Pavlov's Dog

It was a rare occasion that Leon Walker gave any of his men the day off, and even more rare when that man was one of the Fangs. But, William wasn't about to complain. Killing people was exhausting work, especially for a man like him who only wanted peace. The weight of a hundred souls was heavy on his heart, but on days like this the burden was lessened a little, if only because he wasn't forced to hide his face. On the job he wore a crimson mask to hide his identity from those he was sent to dispatch, in case anyone caught him, which they didn't.

There was blood on his hands that he could never wash away, and maybe that's why his day had ended in a place like Pavlov's Dog when the sun began to set. It was a nice enough place, filled with every sort of person imaginable. Here, the girls from the Two-Faced Serpents mingled with the boys from the Rising Sun, and the guys from the Bloody Lions, who wouldn't recognize William with or without his mask, gathered to throw darts at the board painted onto the far wall. Smoke filled the air, beer soaked into the floors, and the sound of the lone guitarist in the corner echoed dully through the place.

"You're a hard man to track down Mr. Silvaro!" a voice says just before a hand clamps down on William's left shoulder, "Mind if I join you? I'd like to have a few words with you, since you seem to have some free time now."

"Anything for you, Mayor." William says with a small smirk, his hand relaxing now, having tensed up on instinct once he heard the voice behind him. In a place like this, instincts like his could get a man killed.

Richard Armstrong takes a seat across from him, a frothing mug in one hand and a rolled up paper in the other. Setting the mug down, sloshing a bit out on the table, he unrolls the paper and reveals a hand drawn map of Blade City, the walls marked by a thick black border around the whole thing, the Pentacle in the center, and a small black square with Pavlov's Dog written beside it next to the tip of his index finger. William shook his head and let out a sigh, knowing what was coming next. this was the fifth time in the last month that the leader of the Guild of Blades had tried to talk William into joining his side and taking control of a section of his territory. Before the man can say anything, however, William down his drink and sets the glass down, laying a few dollars on the table.

"Have another drink on me Ricky," William says as he stands up, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair and slipping into it, "And rehearse your speech a couple more times before you try and recruit me again, got it? I told you, I need more stability than you seem to want to give me. A man on a soapbox, no matter how many followers, can always have his height kicked out from under him if he isn't careful."

With that William starts for the door, his black walking cane gripped in his hand as he limps away. Up until now his leg hadn't been hurting him, but for reasons yet unknown, as soon as the Mayor had sat down across from him the injury had flared up. This couldn't mean anything good, and as he slips in a puddle near the door and crashes into one of the Lions about to throw their dart, he finally understands why.

"Fuck! You made me miss the bullseye you scrawny little shit!" a large man says, shoving William away.

The man is called Tiny, and rumors say he was sent away for slaughtering a bus full of people, driving the bus out into the middle of the woods, then setting fire to it all. To say the least, he wasn't a very nice guy, and he hated losing at darts.

"Sorry about that Tiny, just an accident." William says, looking up at the man, "Won't happen again, I was just on my way out. Have a nice-" Before he can finish his sentence, a large meaty fist plows into his ribs and sends him flying sideways through the western style double doors of the bar. He lands with a thud in the middle of the street, his cane flying from his gasp in the process with Tiny headed his way now.

The city was slowly being engulfed in the dark embrace of night, a sight Buster usually took the time to watch as he walked around the city to remind people of who they feared most in this haven of insanity. The Plateaus always reminded him of tombstones, giant grave markers for the dead legends of the past that once ruled the deserts. Buster always loved westerns, the no named hero coming in and taking on the weight of a town full of sin on his shoulders and carrying it into the light of justice. He always wondered why those strangers felt compelled to carry that weight, for good to call to them so strongly when it was so easily ignored by everyone else. Was it because those men knew the weight of taking life, and thus the importance of protecting it? Did they just want to test their mettle against anything that dared cross their path? Buster liked to think it was a bit of both, but it didn't matter.

Those men don't exist in real life.

No one does something for nothing, especially something heroic. Doctors get paid, Cops get paid, and random strangers that spring into action all have their unheroic pasts. Buster figured the guys that plunged those cities into sin in the first place ought to have been the heroes. They at least knew who they were, and you understood their motives. They accepted they were selfish, that they could and did use violence to get what they want, because that's how the world works. The selfish get their way, and heroes don't do squat until there's something in it for them. That's why Buster acted selfish, did what he wanted to get what he wanted... and damn anyone who got in his way. This made him feared, seen as insane because he treated everything like a joke. He killed like there was no consequence, and there wasn't.

Perception is reality baby, you're just along for the ride.

The city was rousing itself out of sleep as the sun set. Being a city of thieves and murderers, most of the population came out at night out of habit, with some bars not even opening until the sun set. Take into account the heat of the desert, and the streets were empty from sun up to sundown, only the brave or heat tolerant coming out. It suited Buster just fine... the sun almost welded his mask to his face the few times he left his lair before dark, and wasn't crazy enough to press his luck. The sound of a scrap snapped him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Tiny having some fun with a few poor slobs who probably nudged his shoulder on their way out. One even had a walking cane. Buster laughed and took off into a run, dropping his golf bag and barreled past the two guys as they avoided a punch from Tiny, and before the mammoth man knew what was on him, Buster had leaped up and gotten an arm around the man's throat, using the momentum to swing around to the man's back and shoved the toes of his boots into his back. Normally this would be mildly annoying at it's worst, but Buster tended to put sharp shit he found lying around the city into the soles of his shoes, making a kick from him deadly, and he happened to have what he figured was a broken knife blade jutting out of his right shoe, which was now poking around the inside of Tiny's kidney.

"Now giddy-up you bastard" Buster said, waving his other arm around in the air as Tiny stumbled a bit from the pain, dropping to one knee from the combination of Buster's weight and the sudden pain in his back. Buster took his foot out of the man's back and clasped his hands together, hammering them into the back of his foe's head, which slammed it into the concrete below him.

"Whaddaya say folks? Should I kick him in the throat or stomp the back of his neck until he stops moving? Act fast because I don't take requests often" Buster said, looking over his shoulder at Will and Avery, but before they could answer he slung his right foot up and caught Tiny in the left eye, the man screaming in pain before it slowly whimpered out and death silenced him. Buster removed his foot from the behemoth's face and looked at his shoe, then looked at Will and Avery again.

"Which of you wants to buy me a drink for saving your asses?"

Untold by word of mouth, the earth communicated far more clearly then human consciousness. It was the metallic character which raided the air from the pools of life which leaked from his body. The distance from which the body lay and her feet carried her grew less. Upon her pale brow not sweat but worry unsung. Pupils dilating with the dimming light Kris could make out the figures of Avery and Will, an unusual sight but their interactions were usually friendly. At the sight of the third man, an unpleasant feeling arose from places indescribable. He was not a man she would ever associate with by choice; she need not even see his face to confirm this feeling.

The tall blond woman neared the group, slowing down to walking speed. Avery accepted Will's helping hand and pulled himself up, more with his own strength then then injured man's help. Kris delayed her arrival for a few moments to eavesdrop on their conversation. Will offered drinks to which Avery shrugged nonchalantly as if the dead man's body had no effect on him. The blond man proceeded to brush himself off as Kris approached.

"I can't stay to to a free drink," Avery sneered, unaware of Kris at that moment, "To celebrate the death of another man right? Now at least Pavlov's Dog won't need a new bartender every week. Nice moves by the way," he added, the compliment directed at the masked man. The blond man paused. There was a slight movement of Willy's jaw, as if he were biting his tongue. It was not the only thing that didn't go unnoticed, "You're bleeding again Will. If Kris sees you-"

As to speak of the devil, she shall appear. Life wasn't scripted as media or literature, a situation and conversation mapped out from be beginning to end but there were times when Kris humored the idea. Hovering directly behind Avery hid her presence from that man only and while Will and Mr. Mask wouldn't noticed her immediately, it wasn't until she spoke did Avery realize.

"Yes, if I could only see." Utter mockery; Avery winced. She placed a light hand on his shoulder, her bright blue eyes shifting to the left then back down; they were to meet later. Subtle communications was human understanding at the best but subtle as it was, it still remained suspicious, detectable. Slipping her hand off of Avery's shoulder, Kris turned to address Will. "Enjoy you're drink for now but I expect to see you within the hour. Of course, that is unless you prefer to take care of it yourself. It's not usual that I give the choice so consider it. Drop by and I'll take another look at that scar. If it's so debilitating that you must rely on a cane," she motioned with her chin, "then perhaps it's time we try something new."

Dirt scuffling about her feet, Kris ended her speech with a harsh glance, turning into Pavlov's Dog without chance given to reply. Avery stood by, unfazed by the doctor's behavior, accustomed to her cold. He would follow Will and the masked man for drinks. As a tall, imposing figure on her own, it took little time for Kris to draw the attention of the bartender to her. A wary expression passed across his face as she approached, but his words failed to match his bodily movement. His feelings and emotions were distorted into that of a untrustworthy man. The bartender spoke nonsense for a while before taking Kris back into the kitchen cellar so she may choose the bottle that suits her.

William had turned his back on the patrons of the tavern as he picked over the bottles, looking for something good to share with his pals, something that wouldn't mark the celebration of a life lost, but that of lives protected. If they knew who he was, who he really was, and knew his thoughts just now, they would laugh in his face before ending his life, or so he believed.

The Lion's Fangs were not known outside of Leon Walker's inner circle, very few of his own gang members even knew about them, let alone anyone in the streets of the City. Their actions, however, were gold to gossipers. Whenever a person turned up dead or disappeared, the first guess was the Fangs, although no one really called them that. Most of the people of Blade City simply called them Spooks or Ghouls, a name William actually preferred over the Bloody Fangs. Ghouls. That word fit their operation quite nicely, perfect for the ghastly work he and the few others like him carried out in the dead of night with their black cloaks and bloodstained blades.

Thankfully, none knew who he was.

When he hears a voice behind him, asking for a drink, William turns around, about to explain to the man that he wasn't the actually barkeep, and that he would have to wait just a bit for his drink, but then he saw the face that the voice belonged to and his heart sank a little. The man was a ghoul as well, Vex he called himself. He was a new member of the Fangs, and William's new partner, so to speak. The man was skilled enough, but Leon wanted him to learn the ropes from the best, which meant he would have to follow Will around on assignments for a few months before working on his own. But his heart hadn't sank simply because of who this man was, but the look in his eyes. The knowing in them.

"Scotch on the rocks? Sure, coming right up." He says, reaching under the counter for a glass, grabbing a few ice cubes and tossing them in before grabbing a bottle of scotch and pouring some into the glass, "Here, on the house...if you'll excuse me."

Nodding to the Vex, William walks over to where Avery sat and places a bottle of vodka and three shot glasses on the table before him, saying something to the affect that he would be back in a bit, that he just needed a breath of fresh air before his drinks, and patting his friend on the shoulder again he exits Pavlov's Dog and enters the dark streets of the dangerous city once more, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow as the cooling wind hits his face.

By the light of the saloon doors he searches for the body of Tiny, deciding that by now the vultures will have had their fill of his trinkets, and his body can be moved without complaint. However, the body was gone.

Kneeling down where the blood had pooled and congealed with the dust and sand of the City streets, he notices a trail of drag marks leading towards a nearby alleyway. Following it it, he allows his cane to make a slight tapping noise, so as to ensure whoever might potentially be about that he was coming towards them. The last thing he needed, after all, was another fight on this wonderful evening of bloodshed and chaos. Surprisingly, when he did come across the body, there was another sitting against the building, except this one was alive.

"Excuse me, I didn't see you there," William lies, resting both hands on his cane as he looks from Nyx to the body, then back to her, "You're stronger than you look. Did you know him?" After pausing for a moment he turns and walks over to the body, kneeling down, laying his cane aside as he rolls the body onto its back and lays the arms across the chest, as one might see a body in a coffin, "If so, I'm sorry. I don't like violence really, but he didn't seem to be in a talking mood. A shame isn't it? How easily a life can be thrown away in this city simply by a careless action here or there..." Reaching out he grabs his cane and slowly gets to his feet, bending down once he has done so to wipe the dirt away from his wounded leg again, silently cursing himself for not going ahead and bandaging it up. As he does this, he waits for the woman to say something, or try to kill him. He didn't know her well enough to decide what she might do to him, only what Leon had told him.

The bar tender did not linger long in her presence, timidly pushing his way through the bar and unlocking the entrance to the kitchen that connected to the Pavolov's liquor store. Kris's sense were assaulted by the heavy scent of hot grease and sweat, the very atmosphere of the kitchen oppressively stiffing. Wrinkling her nose and kitting her brows, Kris's sour-look was ill-fitting with her usually stern expression. Crossing the kitchen with all haste, the sound of the back door closing was the only notable thing she registered.

Stepping into the small storage area attached to the kitchen was a welcome relief. The air was stale, dusty but pleasantly cool. Blowing gently, a fine layer of dust left the dozens of bottles lined before her. The most expensive and most potent of that Pavlov's Dog carried, they were kept separate in fear of theft or an especially violent bar fight. Blue eyes skimming over the labels, Kris chose an especially musty looking bottle, the word 'Vodka' fading from print. The liquid itself looked acceptable and the information printed on the back suggest the level of volatility. Despite herself, Kris unscrewed the cap and swiftly dipped her pinky in the vodka before pressing the tip to her lips. It burned. Satisfied with her choice, Kris secured the cap back to the top and turned to leave. Her palm rested on the cool brass doorknob as she cast a longing glance at a find bottle of champagne. A feel of disgust crossed her; she was not in Blade City because of theft.

Back out in the kitchen, the fans had been turned on, filling the air with a steady droning. Leaning on a table before her path was the chef. A rough, unfriendly looking man fanning himself with his right, keeping his eyes fixated across the room, perhaps on the sink. Whatever the importance of it had lost meaning in Kris's eyes.

"Stealing again Mrs. Solveig?" the chef sneered, turning his head to gaze directly onto Kris.

"No better then yourself. Unlike you, I don't have an ulterior motives for samartian work." she raised the bottle that hung from her fingertips, as if to illustrate her point. While noticeable peeved at the cook, she kept her expression calm.

The chef chuckled as if she had said something particularly witty, "Nice joke Doctor, you yourself don't even look convinced of your words." Kris would not waste the breath to respond, sauntering past with vodka in hand.

Back in the bar, Kris emerged to see Avery sitting alone with a half-empty shot glass in hand, clearly bored. She could only imagine William going, in his own honorable way, to see again the dead body that may or may not still be in the street. An enigma of a man, despite all the years that both Avery and Kris had known him William still remained in the shadows. Perhaps that was for the best, to leave the mysterious undiscovered. Maybe it was for the best of the image of him they carried with them.

Avery raised his glass as Kris approached, watching the bottle in her hand with care. "You took your time. Almost missed the party."

"Quite a party," Kris said dryly, pulling up a chair so she may sit right across from her co-worker, "Let me give you some advice: it might be more convincing to actually drink then sitting there like a brooding teenager." Her words were opposite to what she felt; she was glad that he had remained somber. Avery chuckled and the two blonds continued with light conversation before the discussion ended in an abrupt silence. As if a scripted action, the two gathered their things and made for the exit, leaving Will's vodka on the table but taking their own.

Fresh air was a gift deeply appreciated, a sense of mystery pervading through the entire city. Soon after clearing the Pavlov's Dog's entrance, Avery dashed off to do his own business but Kris lingered. Will was supposed to come with her so she could look at his knee again. Wither that man wanted that knee healed or not was his own decision and while it was her duty as a doctor to care for her patients (as well as it being a request from Zero himself) she couldn't treat someone who didn't want treatment.

After a moment, Kris turned to go home. The spattering and drag marks on the ground only entertained her for a few seconds; death in this city was a gift.