[i]...1999...[/i] 


	A young Armend narrowed his eyes and leveled the .45 1911 at the groveling fourteen year old kneeling before him. Tears stained both their eyes and the kneeling boy cried, “Por unë jam vëllai juaj.”

	“You vere,” Armend said solemnly. His finger squeezed the trigger and the hammer shot back, burping a bullet into the young boy. It popped his crying eye and splattered through the back of his head. The slide on the gun clicked and Armend squeezed the trigger again. The hammer slammed again and another bullet bursted out of the chamber, licking the barrel as it too blew through the head of the fourteen year old. The slide clicked, and the hammer cracked again, slide clicked, hammer cracked. Bullet after bullet, until the trigger gave a hollow [i]click[/i]. 

	A match hissed and was brought up to nurse against a thin cigarette. The stubble of a middle aged man was revealed by the glow, and he sucked in a deep smoky breath. A cloud erupted from his nose like a dragons as he chewed the smoke into words, the voice was American “don’t forget his sins, but remember yours first, kid.”


	A tear fell onto the bloody body of the dead child, and the gun hit the ground with a clatter.

[i]...2015… Tokyo[/i]

	Armend huffed a grin and thankfully took the tissue with a nod, he pressed the white sheet firmly against the crimson crack on his forehead. The dry surface stung a little as it soaked and dehydrated his wound. He smiled, digging up his knowledge of the English language, “zank you.”

	A gunshot popped in the distance and his eyes narrowed into slits, as his fingers quickly wrapped around his pistols handle. He looked over to Danica as she stopped abruptly and he instinctively tried to answer her question, not sure how detailed she wanted her answer, “dat is… uh,” he paused thinking of the right word, “double. No..” He shook his head, “trouble. Dat es trouble.”