flew home to Alstair's chest cavity, but Alstair's natural reflexes interfered; the smallest jerk of his body in response to the sound caused the bullet to crash through his torso, sending a shockwave of pain as it ripped through his tissue and muscle and exited through his side. Blood rocketed from the wound like a sputtering fountain and stained the floor behind it; the force of the shot caused Alstair to jolt back, where he would surely lose his footing if he could not help it.

It was impossible to tell at that moment if the wound was fatal or not; the pain was too great in Alstair's mind to understand the severity of the injury, but it had not knocked him unconscious.

Alstair screamed in pain his mind losing focus briefly as he fell to a knee and lunged forward in a fluid motion leaking blood without a doubt and only seeing red as he aimed directly at Ivan's waist.

He was going not on the mood tonight to be shot at. Let alone by the man that had once been his savior. Somewhere in the deep dark recesses of his mind it flickered this had been one bad day after the other lately....

Ivan had heard how in far away lands there was a very specific way their people took down beasts of superior strength. The tribesman would anger it, through taunting, territorial tresspassing or petty injury, all with the aim of causing a blind charge. Once the beast had leapt, the nerve of the hunter was put to the test. He was to root his spear into the ground beneath him and guide it towards the heart.

He was already in an ideal firing position for his final shot, stance balanced for recoil or tackle, gun steadied for aim, and scalpel ready for close quarters fighting. He gave no consideration to stopping the force of the dive aimed towards him - all his focus was on the rapidly enlarging target, aiming once again for the heart.
The second shot was louder.

Alstair could only react so fast and his body began to turn presenting his right arm and shoulder instead of his heart. The shot echoed in his ears and doused his mind which had been on fire in icy realization...

Ivan was trying to kill him. He could suddenly feel the aching pain where the bullet had punched through him. A dull fire burning through his gut that made him grit his teeth without even realizing it.

The bullet tore through Alstair's right upper arm, smashing the bone and rendering the arm useless. Blood was everywhere, making the ground slick and sticky; Alstair was half-blinded by the pain. The second shot was considerably louder, and echoed down the street, causing a light to blink on in an adjacent building seconds later.

Ivan cursed the gods for needing the second shot, but he'd hit Alstair at least once, and he knew how much fight a torso shot took out of a man. Wasting no time, he dropped the gun and with his right arm now free, siezed at Alstair's throat. He didn't know how much time he had left now that things had gotten noisy, so he got straight to the point.

He stabbed the scalpel vertically into Alstair's throat, hand steady like it was just another tracheotomy. This time though, he was aiming low, with the express intention of severing the vocal cords, if not the entire jugular. He hoped he wouldn't need to resort to the paralytic needle in his pack - there weren't many people who could get ahold of chemicals like that in a hurry. The clean kill he'd hoped for was getting messier by the second.

Alstair began backpedaling as he made out the sudden motion of Ivan's arm and body. He raised his left hoping to at least intercept the next hit before it could strike something vital. The entire experience seemed almost surreal to his weakening body.

The scalpel blade was not heavy or deadly, but Ivan's reflexes were quicker than Alstair's; he was not able to push the blade away in time before it slashed into his trachea, causing another blood spurt that tinted Ivan's vision with red. Alstair's breath sputtered up from the wound in a gurgling, bubbling mess.

Ivan recoiled from the gory splash and shoved Alstair away. Death was assured now, but there was no guarantee things would remain under control if he didn't finish the job, and he needed to make a clean escape once it was done.
He whirled around to his bag and drew out the already prepared dose of paralytic, then picked up a near full bottle of brandy on his return. The brandy he swung at Alstair's head, aiming to smash the thing over him, and the paralytic he stabbed towards the demolished arm.

He was determined to use every trick he knew to bring Alstair down. More lives than his own depended on it.

Alstair let out gurgling hiss as he tried to speak and quickly began to move backwards towards his room. The door hung open and if he could manage some space between him and Ivan, he might be able to possibly survive till help arrived.

It was a long shot he realized but it was his only shot....

The bottle, and the needle, made contact simultaneously.

Ivan had managed to deploy the serum, but had not had the adequate time to find a vein; the paralytic agent bulged under Alstair's skin as the brandy and glass cascaded over his face, breaking his nose. In one final breathless moment, Alstair seemed to hover on the brink of consciousness, instinct causing his facial features to contort like those of a caged tiger.

Slowly, majestically, he collapsed forward, sinking deep into the velvet black of unconsciousness. The pain of his wounds and the blow to his head were simply too much for him.

"Oh no you don't."

He still gripped the neck of the bottle he'd smashed against his head. He hoped it wasn't concussion that had rendered him unconscious, but it was unlikely - any one of the other injuries could have done the same and were each more severe. He was hoping to have a few minutes of one-to-one time before he finished the job. No matter.

He jammed the bottleneck firmly into the quietening incision in Alstair's throat, finishing the interrupted tracheotomy. All things considered the slender green glass worked rather well as a makeshift breathing tube, and when he seemed stable enough, Ivan dragged Alstair back inside and away from the door. He opened a bottle of wine, and emptied the thing with a decadent glugging sound over the fallen seventen. When that was done, he faked a stagger to the door and grumbled loudly about having left it open, then rolled the empty bottle out into the street while shutting the door clumsily. Anyone but the most curious nocturnal person would happily swallow the explanation, and it gave Ivan time to finish up in his own time.

He returned to where he'd left him and fetched his scalpel and the rest of the gear he'd brought.

"You know Alstair, there comes a time in every doctor's medical career where he realises that "Do No Harm" sometimes means making a choice between two evils, when causing harm is unavoidable.
Well, between the two of us, I'm the lesser evil. But not by much."

Ivan cut a long incision from Alstair's sternum to his groin, and pulled the sides open with force to expose his entrails. It amused him seeing the path of the first bullet in this way. He was lucky with that one - it had passed through without hitting anything vital. After he'd finished indulging his curiosity, he tugged on the slick cords of his small intestines, pulling yard after yard from the open cavity. When that was out he began to twist sections like making some grotesque human sausage, began to slice them, arrange the pieces. He was making shapes. He was writing a message.

Standing back, he hummed critically at his creation, then cursed and made an adjustment to the punctuation. It had been a long time since he had written in Mugrobi.
Satisfied, he distributed the bottles around the house, making splashes here and there, and paths to each room with the strongest bottles of alcoholic accelerant. Finally in the message room he circled the body with a generous helping of brandy.
His heart, it seemed, had given up - most likely, it had run out of blood to pump - it seemed that the majority had found its way onto Ivan's raincoat in one way or another, and in equal parts, drenched the floor, mingling curiously with the spirits spread around.

Taking his time, Ivan washed himself down, leaving no trace of the dead man on him. The raincoat was a write-off, but the rest of his clothes were spared. Last he washed his face in Alstair's basin, draining a pink frothy mixture of soap and blood. What equipment could not be cleaned was destroyed. He packed away his blades, needles and gun. He was ready, but for one final touch.

He'd spied a large candle in the bedroom, and brought it to the front door, then lit it. He carefully waved out the match and disposed of it away from the accelerant that was all around. It was positioned so that if anyone opened the door, it would tip and set the whole house ablaze, save for Ivan's grotesque warning in the middle of it all.

He was exhausted, and the sky had begun to blue at the edges. It would be sunrise soon. He left out the back entrance, intending to walk in the wrong direction for an hour, then circle his way back to the Dives by mid morning to avoid being seen or suspected. He shut the door quietly behind him and whispered aloud his message to give the act some finality.

"We can clean up our own mess."

(( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tLKlloWULGo ))